Market Theocracy

Seasons Change

2006-11-08T13:04:00.000-06:00

Summer is over, winter is on its way. In the steady grip of autumn the skeleton trees emerge, dripping their last colorful finery in waves of elegant slow flocks. No more short sleeves. No more sweet long days and warm nights.

Summer's gone.

I'll never forget the first time you walked through my door. Your eyes. Those amazing cat eyes, ice grey that reminded me of moonlight. Some think your eyes are cold and I say 'Yes, moonlight is cold. But beautiful."

"I'm Summer." you said.

"Danielle's daughter." I manage.

Annoyed. "Why does everyone always know that?"

"Because it's obvious. It's not an insult. Your mother is one of the most beautiful women around here." I say.

Intrigued. "And I look exactly like her?"

"Your eyes are different."

That earns me my first smile.

Over a spring and summer I got to know you. I found that surface was only surface. Deeper lay a fierce, focused intelligence and a hungry curiosity for new ideas. Lay a cutting and subtle humor. Lay an unfocused but convincing natural philosophy unique to you.

I knew your troubles too, and regrets. You are a wild thing. I've known that and you never hid it. I can't even pretend that elemental wildness wasn't part of my intense attraction to you. It reached and tuggged at the elemental wildness in my own soul, the wildness that can not be extinguished if a human wishes to remain human. Moonlight wild, deep in all our hearts.

You told me your reasons for leaving, and I admit they are good reasons. It hurts anyway. You are simply doing what all of us have to do, eventually: tempering that wildness in the face of adult responsibilties. For that I am proud of you.

And still, it hurts.

Goodbye, Summer. You know that I love you. I know that you love me. If you ever need me, I am here. If you never need me, here I still remain, the love undiminished, a secret beam of moonlight tucked away.

You gotta love truth in advertising.

2006-11-08T08:49:00.000-06:00

Woke up this morning to discover that the nearest town to me has a new mayor:

Bill 'Tick' Powell. Swear to God.

If that ain't an implied campaign promise that will probably be honored, I don't know what is!

The Absolute Beauty Of Apolitical Apathy

2006-11-07T20:14:00.000-06:00

I wander over to my sister's house out of boredom. She's watching America's Funniest Videos. I sit and watch for a minute, allowing my lower brain to be amused by fake pee jokes and little kids almost getting killed on sleds and shit.

It goes off and she flips it over to the news. It takes a sec to figure out it's the election coverage.

"O hell." I said. "That's today?"

"Boring." my sister says and turns it to PBS.

To be honest, I forgot it was this month. And this year.

All over the country, millions are glued to the scene, hearts racing, triumph and tragedy waiting with baited breath in the wings. The high priest of Big One Eye soothe them as best they can with lashings of ceremonial jargon, talking of districts reporting and exit polls and incumbents and challengers. The Official Numerologists busy in their secret sanctum, tallying the grand drama of pulled levers and punched buttons.

What a stupid ritual.

Rising From The Ice Rimed Ashes, Like a Spectacular Flaming Thing.

2006-11-07T20:07:00.001-06:00

Well, maybe not.

But I do plan to post here on a more or less regular basis again. This was a damn good little blog, as blogs go. Funny and heartfelt at least.

Plus, theres many many people who need to be made fun of.

2006-11-07T20:07:00.000-06:00

Movie Review: Ultraviolet

2006-03-07T20:36:00.000-06:00

Don't see it.

The Invisible International

2005-11-08T18:19:00.000-06:00

This blog sucks. Aaron stopped posting, and that was the reason for the title. Time to get flashier and SEX IT UP!

I'm going to post here from now on, if anyone cares.

By the way, does anyone know how to transfer archives from this blog to the new one? Is that possible with this rudimentary software?

Heinlein Manuever

2005-11-08T13:42:00.000-06:00

Petkohumenik

2005-11-06T03:27:00.001-06:00

Petkohumenik

This guy is hilarious. He plays all kinds of crazy word games and comes with all sorts of crazed associations using random photographs he takes or finds on the internet.

Some of the pictures on his site are the most incredibly bizarre things I've ever seen. What universe does this guy live in?!?

"Me and Jewish grandfather"

"Baby picture"

He's also got great bizarre rants:

My animalistic characters are PANDA BEAR, SEAL PHOCA or KILLER WHALE one of them, PEACOCK , ELEPHANT and HUMBLE BEE.
I call myself Proud as red natured BlueEyed Peacock (the bird who is not able to fly high without help of others or antigravity and is pretty for girls), something common to NEOPHRON PERCNOPTERUS, strong and slow as Elephant and rare as Panda, as I am race tolerant world oriented and hard to have couplemate.

Here's my personal favorite bit. Apparently he killed his hamster.

Anyways, check it out. Explore the realms of his madness that he's laid out for all to see on the internet. It's quite entertaining.

Champions!

2005-11-03T20:26:00.000-06:00

Took me forever to post this, because I wanted to think of something eloquent. But I'm really at a loss for words. This was an incredible season, and a great victory.

When the final out was recorded on an incredible, lead-saving play by Uribe, I went absolutely nuts. Here's some random pictures from the Sun Times.

What an opening!

2005-10-25T01:42:00.000-05:00

Uhh yeah, thats the first page of Watchmen by Alan Moore. Are you supposed to italicize book titles? I dunno umm.... yeah...

Fall Classic Indeed...

2005-10-23T23:02:00.000-05:00

I've been trying to avoid blogging about it until the series is over, but wow. That game was classic. Not necessarily the kind of game I prefer with a lot of runs (especially when they're against us), but damn was it dramatic and exciting. When Paul Konerko hit that Grand Slam, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. If you missed the game, and like baseball even remotely, you missed a classic.

Art Appreciation

2005-10-20T03:35:00.000-05:00

Thomas Sowell: Telling You What To Pretend To Think!

2005-10-18T21:47:00.000-05:00

Oh my, what a deep thinker! Some of the things he says are correct, but a lot are the meaningless bromides I've come to expect from self important geezer pundit types that think they know everything. Like, check this out:

"Virtually no idea is too ridiculous to be accepted, even by very intelligent and highly educated people, if it provides a way for them to feel special and important. Some confuse that feeling with idealism."

Respect. Sounds great right? It sounded cool to me for a bit, until I read it a second time. What does this actually mean? What are we to draw from this? I don't know. It gives me a headache to actually try to deconstruct it to mean anything. I guess virtually any platitude isn't too ridiculous to be accepted, and some confuse them for intelligence. ZING!

But really, this shows a serious problem in today's America that has bothered me for some time. Political discussion and social commentary is incredibly vapid. It's all designed to sound intelligent and meaningful, but when you actually take apart whats said, there's no central core, no crux, no hard ideas at all present.

I'm not sure what the problem is here. Do things necessarily have to be this way? Will the majority of the population never actually think beyond some sort of... well I don't even know how people read things like this and don't do any kind of critical analysis. And what about the writers of this stuff? For instance, when I wrote those ASC articles, which will go down in history as classics of early 21st century anarchism, I was trying to take complex ideas and make them as intelligible and entertaining as possible to the reader, without sacrificing their meaning.

What the hell is Thomas Sowell doing? Is he just some kind of biological meme factory? Perhaps an alien device is coiled around his brainstem recieving coded bursts disguised as Spanish Television Sitcoms from beyond Jupiter. Possessed, he runs to the nearest paper pad and sets down the transmission.

Maybe this is just an education problem. I think schools need to be radically changed, to emphasize one extremely important thing: think critically, take everything apart, and question authority. Of course perhaps that can't be taught, and I doubt it ever will be this century. For all of you historical researchers reading this in the 22nd: Respect.

Red-light nights, Bangkok daze

2005-10-18T18:30:00.000-05:00

Interesting article about the sex scene in Bangkok, from the perspective of a married man unwilling to have sex with any of the prostitutes he interviews.

This caught my eye:

I could not find one woman whom I asked who was willing to have sex without a condom; sex education has been effective in Thailand.

From my personal experience, around 75% of the girls in the go-go bars and beer bars along Soi Cowboy will have sex with a man without a condom. Even in Baccara -- one of the places he went to (it's a great place, by the way ... as he said: "[t]he girls at this venue dress in uniforms similar to Japanese schoolgirls, but the key here is that one article of clothing is missing: the panties.") Simply talking to bar girls reveals nothing about what they'll actually do.

And no, I haven't had sex with any prostitutes without wearing a condom -- I just don't have sex. Getting a condom that fits me in Thailand is a major hassle. One I certainly wasn't expecting, considering all the European & African sex tourists who go there.

Bangkok is a cewl city, ppl. Probably my favorite city in Asia. I recently spent a week with a Thai version of Ally Mac Tyana, the French porn star I use for my Sha'uri de la Asca avatar. She had the crazy hair and everything. And she had great customer service skills. She knew her job well. She was awesome. To-tally awesome.

-- Tariq ibn Mohammed Zayyid al-Fo'adi

Red-light nights, Bangkok daze by William Sparrow
October 8, 2005

OMG!

2005-10-18T17:21:00.000-05:00

foadi found this. Which is why he needs to be recruited to this blog immediately.

Unbelievable

2005-10-17T04:42:00.000-05:00

The White Sox won the pennant. I was going absolutely nuts during the game, willing the White Sox to win and yelling like a maniac when they tied the game and then took the lead. I unleashed a torrent of obscenities and taunts at Kid K (what was wrong with him tonight?). And when they won, I wasn't quite sure what I was watching was actually real.

I hopped on the Red Line and went two stops South down to 35th, where a crowd was massing outside the ballpark. People were driving through the area honking horns, leaning out their car windows and waving flags. Firecrackers were lit off, and chants rose up. A family and their children from the area danced down the sidewalk, banging pots and pans. People clustered together in front of news cameras, whoring for their face on television.

It was a surreal scene, and I was drunk with euphoria. I called a bunch of people and yelled stupid shit.

The police closed off the streets leading in to the area, and at least three or four news helicopters buzzed overhead, getting aerial footage. Eventually I got bored, and didnt want to wait in line at Grandstands for an AL Champs t-shirt. So I went back home. Ahh, but what a night.

Koreans Mock David Wells

2005-10-14T14:58:00.000-05:00

Bye Bye, NY

2005-10-11T01:19:00.000-05:00

Your 200 million dollar team sucks ass.

Gary "Won't Play in Queens" Sheffield shows everybody that he's the real leader on the Yankees. George Steinbrener shoots his secretary.

Britain has officially "gone to pot"

2005-10-11T00:54:00.000-05:00

Blair plans 'baby Asbos' to curb unruly under-10s

Of course, we'll probably see stuff like this in the States in the next few years. It's only a matter of time.

Look at a sample of this stuff:

# Parents living in rented council accommodation losing their homes if they fail to control yobbish behaviour by their children.

# Problem families being moved to “sin bins” — secure gated communities patrolled by wardens and CCTV cameras, where they would face curfews and be kept away from the rest of society.

# Feckless mothers and fathers would face a sliding scale of “community penalties”, where they keep their jobs but have to do voluntary work too.

# New powers to name and shame binge drinkers

First they came for the yobs...

Keep your eyes peeled

2005-10-07T22:24:00.000-05:00

You can put it on the board, YES!

2005-10-07T19:00:00.000-05:00

It was pretty fucking tense, but the White Sox get their first posteason win since 1917, deafeating Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz, and Damasore Marte 5 to 3.

"Chicago Fans"

2005-10-06T00:30:00.000-05:00

All you "Chicago Fans" can suck it! Fuck you! Pick a team assholes! For those of you who dont know, in Chicago we have three classes of baseball fan. The Cub fan (some miserable fucker who deserves to be eaten by an alligator), the White Sox fan (a proud and noble breed), and lastly, the "Chicago Fan" who will cheer for whichever team is winning. Here's a great 'lil blog I found addressed to all those assholes.

We hate you. We rubbed your faces in your team's inevitable failure, like an abusive drunk with an incontinent dog...

Really, you're all a bunch of losers and we don't want your loser juice dripping all over our unstoppable baseball team.

Oh yeah, the White Sox won today, it was fucking awesome. I love Japan. I could write a 400 page essay about that game and just how awesome it was...

OK I will. Ahem.

Beloved White Sox ace Mark Buehrle vs. Fat, ugly motherfucking piece of shit David Wells, who screwed us over in 2001. Wells was doing great against us, only allowing one hit in the first couple of innings. And the Red Sox were smacking the shit out of Buerhle's pitches and put up a comfortable 4 run lead. Then, the White Sox rallied. The door was opened by Red Sox second baseman Tony Graffanino, who allowed a gift wrapped slow rolling double play ball roll between his legs. Then, Tadahito Iguchi made the Red Sox and that piece of shit David Wells pay by belting a three run homerun to give the White Sox the lead, and the entire crowd of 40,000+ exploded.

It was just unbelievable. Buehrle came out strong for the rest of the game and didnt allow anything. In the 8th, young rookie and fan favorite Bobby Jenks came in and pitched an excellent inning. And then in the 9th... get this... Ozzie leaves him in! I couldn't believe it. Graffanino doubles and I'm shitting myself out there in right field, and thinking one thought: I don't want to see David Ortiz trot out to the dish and belt a homer that will reduce me to a pathetic sobbing mash of flesh. I think Jenks had similar thoughts, and he was nervous out there. But apparently he's got a set of brass balls because he got the Red Sox out! And we won! FUCK YEAH!

Hey Boston Fans, ESPN, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, NASA, I hope you like this victory shoved down your fucking throats you fuckers who never said that we had a chance to beat the oh so invincible Commie Sox! Take it bitches! Now I won't count chickens before they're hatched, but I feel pretty good about the White Sox taking this series, considering they need to win just one out of the next three games. We'll see.

The Liberal Media: Caught!

2005-10-02T20:54:00.000-05:00

Anatomy of a Photograph

Chicago UFOs

2005-10-02T16:34:00.000-05:00

Mysterious red lights have been reported in Tinley Park, a southwest suburb of Chicago.

A trio of steady red lights seemed to swim across the western night sky starting about 11 p.m. Friday night and reappearing after midnight. The three dots at times formed a triangular shape, but they then seemed to straighten into a line, much like sightings in the same area late last summer and on Halloween, witnesses told the Daily Southtown.

Hmmmm. What could they be doing here? Do they wish us good, or evil? Maybe they're just here to pick up some of their brethren who have been visiting our planet.

Farrakhan?

Daley?

They could be aliens. There's probably some other possibles around Chicago. Wait... I know...

The Chicagoland & Northwest Indiana Chevy Dealers present
Jessica Simpson at the Tweeter Center
Saturday, October 1st - 7:30pm

AHAH! The Chicago Tweeter Center is in Tinley Park!

Jessica Simpsons Chicago fans witnessed her final performance, after which she was lifted in to space and propelled via FTL drive to her motherworld. God speed, Jessica! We'll miss you, really!

Cleveland Sucks

2005-10-01T15:26:00.000-05:00

Eat your humble pie, bitches.

Expert predictions

2005-10-01T02:02:00.000-05:00

At the beggining of the season, ESPN did its usual thing with its "experts" predicting the season. Wow, do they suck. Especially for saying the White Sox would be a 4th place team. What a joke. And oh, the Twins vs. Giants world series that never was.

SOX CLINCH!

2005-09-29T14:32:00.000-05:00

YES! WE WIN! WE'RE GOING TO THE PLAYOFFS!

OK nobody reading this cares, but hey.

The Invisible Hand

2005-09-27T17:30:00.000-05:00

WASHINGTON -- The Justice Department is investigating whether a company sold defective bulletproof vests for President Bush, federal agents and local police and then waited nearly two years to alert customers that the body armor could be unsafe.

Market failure? If you think about it, it might be a market success!

Military Dolphins Loose in the Gulf

2005-09-26T05:47:00.000-05:00

Armed and dangerous - Flipper the firing dolphin let loose by Katrina

You may have heard of those military trained dolphins the US government has been fucking around with for some time (more proof that our leaders are criminally, genocidally and apocalyptically insane). I first heard of them from William Gibson in his stories. Remember that intelligent dolphin in Johnny Mnemonic? I know I'll never forget it, along with that anarchy symbol emblazoned upon Ice-T's forehead.

Anyway, thats all beside the point. Why isn't the private sector looking in to this dolphin training guru shit? Wouldn't it be cool if you could saddle up on a dolphin and just ride around the ocean? It might be possible with a little Pavlovian conditioning! Of course, we've got all these environmentalists running around this country and they apparently dont want dolphins to have any other function but looking cute. Fucking assholes, they'll make sheepdogs an endangered species.

Someone should look in to this. Seriously. I mean, you could probably do this sort of thing with monkeys and stuff too right? Octopi? Or remember the penguins in Batman Returns? I see big possibilities here.

Oh yeah, if you're swimming around the Gulf, look out. Some grizzled ex-military dolphins with a drinking problem are on the prowl. And I hear those ex-military guys are unstable and might just snap off at any moment! Watch yourselves out there, people.

Peace.

JFK, Rehnquist and.... Dennis Rader!

2005-09-24T22:27:00.000-05:00

"How could an individual who committed such heinous acts be placed in the same hallowed ground as Chief Justice Rehnquist, Justice Thurgood Marshall, President Kennedy and hundreds and hundreds of service members to whom this country owed its eternal respect?" Craig said.

Hahahah!

Hawt

2005-09-23T02:03:00.000-05:00

Saddle Up, Comrade!

2005-09-22T18:29:00.000-05:00

Over at The Claire Files forum they are having a discussion about NASA buying Russian Soyuz capsules to use as transport vessels for the ISS. Sure, it's pretty funny -- and shows exactly how far the U.S. Space Program has fallen on the scale of 'national pride'.

But all that said, I'd trust my ass to a Soyuz before I'd trust it to the space truck, err..Shuttle. Why? Because say whatever you want about the former Soviet Union, but they spent more time exploring the possibilities and pitfalls of manned space flight than the U.S. and did so with a fraction of the budget. And please don't give me the communism versus capitalism argument: NASA's junk is NOT a product of the free market, it's the product of central planning beuracracy. In this case, the commies-in-name had more hands on, ass-on-the-line experience than the commies-in-action.

See your own death on television

2005-09-22T17:19:00.000-05:00

Cool!

Movie Review: Elevator to the Gallows

2005-09-20T01:38:00.000-05:00

The 1958 Louis Malle film Elevator to the Gallows is playing at the Chicago cultural institution the Music Box Theater, and I went to go see it.

Its a French new wave take on the venerable noir. It concerns the murder of a rich arms dealer carried out by his employee (Tavernier, an ex-paratrooper), who is having an affair with his wife. While carrying out the "perfect crime", he leaves one piece of evidence behind and rushing back to dispose of it, he ends up trapped in the office buildings elevator. His lover, who he was supposed to meet after carrying out the crime, spends most of the film wandering the streets of Paris desperately trying to find him. There's another storyline as well, of a young miscreant who steals his car on a pointless joyride with the flower-shop girl, and eventually meanders his way in to committing a double murder.

The movie has some truly beautiful shots, and an original jazz soundtrack by Miles Davis. Some of the individual scenes of the film are briliant, with an ironic humor. A young couple decides to commit suicide for hilarious reasons completely divorced from reality. An arrogant district attorney showboats for the media at the crime scene, and gets everything exactly wrong. Many of the movies characters are fools in one way or another. Everyone seems to be rather blase about life and death; when the films murder victims have guns pointed at them, they simply laugh. Perhaps the only competent man is Tavernier, except he gets trapped in an elevator. Dumbass.

However, the movie is not without problems. The ending left me cold. The movie is utterly absurd up to the end, at which time justice is served and we are expected to feel sorry for the murderers and sentimental about their love affair, which was not all that well developed.

A contrasting film would perhaps be Brazil, where the characters are trapped in darkly hilarious circumstances which we cant really find all that funny because we care about them. But in Elevator the Gallows, all I could do was laugh at the hapless frogs, and when the director told me I was supposed to care, I just wasn't feeling it.

Its fun to watch for its stylism, but there isn't really much else to this one.

Attention Cindy Sheenan: Your Code Name Is "Patsy".

2005-09-19T19:30:00.000-05:00

I literally cannot stand to see the womans face on my infrequent trips by the TV. Not because I hate her, or what she 'stands for', or even the incredible circus of communistic clown boys and girls who need to shave their freakin' pits that has grown up around her like the fungus around a dry-rotted hose left on in the back yard.

I feel incredibly sorry for the damn woman. She's being used. She's being used by both sides of the goddamn Janus Party, by the status-quo obsessed media, and I look into her vacuous, blank eyes and realize that she has not the first hint of a clue as to that obvious fact. The woman thinks she's being taken seriously, as she spits out words she probably never thought, a disgusting mixture of homey Americanism and socialist blamewashing.

Well, no Patsy, you aren't being taken seriously. You're a talking point, ma'am. You're a focus-fetish. You're a videoblip and sound clip for our techno-illiterate society to cheer or hiss at as war is transformed into spectator sport. The liberals can deify you. The 'conservatives' can demonize you. You're actually quite handy. It's so much easier to applaud or boo than actually learn what's going on in the world, back it up with knowledge of history, and sort out the conflicting emotions about things that are not simple and never will be.

I feel sorry for you, Cindy Sheenan. Very soon you will be tossed aside and forgotten, except to be reviled as a traitor by one idiot segment of the unthinking public and given lip-service as a hero by another. But you'll still just be an image and a few misremembered words. The pain of losing your son will still coil right there in your gut and he will never be avenged, and you'll have the added insult of being the butt of a few late night jokes before the circus moves on and the cameras find another face.

Maybe you'll realize that one day. If so, you can join me in ardently hoping that one level of the inferno is reserved for those who use the ignorant as ideological punching bags, and another for those who feel it proper to
exploit a mother's grief as a public relations stunt.

NASA decides to repeat Apollo Program

2005-09-19T16:24:00.000-05:00

(CNN) -- NASA Administrator Michael Griffin rolled out NASA's plan for the future Monday, including new details about the spaceship intended to replace the shuttle and a timeline for returning astronauts to the moon in 2018.

Check out the image of this new "high tech" technology!

Holy shit! Remind you of something?

The design for the new crew exploration vehicle (CEV) looks a lot like the Apollo-era spaceship that first took NASA to the moon a generation ago. It is a similarity that is not lost on Griffin.

"Think of it as Apollo on steroids," he told reporters at NASA headquarters in Washington.

So, 36 years after the first moon landing, NASA is going to attempt to repeat it by 2018, costing $104 billion.

Does this strike anyone else as fucking pathetic? What the fuck are the astronauts even going to do? Just walk around and dick off with flags like during the first mission, apparently.

"Unless the United States wants to get out of the manned space flight business completely, then this is the vehicle we need to be building," he said.

"And I don't hear anyone saying that the United States would be better off being out of space, when other nations are there."

No, Griffin, the United States does need to be out of outer space: because you're not doing anything worth jack shit, even to the defense department. Get the fuck out of the way, so people can actually accomplish something useful.

Insane People With Websites!

2005-09-13T21:35:00.000-05:00

One of my companeros just located this one:

"WHAT?...............DO WE HAVE HERE, WATSONS..........THE 'EVIL CUNTS' OF 'THE MOTHER OF DARKNESS'????!!."

Careful, if you're on an old machine or a slow connection, it might fuck your shit up.

Fucking USA!

2005-09-13T02:08:00.000-05:00

I have a feeling she was inspired by this.

put this here so I can look it up later hope you dont mind

2005-09-13T01:52:00.000-05:00

I'm Sushi K and I'm here to say
I like to rap in a different way

Look out Number One in every city
Sushi K rap has all most pretty

My special talking of remarkable words
Is not the sterotyped bucktooth nerd

My hair is big as a galaxy
Cause I attain greater technology

I like to rap about sweetened romance
My fond ambition is of your pants

So here is of special remarkable way
Of this fellow raps named Sushi K

The Nipponese talking phenomenon
Like samurai sword his sharpened tongue

Who raps the East Asia and the Pacific
Prosperity Sphere, to be specific

Sarariman on subway listen
For Sushi K like nuclear fission

Fire breathing lizard Gojiro
He my always big-time hero

His mutant rap burn down whole block
Start investing now Sushi K stock

It on Nikkei stock exchange
Waxes; other rappers wane

Best investment, make my day
Corporation Sushi K

Coming to America now
Rappers trying to start a row

Say "Stay in Japan, please, listen!
We can't handle competition!"

U.S. rappers booin' and hissin'
Ask for rap protectionism

They afraid of Sushi K
Cause their audience go away

He got chill financial backin'
Give those U.S. rappers a smackin'

Sushi K concert machine
Fast efficient super clean

Run like clockwork in a watch
Kick old rappers in the crotch

He learn English total immersion
English/Japanese be mergin'

Into super combination
So can have fans in every nation

Hong Kong they speak English too
Yearn of rappers just like you

Anglophones who live down under
Sooner later start to wonder

When they get their own rap star
Tired of rappers from afar

So I will get big radio traffic
When you look at demographic

Sushi K research statistic
Make big future look ballistic

Speed of Sushi K growth stock
Put U.S. rappers into shock

Taken from Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash.

Transporter 2

2005-09-11T21:33:00.000-05:00

I enjoyed The Transporter, and was somewhat looking forward to the sequel, Transporter 2. What did I like about The Transporter? The inventive, wickedly funny action scenes in which hapless badguys were kicked around, exploded, burnt alive, run over, etc. in entertaining ways. Now, we get a little bit of that in Transporter 2. But we also get alot of retarded, souless CGI sequences, and even the bread and butter action scenes are horribly directed. Plain and simple: the directing and editing of this movie sucks ass. Even the inventive sequences are ruined. A lot of the film seems like it was hastily slapped together just to get the damn thing done.

The plot also sucks. Sure the plot of the first one wasnt incredible or anything, but it was way better than this. In the first one, there's a hot asian chick in his trunk. In this one, there's some stupid little fucking kid that he's picking up from school. Watching this I was like "OK this just has to be a lead in to something else. The Transporter ditches this crap picking up kids from school and moves on to something way more kickass." But that didnt happen. The kid is snatched by the badguys (whose mission is to kill a bunch of politicians, cool eh?), and he sets out to save him. Boooooring. The worst part was the end. The evil psychotic bitch apparently fights people by grabbing on to bead curtain things and swinging around the room to kick them (horribly edited to hide her total lack of skills, she starts swinging up and then cut, and she's way up on the wall). She gets thrown in to a convenient rack of uhh... spikes. That just happens to be in this dudes bedroom. Then he has to go after the main badguy, right? Now earlier we see him totally kicking ass, beating up on a bunch of his henchmen with a kendo stick. Oh wait he had a helmet on, so it was a stunt double, and thats shown convincingly later. Instead of having a badass martial arts fight or something cool like that, their final battle scene is in an airplane which is corkscrewing out of control. They grab eachother and roll around the fucking plane as it spins. Man did that suck. Then it crashes in the ocean and they're both fine. Fuck, did that suck or what.

Unless you like seeing totally unrealistic, poorly done CGI sequences, avoid this film.

Some pictures:

FEAR THE PSYCHO BITCH AND HER CURTAIN ATTACK OF DEATH!

Fuck whatever a stewardess told you, this is how you survive a plane crash.

One of the actually fun bits of the movie.

Nice Reason, Asshole

2005-09-05T18:38:00.000-05:00

About 80 percent of the people I debate the War On Terror with come down to the wire and scream 'THEY attacked US first!"

Which, of course, in no way justifies the disproportionate number of innocents killed, mained and orphaned by 'our' response.

Nice reason. Sounds like a child abuser making the excuse that he was abused as a child. Good coping skills, waste o' flesh.

Here's a song for you:

"Prison Sex" -- Tool

It took so long to remember just what happened.
I was so young and vestal then
you know it hurt me
but I'm breathing so I guess I'm still alive
even if signs seem to tell me otherwise.
I've got my hands bound
my head down my eyes closed
and my throat wide open.
Do unto others what has been done to you

I'm treading water
I need to sleep a while.
My lamb and martyr you look so precious.
Won't you come a bit closer,
close enough so I can smell you.
I need you to feel this,
I can't stand to burn too long.
Released in this sodomy.
For one sweet moment I am whole.

Do unto you now what has been done to me.

You're breathing so I guess you're still alive
even if signs seem to tell me otherwise.
Won't you come just a bit closer,
close enough so I can smell you.
I need you to feel this.
I need this to make me whole.
There's release in this sodomy.
For I am your witness that
blood and flesh can be trusted.
And only this one holy medium brings me piece of mind.

Got your hands bound, your head down,
your eyes closed.
You look so precious now.

I have found some kind of temporary sanity in this
shit blood and cum on my hands.

I've come round full circle.
My lamb and martyr, this will be over soon.
You look so precious.

A Little Anarchy In Action In The French Quarter

2005-09-04T23:23:00.000-05:00

"Some people became animals," Vasilioas Tryphonas said Sunday morning as he sipped a hot beer in Johnny White's Sports Bar on Bourbon Street. "We became more civilized.

A Free Market Way To Help Out Katrina Victims (Especially if you want an interesting gun mag.)

2005-09-04T18:18:00.000-05:00

For Immediate Release:
None of us need to be reminded about the devastation to the Gulf States from Hurricane Katrina. As a company, S.W.A.T. Magazine is dedicated to doing its part to ease the suffering of our friends and neighbors there.

The S.W.A.T. Relief Challenge:
For the entire week, beginning Sunday, September 4, 100% of ALL Sales on our web site will be donated to Katrina Relief efforts. Once again, that is 100% of the Gross Sales.

How it Works:
The formula is simple. Not only will you receive the product(s) you purchase, but Every Penny of your sale will be contributed to Relief Efforts.
- Purchase a PDF Back issue for $4.99 and that $4.99 will be donated to Relief Efforts.
- Purchase a 1 Year US Subscription for you or a friend and we'll donate the $34.95 you paid to Relief Efforts.
- Purchase a 3 Year Non-US Subscription for you or a friend and we'll donate the entire sale price, $164.95, to Relief Efforts.

All products in our Online Store qualify. There are no limits. There are no special codes to fill in at check out. There are no strings.

The Challenge is simple:
Buy any product(s) from our Online Store this week and your full purchase price will be donated to Relief Efforts.

Where the contributions will go:
All funds collected thru The S.W.A.T. Relief Challenge will be go to the following organizations with stipulation that they be used exclusively for Katrina Relief:
- The American Red Cross
- The Salvation Army
- The American Humane Association [Or suitable alternate.]
(Human suffering is not the only tragedy in the aftermath of Katrina)

How we'll report the results of our Challenge:
In the December issue of S.W.A.T., shipping October 19th, Editor Denny Hansen will report the total amounts contributed, and the breakdown of contributions to each organization.

How YOU can help:
Whether it be Back Issues, Subscriptions or Renewals; Whether you are purchasing for yourself, a friend, a co-worker or a family member....proceeds from all purchases for the week beginning September 4th qualify. Simply visit our Online Store at SWATmag.com/shop

How YOU can help even more:
Spread this message to every tactical Mail List and Discussion Forum you know, but PLEASE, No Spamming. Post or link this message elsewhere only if you know that it will not violate that Site's Policies.

Best Regards to All-
Rich Lucibella
Publisher
S.W.A.T. Magazine

"They Better Bring Weapons"

2005-09-03T17:05:00.000-05:00

The Mayor of Slidell, Louisiana sounds off on the possibility of FEMA confiscating generators and other equipment from the utterly devestated town.

You tell 'em, Sir.

(very small mp3 file)

Thanks to Lightning at The Freedom Outlaw.

Enjoying Beauty #3: Morgan Webb

2005-09-02T16:42:00.000-05:00

"One guy hacked into Madonna’s Web site and asked to marry me. I guess that’s pretty flattering."

-- Webb on the curse of being the world's hottest video game nerd.

Enjoying Beauty #2: Summer Glau

2005-09-02T16:17:00.000-05:00

"When they first met with me to try to figure out what my physicality was, we went over things, and what we ended up with is kind of a blend of wu shu, kung fu and kick boxing. It's kind of tailored to my abilities, because I was a ballet dancer before I started acting. And so, you know, looking at the way I moved and seeing what kind of a body type I had, that's what they chose."

-- Glau, on her ass-kicking in SERENITY

From The Article Pablo Linked Below...

2005-09-02T15:39:00.000-05:00

* Evacuee Raymond Cooper: Sir, you've got about 3,000 people here in this -- in the Convention Center right now. They're hungry. Don't have any food. We were told two-and-a-half days ago to make our way to the Superdome or the Convention Center by our mayor. And which when we got here, was no one to tell us what to do, no one to direct us, no authority figure.

Sigh. Now I don't blame the guy that he was disappointed in not finding food. But disappointed in not finding an 'authority figure'??

Where are we going and how did I get in this handbasket again?

Great Article from CNN

2005-09-02T15:34:00.000-05:00

The big disconnect on New Orleans

Hatred

2005-09-02T15:08:00.000-05:00

"I'm not looking forward to this trip," Bush said as he toured Alabama and Mississippi and headed for Louisiana. "It's as if the entire Gulf Coast were obliterated by the worst kind of weapon you can imagine," he said.

Hmmmm.

In Biloxi, Miss., Bush encountered two weeping women on a street where a house had collapsed and towering trees were stripped of their branches. "My son needs clothes," said Bronwynne Bassier, 23, clutching several trash bags. "I don't have anything."

"I understand that," Bush said. He kissed both women on their heads and walked with his arms around them, telling them they could get help from the Salvation Army. "Hang in there," he said.

Wow, Bush! Great fucking work! I hope you got a nice photo-op about that. Even the media assholes on Fox News had the heart to do what they could for the hurricane victims. Hey Bush: why not take off your fucking shirt and hand it to the lady? Thats what any decent human male would do in that situation. Its called being a GENTLEMAN. Fuck you.

Enjoying Beauty #1: Devon Aoki

2005-09-02T11:42:00.000-05:00

"There’s one point where I was using a sketchpad to set up a new shot and I needed a new shot of Miho [played by actress Devon Aoki] and Robert came and sat next to me and looked at the drawing and he burst out laughing. He said, "that’s not Miho, that’s Devon." Without meaning to, I drew a very good likeness of the actress. It’s hard to be around Devon and not want to draw her anyway, because she is so beautiful. At that moment, my Miho was Devon, it was a drawing to me."

-- Frank Miller

"Miho. You're an angel. You're a saint. You're Mother Teresa. You're Elvis. You're God. -- Dwight, Sin City.

The Last Argument Of Kings

2005-09-01T23:01:00.000-05:00

"Ultima Ratio Regnum."
-- A motto stamped into the barrel of every cannon forged during the reign of Louis XIV.

"I'm sure they'll listen to Reason."

-- Fisheye, SNOW CRASH

The Sun King was an interesting guy. Sure, he was a blatant and despotic power-whore, but there is something about the brutal fact of his honesty that strikes me as refreshing. Old Louis knew and admitted exactly where the true source of his power rested: and it sure wasn't any golden divine right handed down from a merciful God. It was in his ability to build, deploy and power massed cannon on the field of battle. It was the sheer naked force at his command. He was forthright enough to slap it onto said cannon as a witty Latin phrase.

Today I watched a scrunched face monkey stand before a microphone and give a rewarmed Iraq speech in regards to the fetid pit of hell, hunger, fear and incipient famine and disease that was a vibrant and bustling city a few short days ago. "It's gonna be a long process." Monkeyman muttered, then had the fucking audacity to remind 'the private sector' that it had to 'do its part'.

Guess what, Monkey man? The private sectors 'part' is to offer goods and services to those with the ability to pay. Unlike The Sun King, you don't even have the fucking balls to call yourself what you are: a ruler via force and fraud. YOU and your ILK claim to EXIST to help people like those in destroyed New Orleans. YOU and your ILK claim that you are the embodiment of 'The People', some imaginary fucking collective that has replaced the power granting God of the old Kings and Queens and Potentates Most High. YOU and your ILK have worked your bloodsucking parasitical fangs so deep into the 'private sector' that most of it is zombified thralls in YOUR power and what few honest and forthright merchants remain operate at such a disadvantage that they can barely make a profit.

How about this, King? How about I borrow a truck and wander around my poor but decent neighborhood and gather food, clothing, fresh water, baby formula, diapers and other necessities? I'd lay good money on the fact that I could fill such a truck in a matter of hours. Then how about I -- a private citizen, a fuckin' entrepreneur -- head down to New Orleans and Biloxi and sell those goods for enough money to pay my gas? Would your thugs allow that?

Fuck no they wouldn't. In fact, your thugs would shoot me dead for even trying such a thing.

Spare me your lies. Spare me you pitiful excuses. Spare me your dishonest pretend Kingly argument. Ultima Ratio Regnum, and you know it and secretly dance in joy at the thought.

I try to be an optimistic guy. I try to keep a level head. I try to dissuade the more rash from starting a fight they cannot win.

But right now the airwaves and the digital feeds are filled with images of people just like me trying to survive. YOU and YOUR ilk call them looters and scum and criminals when they are plain folks trapped in a sudden hell not of their making. They are trying to survive. To do so they have adopted The Last Argument Of Kings for their own and only blood and pain will come from it, because they will be outnumbered and destroyed.

I try to be optimistic. But I find myself dreaming of the day when every single man, woman and child declare themselves to be King Of Their Own Life, and from the lathes and metal shops of a million secret craftsmen comes the good honest steel stamped with that simple motto:

Ultima Ratio Regnum.

George Clooney Bemoans New Media!

2005-09-01T18:34:00.000-05:00

Clooney laments lost age of 'truth'

GEORGE CLOONEY condemned television news journalism yesterday, saying that the public was worse informed today than 15 years ago despite the proliferation of channels.

The Hollywood star, who wanted to be a television journalist long before he won a Golden Globe for O Brother, Where Art Thou?, said: “When I was growing up there were three networks and basically the same information.

“Now, because we’ve fractioned into little pieces, you go look for the things that reinforce what you already believe to be fact and don’t get a common truth.”

Hmmm. Clooney, I got the thing for you.

Absorbing Achewood

2005-09-01T12:03:00.000-05:00

So, last week (and I'm kind of fuzzy on the exact date) I found myself with absolutely nothing to do and faced with the fact that it was about 280 fuckin' degrees in the shade. Sitting in front of my computer, naked in a tub of ice, I rattled about the 'Net looking for some form of entertainment.

What I found was Chris Onstad's bizarre and wonderful online comic strip Achewood. I have to thank my pal shonk , who had a handy link on his blog. The shonkmeister himself is a veritable treasure trove of weird 'Net goodness, having also introduced me to the wonderful world of both Maddox and The Misanthropic Bitch.

But Achewood is both more fun and , ultimately, more profound than either of those entertaining examples of the virtuoso rant. And it's about anthropomorphic cats and living stuffed animals. No kidding.

Don't run away. Listen to me -- this is good stuff. Hilarious, intelligent, occasionally grim, with impossible characters that will remind you of people you know.

How good? Well, I spent about seven hours reading four years of archived daily strips, so that good at least. Then I bookmarked the damn thing and check back eagerly every day.

I'm not going to try and describe this thing to you -- I'd fail and do nothing but ruin your own discovery. But I will tell you what I think makes the strip work. The characters, despite all being rather blunt and exaggerated variations on extreme personalities (hedonistic party animal, depressed angry tech-guy, jerky holier-than-though neighbor, innocent child, smack dealing squirrel who drives a miniature van) really truly give a damn about each other. They rag on each other and have pointless arguments but when the shit hits the fan -- as it frequently does -- they go all out for each other. In some freakish alchemy, Onstad has managed to create one of the more realistic depictions of human friendships (the good and the bad) and their alternating currents of boredom and fierce loyalty that I've seen done in sequential art. With anthropomorphic cats and living stuffed animals. I swear.

The site allows you to jump to one of the many story arcs with a handy drop-down menu. I humbly suggest you check out 'Ray Goes To Hell' for the strip at it's peak. Black humor, oddball pop-culture references, and -- below it all -- a bedrock of friendship and loyalty.

Damn good stuff.

Cops join in looting

2005-08-31T22:42:00.000-05:00

What a surprise.

Asked what she was doing, one of the unidentified officers told reporter Martin Savidge: "I'm just doing my job" - before abandoning her shopping cart to resume her patrol. Her partner apparently continued looting unfazed by NBC's presence.

ANARCHY!

2005-08-31T22:34:00.000-05:00

From a totally unrelated forum, comes this little vignette:

http://forums.corvetteforum.com/showthread.php?t=1174992&forum_id=26

It may be totally fabricated, but it sure is entertaining!

Well last night I was watching the 6pm news when they announced the 17th street canal pumps failed as well as another break in the levee. My house is right off St. Charles Ave. and up to 6pm yesterday is was the only part of the city that was dry. Since the pumps failed and the new break St. Charles Ave. would be under 9ft of water in the next 12-15hrs. My brother and I felt if we wanted to save anything we had to leave NOW. We loaded up flashlights, rope, our medical ID's, both our .45 Glocks, 2 shotguns and rode out. En-route we listened to the radio which broad casted all the news about the looters and what not, in hindsight it was a mistake. My mother didn't want us to go by dad who is a Vietnam vet told to be safe and "shoot to kill" if it ever comes to that.

One the way we had to pass 5-6 checkpoints to allow entry into the city. We stated we were medical personnel who were activated, showed our ID and off we went. On the radio reports were coming in about the officer who was shot in the head, the 2 gunman who opened fired on the NOPD station, and how looters were carjacking cars to get out of the city. This started making my brother nervous and giving seconds thoughts.

Anyway we get to the city and it looks like a freaking war zone. The best visual I can give is the movie "Blackhawk Down" when all the Somalians are rushing the city. They are people EVERYWHERE, they are pissed off, and all have weapons, 2X4's, Axes, and guns. If this wasn't bad enough we are 2 white boys in a truck in a sea several hundred armed pissed off blacks. There wasn't a white person to be found. I couldn't get over the little 8-10yr old kids with weapons, I ever saw one carry a claw hammer!

These people were absolutely nuts rammed trucks(stolen I'm sure) in to jewelry stores stealing items, they were tearing apart Wal-Mart carrying out TV's, Playstations, DVD players, etc. One lady was wheeling out an entire rack of merchandise, not sure what it was but sure wasn't clothes for food. They were all laughing and carrying on like it's freaking Christmas.

We got stuck in traffic when we see the group of guys walking down the street w/ AK-47's, at that point the "pucker factor" kicked in, a couple Glocks and shotguns were no match for that. We haul azz trying to get to Uptown when we see these people chopping down the front door w/ an axe of this $4-5 million dollar mansion on ST. Charles Ave. I was just in total awe because it was so surreal. Making matters worse it's 11pm at night there is no electricity and you really can see anything or anyone until they are right up on you.

Our plan was to be in and out in 30min, this included putting his Harley on the trailer. It would have taken me 5-10min tops to get my stuff, all I wanted was my pictures from college, my clothes/shoes, and my computer tower. Well he got scared saying we are going to get jumped while putting the bike on the trailer. Keep in mind this is the only area in the city that is dry. So just like rats who move to higher ground these people were doing the same. Word must have gotten out that Uptown was dry so there started to be a large influx of people.

Needless to say he wanted to go home rather than take our chances. While it was the smart thing to do I was beyond infuriated w/ him because we made it this far. He just kept saying our lives aren't worth it. So we turned around, our next challenge was getting out of the city while not getting jacked. Reports came out that people were jumping in the back of truck holding the drivers at gunpoint. Traffic started to slow so I just nailed it got out as fast as I could.

Even though he was the voice of reason I'm still pissed. All I have is my life and the clothes on my back. I lost my house(which is now 9ft underwater) ALL my clothes, TV, computer, furniture, and photo albums and videos from childhood and college. What makes this worse is my brother owned the house and I was a tenant and I didn't have renters insurance, hindsight is 20/20.

I also hope everyone of the F*(king looters get Tetanus, E-Coli and F*(KING drown. I'm serious I really hope the all die for what they were doing to the city, killing people, and destroying homes. Never in my life have I ever seen people act live savages, it was truly sicking.

Anarchy!

2005-08-31T21:08:00.000-05:00

NEW ORLEANS - With law officers and National Guardsmen focused on saving lives, looters around the city spent another day Wednesday brazenly ransacking stores for food, beer, clothing, appliances — and guns.

Gov. Kathleen Blanco said she has asked the White House to send more people to help with evacuations and rescues, thereby freeing up National Guardsmen to stop looters.

"Once we get the 3,000 National Guardsmen here, we're locking this place down," Mayor Ray Nagin said. "It's really difficult because my opinion of the looting is it started with people running out of food, and you can't really argue with that too much. Then it escalated to this kind of mass chaos where people are taking electronic stuff and all that."

Amid the chaos Wednesday, thieves commandeered a forklift and used it to push up the storm shutters and break the glass of a pharmacy. The crowd stormed the store, carrying out so much ice, water and food that it dropped from their arms as they ran. The street was littered with packages of ramen noodles and other items.

Looters also chased down a state police truck full of food. The New Orleans police chief ran off looters while city officials themselves were commandeering equipment from a looted Office Depot. During a state of emergency, authorities have broad powers to take private supplies and buildings for their use.

Managers at a nursing home were prepared to cope with the power outages and had enough food for days, but then the looting began. The Covenant Home's bus driver surrendered the vehicle to carjackers after being threatened.

Bands of people drove by the nursing home, shouting to residents, "Get out!" On Wednesday, 80 residents, most of them in wheelchairs, were being evacuated to other nursing homes in the state.

"We had enough food for 10 days," said Peggy Hoffman, the home's executive director. "Now we'll have to equip our department heads with guns and teach them how to shoot."

At one store, hordes of people from all ages, races and walks of life grabbed food and water. Some drove away with trunkloads of beer.

At one point, two officers drew their guns on the looters, but the thieves left without incident. One of the officers said he is not going to arrest anyone for snatching up food and water.

One young man was seen wading through chest-deep floodwater, carrying a case of soda, after looting a grocery store.

"We will restore law and order," Blanco said. "What angers me the most is that disasters like this often bring out the worst in people. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior."

John Matessino, president of the Louisiana Hospital Association, said he had not heard of anyone breaking into the hospitals, but he added that thieves got into the parking garage at one hospital and were stealing car batteries and stereos.

Officials tried to balance security needs with saving lives.

"We're multitasking right now," said New Orleans Police Capt. Marlon Defillo. "Rescue, recovery, stabilization of looting, we're trying to feed the hungry."

New Orleans' homeland security chief, Terry Ebbert, said looters were breaking into stores all over town and stealing guns. He said there are gangs of armed men moving around the city. At one point, officers stranded on the roof of a hotel were fired at by criminals on the street.

The Times-Picayune newspaper reported that the gun section at a new Wal-Mart had been cleaned out by looters.

Authorities said an officer was shot in the head and a looter was wounded in a shootout. The officer and looter were expected to survive.

Round Eyes

2005-08-28T22:51:00.000-05:00

Round Eyes

By George Potter

I.

God gave Mary one son, and the state took him away. To fight a war, it said. Freedom was at stake, the state told her. Democracy and liberty were in jeopardy, it claimed.

The state spoke in the rational voice of very official letters and the brisk typeset tone of brooking no excuse. Her son, that God gave her, was a strong and healthy young man. He must answer the call of duty.

Even he accepted it before her. It _was_ his duty he reluctantly told her, and beyond the not insignificant fear in his eyes, beyond the miniature images of her own reflected and terrified form, she saw the hint of _excitement_.

Her son was just fresh from boyhood, fresh from a short lifetime crammed with romantic matinees about the fighting men of a just ended era, an era that lingered in the imagination of a nations youth as fresh and rose colored as their memories of childhood.

She began grieving even before he left, damning herself for a cynic and a weak willed doubter. Her own father had fought in the Pacific. She had been taught to revere the duty he had performed. She had always felt a fierce pride for him. Her grandmother had been placed in this exact same situation, and she knew from that womans own words that she had never given up hope, from the final embrace goodbye until the day he stepped off the boat and found her arms once more.

She had accepted eventually, grudgingly. She had willed herself into a facsimile of hope, with the help of a few glasses of wine in the evenings when the dark rolled around, bringing with it the doubt and fear. With the wine in her she could pretend to be proud, pretend to hold onto the reins of hope, pretend that her son was risking his life for something important and that he would be back safe and sound and soon.

But her son still died, thousands of miles away from his mothers arms, and she was damned if she could tell a difference his death made to the world other than her own personal world. That difference manifested as two new possessions, her consolation prize for the loss of the son God gave her: a broken heart, and a belly full of hate.

II.

Her name was Quy Hue but in the singsong patois of the streets she ran they called her Round Eyes.

The round eyes were from her father, a conscript wanderer who had conceived her one night drunk and desperate for human warmth in a hotel in Saigon.

He died in the jungle a month later.

She never met him, our Quy Hue. But when she was five she watched the helicopters flee the embassy downtown as the Northern troops at last took the territory they had long claimed.

She did not know a great nation state had finally been defeated. She just thought: "My father is gone forever."

The Northerners killed her mother a year later, for harboring a rich couple who had collaborated with the former Southern regime.

Left alone she ran, joined in with the crazy secret tide of the crowded streets of Saigon. It was either that or starve.

She stole and whored and killed three men. She ate when and what she could and lived the best life she could tear from the world with naked force and cunning.

She learned the ways of the knife, the quiet step, and the empty heart. But in her dreams her father smiled down on a precious lily flower, and she woke herself crying often.

She died in a Saigon gutter at the age of thirteen, stabbed twenty four times, seven of which had pierced her heart.

She was killed for stealing a radio. It was a radio that belonged to a larger and meaner and faster gang than the one she ran with. It was a radio that she knew that she should leave alone but could not resist. Because it was brand new and beautiful in its shiny plastic gleam, and the songs that emerged from it as she slunk past on her last day of life were an irresistible siren call.

Round Eyes, our Quy Hue, had never owned anything new.

She kept her treasure only two hours.

Then seven boys found her and rendered her unable to ever own anything again.

III.

_They took my boy_, the old man often thought. _And sent me back a mad dog._

Chuck screams in his sleep often. He drinks too much. He's missing a foot. Sometimes Chuck stares at the stump. He stares at the missing foot. And he just has to hit someone. That someone always turns out to be his father.

_It's a sad game_, his father tells himself, _for a fifty nine year old man to make excuses for bruises_.

"I killed a little girl." Chuck sometimes slurs. Usually at this point he has discarded the pretense of mixing drinks and is slugging clumsily the cheap rotgut he favors right from the bottle. "I thought she had a bomb, but it was just an old radio."

The rotgut doesn't really let him forget the little girl, just as it doesn't really let him forget the foot blown off by an actual bomb placed on a roadside by some of the people he went to the desert to help liberate. But it allows him not to care about either for as long as it numbs his brain.

_Such is life_, he always thinks, making excuses, _but he fought for our freedom_. It's a terrible excuse and he knows it even as he makes it. He can't really believe it any more. The whole pretext for the war has gone through such convoluted turns and twists that only the most irrational flag waver can believe it had anything to do with freedom. But he lies to himself, just as he lies to the world about the bruises.

And Chuck is trapped, drinking himself towards the grave he narrowly avoided , staring at a missing foot, a dead child, and a radio that didn't even work.

IV.

Two young men sit on a garage roof and contemplate the stars. Between them is a half depleted bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Passing between them in a lazy ritual rides an almost finished joint.

They contrast sharply, the way truly good friends often do. Chuck is large and muscular, a boy built to run and lift and labor. Arthur is thin and pale, with thick glasses that make his dilated eyes look almost comically stoned. A boy built to think and write and figure. They not only contrast, but counterpoint each other, and have since they met on their first day of school. Chuck kept the bullies and bastards from his small friend and Arthur kept Chuck's grades high enough to get him on through the next day. They were a team.

Until now.

"I calculated it once." Arthur says, words dragging a bit, but clear enough. "And if you take into account that there are three and a half billion people on this planet, and you count every second as three and a half billion consecutive seconds, then every moment that passes is just over a century long." Arthur blinked, remembering his calculation.

They were talking about God and the Universe in a roundabout way, as they usually did when they were stoned.

"That's completely nuts." Chuck said, and hit the joint. It burned his fingers and he flicked it away suddenly. He held the smoke for a few seconds, then let it whoosh out with a sigh. "But kind of cool."

"Now think about what that means." Arthur continued, grabbing the bottle and taking a burning gulp. "Let's say that God, or the Universe, or what have you, isn't exactly omnipotent. It's just that He or It exists on a time frame that rivals the subjective time frame of not only every human that exists but every human that has _ever_ existed and maybe _will_ ever exist." Arthur is gently lecturing now, piling speculation onto speculation in a heady rush.

Chuck pondered on that, as instructed. He loved to hear his friend dissect the world. "So you are saying that humans are God? Or that they make the Universe?"

"Me?" Arthur laughed. "I'm just philosophizing to maximize my buzz, brother." He adjusted his glasses and laid back to better enjoy the canopy of the Milky Way spread out above them. "But look at it this way. In just the subjective time frame I calculated, a single day to God would be nine million, five hundred and eighty nine thousand freakin' years. When you think about it like that, six days to create a simple thing like a planet ain't that far fetched." The thick lenses gleam in reflected starlight, masking the eyes. "It wouldn't take omnipotence to create a universe on that sort of time scale. Just talent and persistence. Like a sculptor. Or a composer." He chuckles at his own idle speculation. "Yeah, a composer. The universe is a long and baroque symphony."

Chuck grabbed the bottle and took his own slug. He capped the brown fire and leaned back himself. He let his blurry eyes scan the sky, the stars doubling their already impressive number as the alcohol rode in his veins.

"I like it." Chuck finally said. "I like that idea. That the universe -- all that -- is just..." he groped for words. "...a song. A song the human race sings together." He smiled. "I really like that."

Arthur smiled as well. "You got the soul of a poet, bro." The smile died as he thought of where his friend was headed, as those moments that were only moments to him ticked too quickly by. "Remember that." he said, in a low voice. "When you're over there. Remember that things are more than they sometimes seem. Sometimes people disappear and no one knows where they went, or appear in crowds and no one knows where they came from. Things happen. "

Chuck sensed the shift in mood and didn't like where it was going. So he laughed. "Well," he says "how 'bout you put that big brain to work on how our drunk asses are gonna get off this roof without any broken bones?"

Arthur returned the laugh, and they began to plan. It would be the last thing they ever do together.

In less than twelve hours, Chuck would climb onto a bus and begin a journey that would eventually lead him to a blazing death in a jungle.

In less than twelve hours, Arthur would climb into his beat up Chevy Impala and begin a journey that would take him far north to a university where he will begin work on a degree and eventually lead him to a failed marriage and a late born son that he would name after this friend of his childhood.

V.

Mary Vintner, who was seventy nine, ate her usual breakfast with her usual lack of relish. The fork and the knife made mechanical clockwork motions; precise and humorless. She barely tasted the eggs and sausage and toast she consumed. They sated no hunger, gave her no pleasure. They were a matter of sour and practical habit, as Mary was a creature of sour and practical habit.

She'd been this way for forty years, from the moment the letter had arrived with the news that her son was dead, that her worst fear had come to pass, that she had hoped in vain.

She'd settled forever into this creature who now wandered the world like a corporeal ghost when the empty coffin had been lowered into the grave and the preacher spoke words that meant nothing to her heart. She had nothing left of him, not even the dog tags. Her son had been caught in a bombing run. Vaporized they said.

_If only I had something of him_, she still sometimes thought, _perhaps I could grieve properly and let it rest_. But nothing was what she had. An empty coffin in a crowded cemetery, a letter from the government, and memories of a strong and handsome boy that to this day were still so bright and vivid that they caused her heart to ache.

She allowed the world to see none of this. Sitting here in this bright cafe, surrounded by people she had known all her life, she revealed nothing. She ate here every morning, and never conversed. She had nothing for the people she passed on the street but a cold glare and a quickened pace. Several generations of children had considered her a witch and were too frightened to even egg her house on Halloween.

She did not care, for she wanted nothing of this world. For many years, the only human being she had even the slightest affection for was Arthur Cannon, her son's childhood best friend. She didn't truly care for Arthur Cannon the human being, merely the Arthur Cannon who complemented the memory of her son.

When the government had started this latest round of sending sons off to die, Arthur's boy had been sent. She'd felt sympathy. But, when his son returned missing only a foot, and Arthur had came to talk with her, had the utter _nerve_ to pretend his loss was somehow on the same level as hers, she had ran him away, and let even that last spark of human connection gutter out.

"Your boy came back you awful, greedy man! How dare you! Your boy came _back_!" she had screamed at him as he stumbled down her porch stairs, open mouthed and round eyed at her sudden raging outburst.

_He has changed into someone else_, the man had whined. The nerve. The utter, hateful nerve.

She trembled slightly, remembering. Suddenly, the brightness and chatter of the cafe was too much for her to bear. She struggled up, placed the meal price and a dollar tip on the table, and hobbled with the aid of her cane to the door. A man entering held it open and smiled politely at her. She ignored him, moving purposefully and angrily out the door and down the street, for the cool dark comfort of her quiet house.

VI.

Quy Hue opened her eyes to discover what the after life had in store for her. There was no question that she was dead. She may have been an illiterate street runner, but she knew death well.

For the moment all was blackness, and a comforting cool soft feeling. She remembered the feel of the blades entering her body, the weight of the three boys who had held her down and the taunting babble of the four who had stabbed her. She shuddered at the memory, but realized that its power was fading here in the cool darkness. Already the memory of the pain was dull and muted.

She rested there for a long time, enjoying the first peace she could remember since the long ago death of her mother.

Then, at first thinking it was merely her imagination, she began to hear the music.

It started low and deep, bass notes throbbing a careful and confident rhythm, more feeling than sound. The pattern was complex and interesting, and oddly soothing. It reminded her of her earliest memories, her head resting against her mothers chest, a calm heartbeat lulling her to sleep.

Then came the melody, like a chorus of voices. Sweet voices, singing in unison. A song unlike any she'd ever heard; a song so beautiful it made the voice of the radio she had died for seem transparent and vulgar, gaudy and crude. It was a song, she realized, that she could listen happily to forever, content here in the cool soft dark, with only the music for company. She closed her eyes again to do just that.

But that was not to be.

"Hello Quy Hue." said the voice, softly yet perfectly clear against the background of music.

She opened her eyes. Standing before her was a small girl, whose complexion matched hers, and who's clothing was as ragged and humble as those she had worn in life.

"No one calls me that." Quy Hue whispered, feeling her voice was an insult to the song. "Everyone calls me Round Eyes."

"I know." said the young girl. "But that is not your name."

The blackness had been replaced by a pale luminescent white, and it appeared that she and the girl were alone in that unending radiance. But as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she knew it was not true. They were only two amongst a vast multitude, she was certain; she could feel their presence the way she had felt the crowded streets at midday even if she closed her eyes and covered her ears and wished for quiet.

And the radiance was far from blank, and not at all still. It was, she realized, a torrent of briefly glimpsed scenes, haphazard and undecipherable. As if she were being given glimpses from billions of different eyes.

"Where am I?" Quy Hue whispered again, then felt foolish. Her voice, and the voice of her companion, did _not_ insult the song. Their voices did not mar its delicate beauty and delicious swell. Their voices were small but integral instruments in that overwhelming chorus.

"We rest in the Moment, the Universal Now. Inside the Song Of Existence." The child laughed. "I can not explain it, and there is no need. Because this is not your place to be. You are not supposed to stay here."

And then Quy Hue, with a gasp that spiraled from her like a lovely note, saw that the child was holding a radio. It was old and worn now, filthy and abused, but she recognized it at once. _Perhaps_, the thought came to her, _some of those stains are my own blood_.

As she stared, the child continued.

"The Song has no false notes, no mistakes. How can it be flawed when it is the fountain of reality? Yet sometimes, if a composer is truly gifted, intentional dissonance will be inserted. This serves as a counterpoint to beauty, as pain counterpoints joy. These motifs know no boundary of time or place, no limitation of simple understanding. You and I are notes in this motif. We are notes played and spent, while other notes still hum in the solid walls of reality."

The child moved closer, and offered the battered object to her with a gesture of calm surrender. "It is time for your note to be struck again, Quy Hue."

With an inner trembling, Quy Hue accepted the gift, cradled it to her thin chest, feeling pure gratitude.

"Who is this great composer?" she asked, no longer afraid of marring the song. "Who creates such beauty?"

The child was fading, shimmering, becoming more deeply ingrained in the weave of the song, the flickering montage of the moment.

"We are both instrument, and song, and composer. You, and I, and uncounted secret singers. And him."

The child hummed from existence, and Quy Hue felt the hand on her shoulder.

She turned and let her gaze wander up. A pale but smiling man stared down at her. The hand on her shoulder squeezed once, gently.

He led her into the song, through the moment, and -- as Quy Hue felt the proper point surge toward her; felt the return of weight and breath -- she wept with joy to have finally met her Father.

Then the song surged and the note that was Quy Hue of the round eyes was once again struck on the deep strings of the real and solid.

VII.

Chuck was going to kill him this time, Arthur knew.

"Give me that bottle you worthless _shit_!" his son screamed at him, hobbling towards him on crutches with blood in his eyes. His right hand clumsily held the stubby, cruel shape of the .38.

They were having this ugly confrontation in front of the house, on the sidewalk, before the eyes of God and their neighbors and the steady pulse of traffic. Arthur was afraid that if he shattered the bottle, his son would shoot him. But if he relented and let him have the bottle, Chuck would drift one more fifth of a gallon closer to death.

It's a hellish place to be trapped, between fear for your life and the love of your child.

"You are killing yourself, Chuck. Please." Arthur said, past tears, his voice shaking and pleading. "You're killing yourself and forcing me to watch and _I can't do it anymore_!"

Chuck threw his head back and howled. There on the sidewalk, filthy and unshaven, hair a mat of tangles and dirt, stinking and bare chested, his son was transforming into an animal. An armed animal.

**

Mary Virtner was just a block from the relief of her house, passing the Cannon place, when that howl yanked her from her blank rejection of the rest of the world and pulled her head around to the awful scene on the other side of the street. That screech raised the hair on the back of her neck and shot the first real pang of feeling through her heart in four decades.

She saw that wreck of a man raise the pistol and point it at the childhood friend of her long dead son.

**

On the level of existence where the universal song played in all its glory, the tableaux stretched like a still life. The father, the wounded son, the mother with the blackened heart. A tripod of shattered dreams. Three notes of a dissonant motif that was destined for a conclusion.

And guided by two notes that no longer lingered, the final note pierced the moment and worked the alchemy of a tune well played.

**

Mary saw the child appear in the street first. Saw the car moving too fast, and the driver distracted by the drama on the sidewalk.

She opened her mouth and cried out:

"No!"

Her voice, a sound louder than she thought herself capable of, penetrated Chuck's rage. Like a puppet on a string, he felt compelled to turn, the gun dropping to the ground.

He saw, in the middle of the street, a dark complected child carrying an old radio.

And he saw the car, finally braking, but too late, too late...

He acted, from a deep well of regret that words cannot describe, a deep regret like dark music in his heart. Letting the crutches fall he ran, the stump of his foot slamming painfully into the ground, pain that he ignored. His rage forgotten, his thirst forgotten, the world forgotten save for a burning thought that forced his mind and muscles down a single desperate track:

_I will not watch you die again._

At the last moment he leapt, grunting, to shove the child towards safety and intersecting the ton and a half vehicle with his own poor form.

Arthur screamed as he saw his son bounce off the fender of the car, twisting like a broken puppet as he bounced from the hood and smashed viciously into the windshield. The windshield shattered and sank in as the car finally screamed to a halt in a flare of burned rubber and aching hot brakes.

The girl slammed into Mary who grabbed her and managed, miraculously, not to fall.

A sudden hush. Arthur frantically ran to his son, the contested bottle of liquor falling from numb fingers. He reached Chuck, tears streaming down his face, babbling ridiculous reassurances to his twisted form.

Mary straightened herself, catching her breath. She stared down at the child who had just been saved.

She stared down into the round and green eyes of Quy Hue and the recognition was an electric shock.

She stared down into the round and green eyes of her dead son.

_Something left of him._ her heart whispered. _Something left to let me grieve_.

And those eyes stared back up at her, and there was recognition in them as well.

Quy Hue clasped herself to the old woman, and wept, voice calling a word over and over:

"Dahn tu! Dahn tu!" _Grandmother_.

Arthur cradled his sons head as the boy coughed blood. Arthur was weeping silently now, no longer babbling. Because in the eyes of his broken child he could see a clarity and peace that had been as missing as his foot in the last few long months. In those round eyes was a strange gleam of happiness, as if he were hearing a lovely song on a calm afternoon.

**

And the motif finishes at last, with a woman at last grieving with a gift from a long dead son, and a father grieving over one who longed for death. With an old radio shattered in the middle of the street. With four pairs of eyes round and startled at the song of the universe, wide to the beauty and the pain and the mystery of that song.

They will never truly understand, but it does not matter. For in that moment -- that fleeting eternal moment -- a pause has been reached.

And the song swells, crescendos, sighs in minor conclusion, but it does not end...

Douchebag!

2005-08-25T20:40:00.000-05:00

Another MLB suspension...

2005-08-24T16:30:00.000-05:00

A batboy who chugged a gallon of milk in an effort to win a $500 bet with Brad Penny has been suspended by the Marlins.
The kid drank the milk in the alotted time frame (an hour), but couldn't hold it down, thus losing the bet. Now that he's been suspended, we're guessing the players will take care of him, as it sounds like he provided them at least $500 worth of entertainment during the ordeal. Penny is not happy with the suspension, and has a good point. ''It's kind of ridiculous that you get a 10-game suspension for steroids and a six-game suspension for milk,'' Penny said.

Morocco for the sophisticated traveler

2005-08-21T22:40:00.000-05:00

The night was dark, and the Moor blends as ink on black parchment. Twas a lay, and they did not have their wits about them. Slaughtered as pigs, not men, squealing beasts run about and are put to the blade! That watered steel, death, yet deathless, drew infinite succor from opened vein and split limb.

The list of men was long, and their names were written in blood along the roadside. There in the wilds of far flung lands, not even a priest, some far flung mission, to attend to the rites of the dead. I left them there, rotting and bloated in the cruel eye of the sun. Devilry was laid bare to the air for only the buzzard and the rat to witness.

The Chicago White Sox: In Crisis

2005-08-20T02:14:00.000-05:00

The White Sox have taken a nosedive. They've lost six in a row this week, but the problems were surfacing way before its hit absolute bottom this week. We're lucky we ran in to the Baltimore Orioles when they were in a complete slump, (the Sox swept them in a four game series) or we'd be in an even worse world of shit right now.

Basically since the All Star Break (their record: a measly 17-15), the offense hasnt shown up. The pitching has remained excellent, only allowing 3 runs tonight. Unfortunately, all the Sox hitters were bums. They scored 1 run in the first inning, after which they had only three hits, all singles. Podsednik, who sparked the whole lineup in the leadoff spot is on the DL, which is really hurting the team. Number two hitter Iguchi looks lost out there without him, and everyone else in the lineup seems to just want to pop a homerun. Unfortunately, we don't have a ballclub of Barry Bonds clones. We've got guys with some pop, but they're not going to rival Ruth, Maris, or even Pujols. And their batting averages are rather anemic, hovering around .270. All in all, its just bad times for the White Sox. They're looking like the Expos of yesteryear: they've got some good arms, but they have to pitch a shutout if they want to win a ballgame.

So now the Sox divisional lead is in single digits, with lots of games with the teams chasing them (the Twins and Indians) remaining. If they get swept in those series, they're going to be in a world of hurt, as the Twins seem to be grinding out some hard earned victories and the Indians are on a rampage. If this season is choked away by the Sox, its going to be heartbreaking. The clamor among the fans is that General Manager Kenny Williams needs to make a move, notably a trade for Ken Griffey Jr. But its seeming like they might not be able to get him from the stubborn Reds, and in the state these Sox hitters are in, I don't know if even he could save this club.

I'm so fucking cool.

2005-08-18T17:45:00.000-05:00

Prodigal

2005-08-15T02:33:00.000-05:00

A man awakes, inhaling old recycled air in a sharp intake of breath. His eyes open and he paws through the dust and cobwebs above to the stasis tank. There is nothing on the radio, no sign of activity anywhere. Nothing at all. An old rustbucket space station sits outside the viewport. Donning a suit, he crosses over, the old airlock protesting with a groan.

The cantina is empty, so he invents people. He sits down and has a drink, talking with the old man across the table.

"I went out there looking for something, I dont know what I expected to find..."

Outside, the slow ballet of massive bodies continued, the old windup clock of the universe slowly ticking towards a complete stop.

Eventually, the cantina falls in to a sun.

Existentialist Image of the Week

2005-08-10T16:04:00.000-05:00

Scott Harper, 18, of Armonk, Westchester County, jumped or fell 40 feet from the upper deck of Yankee Stadium last night, landing feet-first on the safety net behind home plate.

Said Giuseppe Tripi, 20, another friend who sat with Harper in Box 603, Row A: “People were chanting, ‘Stay or jump, stay or jump.’ He just peered over the rail and next thing we know, he’s gone.”

Stay or jump, stay or jump. A choice that faces us all.

Things I Miss About Chicago

2005-08-10T00:09:00.000-05:00

* Johnny's Italian Beef, in Orland Park. Dear God, if heaven exists on a french roll these suckers found a way to sell it. The line is long. The help is surly. Yet you smile at them anyway when they hand you that little bag of goodies because you know it's going to be so damn good. Avoid the 'hot' version. It will take chrome off car parts. But get two regulars and an italian ice. If you only get one you'll just have to drive back.

*Little, all-of-a-sudden-there-it-is taquerias that exists all over the northwest side. Tiny little places run by real honest-to-God illegal immigrants, that sell massive carne asada tacos with all the trimmings on just made tortillas for 99 freakin' cents. I have no clue how MacDonalds and Hardees can even exist in the face of such superior competition in the Chicago area. I suspect black magic or Illuminati connections.

*Corrupt cops that are actually cool. True story: I caught a ride home from work with my pal Drew and about four other guys. One scrawny lil' pasty white hillbilly in a big ass Buick with a load of Chicago thugz. Of course a blunt started making the rounds. About a mile from my house we got pulled over. The cop was this older Polish fella who told Drew "Go ahead and close the door, son. No sense in losing your contact." then proceeded to warn him about an out of date city sticker and actually hit the blunt. Of course we kept passing it.

*The Harold Washington Library. I still think my plan to live free inside of it has a good chance of working. I just need someone to bring me sandwiches on a daily basis.

*The El and That Damn Skyline. I love the El. When I felt down all I had to do was jump on the El and head downtown. The views along the way are something spectacular but cheap. I loved to see the skyline at sunset. No matter how crappy I felt it would lift my spirits. It's something very beautiful that nobody really planned, that just happened because rich folks did things. If you are poor and are nursing a bad case of rich people envy, go look at the Chicago skyline. Consider it a gift.

Death on a Saturday

2005-08-04T18:26:00.000-05:00

It was Saturday morning, and time for the trip to the restaurant. His old bones and sagging flesh walked slowly the to car, his wife holding his hand in a warm, comfortable embrace, his daughter full of life and energy danced in front of them. They had hid from her how far the disease had progressed, that he likely had only a few days more to live.
At the restaurant, he had his usual: three golden fluffy pancakes atop each other, with two eggs on the side. Every slice of egg burned as it slid down to his stomach. He couldn’t taste the pancakes only feel the texture, and he had no appetite. But he had always been a member of the “clean plates club”, and he put it down, smiling and chatting perhaps a bit less than usual, but nothing too noticeable. His wife’s hand patted his thigh like a metronome, the beats slow with age.
They talked about his daughter’s plans now that she was out of college, her new job, the money she had made, the apartment she was renting, the nice young Lutheran boy she had met. Her face was flushed with excitement and vigor, and a pang of petty jealousy rose within him. He quelled it and replaced it with bittersweet happiness, a tear threatening to roll down the cheek of the man who had always closed the door tightly and cried silently.
His daughter paid the bill and they rose to leave, and then suddenly, his family disappeared. He didn’t react with much distress or concern, he knew that they were alright and that he most likely just died. He left the empty restaurant and walked down the empty street. The light of the sun was dimming, and each step was more and more difficult. To his left paraded the people he had hurt. They were the friends he had betrayed, the heart he had broken, the school kids he had picked on, the people he had disappointed. Their faces were solemn but forgiving. To his right was the good that he had done. He saw his daughter years from now with children of her own, raising them in an expansive ranch in Montana. He saw the people whose lives he had saved in the troubled times as a fireman, coughing and bathed in ash. The neighbor boy that he had taught to read and taken to ballgames smiled and tipped his cap, and his old dog wagged his tail and gave out a joyful bark.
Then in front of him, he saw a shining woman bathed in white light with a flowing dress. She smiled, and open her arms in welcome. His stale tongue rasped behind his dry lips, struggling to speak.
“Are you god? Are you here to judge me?”
She smiled radiantly.
“Don’t be silly. You poor man, weighed down by that horrible gravity.”
Then, behind her, was a rocket ship, right on Main Street. Tall and painted a cheerful green, its nose pointed to the sky, its engine surrounded by mechanics running through final checks.
“Hurry on now. You’re the last one.”
Suddenly he could and he walked to the ship, climbing up the gangway. Inside rings of seats, like some great Shakespearian theater, surrounded the engine column. There was a cheerful burble of many tongues. People gave him a quick glance, sometimes a nod or a wink, and then turned back to their discussions. A young boy threw a paper airplane at him and it bounced off his nose.
“Rotter!”
He smiled, new energy pulsing out from his now renewed bones, picking up the airplane and walking to an open seat, picking up snatches of conversation.
“A new planet… no even further… we’ll be in a new galaxy! I have it on good authority from the Captain.”
“Well as I see it, first thing we need in the new spot is a bank. And I think we can see that I’m the man to…”
He sat down and suddenly everything went quiet. The engine fired and the man smiled as they rose on up to Heaven.

Hawks are after Khabibulin

2005-08-03T22:50:00.000-05:00

The Chicago Blackhawks are among the front runners to sign goaltender Nikolai Khabibulin, league sources tell the Chicago Tribune.

General manager Dale Tallon would not confirm which players the team is pursuing but did say he has offers on the table and expects to know more in the next few days.

"We made some offers to some players," Tallon tells the Daily Herald Times. "We're talking to everybody - upper (free agents), middle, lower. We're trying to find the best fit for our team."

Khabibulin, who led the Tampa Bay Lightning to the Stanley Cup championship in 2004, is the premiere goaltender on the free agent market. However, he's expected to ask for the maximum allowable under the CBA, $7.8-million.

He has already turned down a five year deal believed to be worth between $5-million and $6-million a year from the Lightning.

If the Blackhawks manage to sign Khabibulin, they would likely look to deal away Jocelyn Thibault, who was tendered a qualifying offer last weekend.

Hurricane Stillman

2005-08-02T21:02:00.000-05:00

Cory Stillman, Hurricane

Jim Rutherford must have become a reader of this blog, as I had suggested that Cory Stillman could be a great offensive fit for the Hurricanes team, and lo and behold, he's been signed. I'm really excited about this acquisition by the Canes, and it really helps out their three main traditional weaknesses: general offense, the left wing, and the power play.

Stillman is a very good goal scorer and play maker who is not afraid to get physical. He can score a lot of goals, create even more goal opportunities, and put a real bite into the perenially woeful Carolina Hurricanes power play. I have a feeling that a line of either Stillman-Brind'amour-Cole or Stillman-Vasicek-Williams could pay huge productive dividends for Carolina.

Tampa Bay's loss is Carolina's gain; Cory Stillman, welcome to the 'Canes!

2005-08-01T19:22:00.000-05:00

All the latest in hackerdom!

Some entertaining excerpts:

During his session on ATM machines, Morris said thieves have been able to dupe people out of their bank cards and passwords by changing the software in old ATM machines bought off eBay for as little as $1,000 and placing the machines out in public venues.

A group of twentysomethings from Southern California climbed onto the hotel roof to show that RFID tags could be read from as far as 69 feet. That's important because the tags have been proposed for such things as U.S. passports, and critics have raised fears that kidnappers could use RFID readers to pick traveling U.S. citizens out of a crowd.

Cool stuff.

Free Agency for Fun and Profit

2005-07-31T21:33:00.000-05:00

The NHL free agent signing period begins tomorrow, so it's time for my insightful... insight.

- Don't be surprised if a lot of Names end up signing with small market teams. That has become something of a trend in recent years, and will only continue under the new CBA.

- There are a lot of prominent defensemen in the pool this year, and the Pittsburgh Penguins ought to be breaking their doors down. The Penguins team has had a woefully inadequate blue line presence for a few years, and that needs to stop if they're going to have a shot at the Cup. Derian Hatcher could be a good addition to the team, he's a delightfully scrappy defender, and will add real physicality to Pittsburgh's defense. The Pens could also potentially be in the market for a goalie, as none of their stable of goaltenders has really emerged as a strong starter. As far as goalies go, Nikolai Khabibulin would be the real prize among the free agents, but expect him to re-sign with Tampa Bay. If the Pens don't pick up a goalie in free agency, I expect that Marc-Andre Fleury, Jean-Sebastien Aubin, and Sebastien Caron will all share goaltending duties, at least early on. Aubin could potentially emerge as their starter, as both Fleury and Caron lack the experience necessary to keep the Pens in close games.

- If I have my way, the Carolina Hurricanes will pick up a big gun. Peter Forsberg, Paul Kariya, and Pavel Bure are among the top offensive prizes, but they might be too much for the Canes' wallet. Both Cory Stillman and Luc Robitaille are excellent players who could be a good fit for the Canes team. I would also like to see Carolina pick up a strong goaltender to replace Kevin Weekes (I'm hoping against hope for Khabibulin to come to Raleigh), and a strong shot from the blue line; Sergei Gonchar could fill the bill here.

- Signings will probably come in pretty slowly at first, as this is very new territory for players and owners. But things will pick up dramatically after the first big signing.

act 3

2005-07-30T00:17:00.000-05:00

I reach the square, where Patty Gaspar, the famed Empress of Death herself, naked and covered in the blood of heretics, presides over the executions. There is Hitler, Pinochet, Bill Clinton, Josef Stalin, and Osama bin Laden lined up before the wall. Patty is on a raised stage, her arms aloft, screaming like a madwoman the memorized tenets of the Islamic neo-nihilist wave passed on to her by the wise Klown. The kangaroo court stands solemnly behind her, and the laborers and others in front, jeering and throwing globs of industrial grade lubricant at the prisoners.
Patty leaves the trance, saliva coursing down her chin. She speaks.
“I have returned to this world, from the wave mental state that was taught to me by Master Klown. Allah bless his name. Mathematical pattern analysis of the occurrence of the letters K and L in his writings have filled me with new resolve and illuminated the things to come. These shall die.”
The crowd murmurs reverently, and the Kangaroo court shifts awkwardly. Patty speaks again.
“You who have offended the tenets of the Islamic Neo-Nihilist wave in the 20th century have been brought here to pay for your crimes. How do you plead?”
They all try to speak at once but are drowned out by the crowd, which screams GUILTY! GUILTY!
“So, you do not even wish to contest your charges!”
She shakes her head like a mother disappointed in a child’s failing. Shots crackle. I turn away from the display, I have a mission to complete here. I scan the crowd and find The Beagle Alfonzo quickly. He is languishing beside a trash can, his eyes lazily scanning his surroundings, obviously in trance. There must be enemies here. I approach him cautiously, not wishing to be at the receiving end of a deathblow- his abilities are feared throughout the timewaves.
He greets me with a bark, and tells me what he knows.

Now I’m in Polynesia with an old native. He wears only a thong, and his flesh is toughened by a lifetime exposure to the hot sun and the trade winds. He nods to me and begins to carve the canoe expertly with his primitive stone and coral tools. I smile as the knowledge floods in to me. When he is finished, I thank him. I fire my gun and he falls in to the canoe. I light it on fire with my zippo and kick it out to sea. A Viking funeral for a Polynesian. I laugh.
Now, I’m in Luxembourg, its 2043, at a press conference. I'm inhabiting the body of Silas Jormungand, the famed inventor capitalist. I’m here to announce the ship design, the meta ship, the ship that can take us to the stars and can be fashioned with ease and a bit of ingenuity. It isn’t a ship so much as a plan. The frontier opens wide before humanity as the flashbulbs of the reporters flicker. I pull out my gun…

TO BE CONTINUED!

part 2

2005-07-29T23:51:00.000-05:00

“A mild hallucinogen. Takes the nerves off. Makes it easier to do this.”
I kick King in the face and leap out of the car, bringing the heel of my boot down on to his head again. There is a crunch. I pull out my gun and pull him up to his feet and fire, the round punching through his skull. The blood flows from his nose and mouth and he goes limp. I drop him. I look around, and daylight is flicking in to night and vice versa. Finally, it stops, and its night once again, as it should be. The time travel is over. I’ve been in and out of the Chicago Black Hole. I have my instructions. Aba cadabra wakes up with a sigh and a quick grin and the information starts dancing in front of my eyes flirtatiously.
Good to be back with you
It’s 2082
Independent Chicago
Political: Gaspar Junta has deposed Daley monarchy. Reign of terror.

I look up and I see it is true, a woman hangs from a construction crane, her face twisted in death. The smell of fear and excitement rises from the streets, and the nets are full of fiery talk. A new way a new way. The naivete. It has happened before and it will happen again.
I put the gun away and scuttle down a fire escape to street level, leaving the car and King behind.
The laborers are out and about, with their cheap ruddy clay faces and strong hands, barcodes on their foreheads and datajacks on their necks. Their eyes are slit, they’re looking for aristocratic types. I hear a crackle of gunfire and a cheer. They’re shooting ‘em down in the historic Daley Plaza. Place has gravitas, sense of history, it’s the big stage for all your revolutions and executions. Its where I need to go. I have someone I need to meet.

This is utter shit

2005-07-29T23:13:00.000-05:00

Solomon King stood there with a gimlet eye, a sixpack of beer, and a brand new car. We were leaving. He knew everything there was to know, now. The game was up. Off and back to the facility, to the strange processions of tapes of Japanese girls wearing swimsuits running through endless fields of beautiful Iowa corn. I wasn’t frightened, anymore. It all had the air of inevitability, rolling along like a Russian revolution or a Detroit factory closing. It simply was, the static kind of change.
The Hole was located out past the bridge of whatever city I’d lived in for the past 40 years, and then there was a tunnel down down down… down to the compression slots where they shoved you in and squeezed, till you could feel the juice spurting out of you and getting sucked up by little microscopic hoovers and processed and shot back out in to your body, and then you got larger and larger like a sumo wrestler with an air hose up his ass until you felt as big as the whole world and then the data flooded in. And you were there, mouth open and eyes wide, digesting The Feed.
It was always different stuff, every time. They’d never let you get a real hold of what they were up to. Perhaps it was all some kind of mad, unrelated series of schemes dreamed up by some insane atavistic fax machine. Nobody knew. The point was, stepping out of line seemed to be spectacularly fatal. You just didn’t hear about people getting away.
The car smells like week old McDonalds, that disgusting odor that makes you want to swear off food until the next intoxicating bouquet of heated processed meat and genetically modified garnish hits your nose. King is just idling the car and rolling down an incline, steering with his knees and humming some old tune. Suddenly I gained an insight in to King: he had such an immediate sense of the joys of living, so much so that the past and future didn’t matter to him. He was a frightening monster.
Then there was a bright flash, and shouting. Since I’m telling you this you know I don’t actually die, but believe me, I was unsure of this at the time. Then the confusion ends and King assures me it was just a training exercise. I sink back in to my seat. Turns out we’re not actually going to the Hole. They want me for something else. Some other kind of job. Now I’m in a smoky room with dramatic lighting, there are men in clown suits with their faces obscured smoking cigars (I mentioned the smoke).
“What we’re asking you to do is kill President Kennedy.”
“He’s already dead.”
“Not here. Not now. Not today.”
“The killing.”
“I disagree.”
“It needs to be now.”
“Never.”
“Wait for it…”
“Kennedy is dangerous…”
“Gotcha sucker!”
“Blam!”
“Pow pow”
“You are dismissed.”
I’m on top of a building in Chicago, Illinois with a time machine in front of me. Its buzzing away happily, real content like. I roll back on my heels and grin at the stars beaming back at me. And there’s Kennedy and its me and him on the rooftop with knives, and the suns burning out. Everything’s dark. We grunt and slash, grope and struggle and fall rolling to the cement, hands groping windpipes and arms twisting, blood spurting. I kill him there and get up, and I feel great, real great, like I
Taking E in a dance club with eleven year old boys mother doting on me crying in the backseat of the car now and its all starting to go black…
I wake up in the backseat of the car, and King is looking down at me.
“Fuck man, what was in that beer?”

New and Old

2005-07-29T22:05:00.000-05:00

Today on New and Old we have both the new and old NHL logos. First, the old.

Now, the new.

What the fuck? Orange to silver, cool I guess (I sorta liked the orange) but why reverse the direction of the lettering? That is so weird.

Holy shit!

2005-07-29T21:58:00.000-05:00

NHL Predictions

2005-07-28T21:29:00.000-05:00

Now that a new CBA is in place and the NHL is gearing up for its new season, it's time for my very early hockey predictions.

1. Sidney Crosby will fail to score a goal in his first game, but it's not his fault; God help the players, like Crosby, who have to face Martin Brodeur and the infamous New Jersey Devils defense in their first NHL game.
2. The Atlanta Thrashers will make the playoffs for the first time in franchise history.
3. Assuming they hang on to Martin St. Louis, Nikolai Khabibulin, and Vincent Lecavalier, the Tampa Bay Lightning will win the Stanley Cup again, in 7 games over the Vancouver Canucks.
4. The New York Rangers will miss the playoffs, yet again.
5. Canada will again win the gold medal in Olympic men's hockey, with Russia taking silver and the U.S. bronze.
6. The Washington Capitals will finish last in the league.

Greatness

2005-06-25T22:35:00.000-05:00

I would like to share with you something that I discovered some time ago, but did not think to share with all of you blog readers. It is perhaps the greatest rant / speech of all time, and certainly the greatest baseball or sports related one I've ever heard.

From Cubs suck! which is kind enough to host this great clip (I can't direct link it, go to the page and get it from there), is the background:

"It was a spring game against the Pirates early in the '83 season and only 4-5,000 Cubbie fans were in attendance to watch their pathetic team get the crap beat out of them. The Cubs had' started the season a dismal 5-14 and the few fans in attendance showed their displeasure by serenading their beloved Cubs with a chorus off boos. After the game, Cubs Manager Lee Elia had enough of the Northside and the 'nickel-dime people' who came to watch the Cubs suck in a sea of empty seats.

This is one of the greatest speeches of all time. Here's what being a Cubs fan was all about before it got hip to hang out at Wrigley Field."

Wreckage

2005-06-25T01:38:00.000-05:00

The dock and boat, before the storm.

Poor, poor boat.

The remains of the dock.

Here's the branch that tried its best to kill me. Fucking statist.

Me in front of our neighbors front yard.

The Chicago White Sox: We Own You!

2005-06-21T18:47:00.000-05:00

The Chicago White Sox, best team in the AL? Believe it.

They are:

-47 and 22. Thats 25 games over .500, folks. Thats also the best record in the Bigs.

-Fifth in the AL in batting with an OPS of .749, despite a weak team average of .263.

-Third in the AL in pitching, with an ERA of 3.65 and opponents only batting .244 against them.

Enough with the team stats. What individual players have contributed to the teams success? Well, the entire team has been contributing at one time or another, but I think the most important two players this year offensively have been Scott Podsednik and Tadahito Iguchi. The White Sox one and two hitters have been excellent. Podsednik has an On-Base Percentage hovering around .350, and every time he gets on first it seems that he's automatic to reach second base (he has 36 stolen bases all by his lonesome, more than many teams). He's played havoc with pitchers, creating wild pitches, errors, overthrows, etc. Iguchi, a slugging 3 or 4 hitter in Japan, has adapted well to hitting in the 2 slot for the Sox. Hitting over .300 most of the year (recently struggling with some back pain and dropping to .290) he's done everything to move Podsednik along from dropping bunts to slapping singles, and even belting out five homers (and showing off a very well practiced bat flip).

Batting after them and putting up the power numbers are Carl Everett and Paul Konerko, with 42 and 52 RBIs, respectively. Konerko has had a terrible average all season, but his hitting, especially homeruns, has been timely. Most of Konerkos homers have come with runners on. The most clutch hitter for the White Sox has been Aaron Rowand. This guy is a beast. He's hitting over .450 with runners in scoring position. Are you kidding me?!

To summarize the Sox offense: its baseball the "right" way. Guys get on, they move along with timely hits, bunts, or steals. Quite often they have something like runners on second and third with two outs. Sometimes the pitcher will get out of it, but when the Sox are able to do it two or three times a game, they're bound to score. It seems like whenever a hit needs to fall, it does. Simply amazing. And all the "smallball" hasnt cost them much in the home run department. They've only dropped from being tied for first in homers with the Yankees to being third in the AL. Not bad at all. Frank Thomas has just come back to the team, providing the equivalent of a big midseason trade for a bat. He's still not 100% and isn't playing full time, switching off with Carl Everett, or coming in to pinch hit late in the ballgame. He's still one of the most feared hitters in the game, and has hit 6 homeruns already and drawn quite a few walks.

There's quite a bit more I could say here about the offense. Maybe i'll start doing daily bios of key Sox players to let you know. The Sox have had some interesting bench guys this season, such as Chris Widger and Pablo Ozuna (I think Ozuna is going to be a star). But I'll stop for now, and tommorow I will discuss the White Sox pitchers, and their stellar performance.

A bit of a blow

2005-06-21T18:16:00.000-05:00

I experienced a pretty good storm here yesterday morning, and have been without power until just a couple of minutes ago. I'm in Minnesota right now, not in the great state of Illinois, where we have common sense, flat land, and fairly dependable electricity.

But here in the Minnesota, a storm raged across Otter Tail county,and I had the misfortune of being located within its rules. It was a rousing experience. Cleans the sinuses right out. The room in which I have been sleeping is inside a smaller structure a few feet away from the main house. As I stood in my room, watching lawn furniture fly past and listening to my dog whine, I considered making the crossing from my room to the house. I opened the door, looking outside. Thats when a gigantic tree branch flew at me, landing but four or five feet away. This deterred me from going anywhere, and so I closed the door and remained inside. I saw what looked like a gigantic green species of tumbleweed roll past the window, which was later discovered to be the top half of a tree. I saw our small fishing boat roll on top of our dock and then fly to the other side of it, swept away by the rushing water. Then the dock started to sort of ripple, and half of it split off and was swept away some distance. Very entertaining stuff. Eventually, as the storm was in its later stages, I ventured forth to the main house, carrying a frightened dog. Water had crept a significant amount up our lawn, tossing all kinds of shit on to it and creating a line of rubbish marking how far the water had reached.

After that, the cleanup began. Sweeping all that crap in to a pile and lighting it on fire. The twitter of birds and the whir of chainsaws. Oh, the times we had.

In a few days I'll have pictures uploaded for your viewing pleasure of the wreckage.

A Very Special Day

2005-06-18T04:50:00.000-05:00

While I work on five or so posts of actual substance, I would like to inform our reader that this is indeed a very special day. Today is Pablo's birthday. Although some might be confused since this is not January 12, I would still encouage everyone to wish him a happy birthday.

Sin City

2005-06-05T13:46:00.000-05:00

Finally saw this in peace and quiet. Saw it with a group of rowdy drunken friends when it came out and was unable to do more than admire a few visuals. My bud got a pre-release DVD copy, we settled down with some nice BC cannabis and he did that thing that proves you are a good friend of George Potter: allowed me to control the remote while watching a movie.

Let me just put it on the line:

This is the best movie I've seen in many years.

Mickey Rourk (I can't believe I'm saying this!) deserves an Oscar. He gave an almost unbelievably powerful performance. I'm not playing, I judge actors by the Masters: Cagney, Bogart, Mssrs. Barrymore, Stewart. If those gentlemen still lived they'd have applauded Mr. Rourk.

Let me try to explain. I was a comic book kid. I grew up on them and I loved every panel of the ones I read as a kid. I've watched a lot of 'superhero' movies and -- while I've enjoyed many of them -- I could never suspend my disbelief to think that actor on screen was really doing all that cool stuff.

Mickey Rourke made me believe it. For the first time. He made me believe it with the pain and fire in his eyes and every deliberate movement on screen.

Imagine an ugly man, then square it. That's Marv in Sin City: a brute, a bruiser, a badass with the soul of a poet. He's done awful things and they eat at him. He doesn't tell you this, you just know by looking at his mug.

One night Goldie, a beautiful prostitute, feels sorry for him and makes love to him. Marv describes this in his opening montage as if it were a dream made real, as if it were the culmination of all his wishes and a sweet balm for decades old wounds.

When he wakes up the next morning, she is dead beside him. Murdered. And the cops are on their way.

The city will tremble. The murderer will pay dearly. Marv just found a reason to live and die.

What follows is an action scene of such beauty and ferocity that it literally made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Roark narrates this scene like the ghost of Chandler, and when, while making his escape at the end of this astonishing scene, he says. "I love ya, Goldie." I cried.

That's just a taste of the cinematic glory that is Sin City. Just the very beginning of a trio of tales that are as innovative as they are classic. Robert Rodriguez has crafted a love ode to both movies and comic books, in the most glorious shades of monochrome. You will hate the bad guys: they deserve your hate. You will cheer the heros, because they are doing the right thing.

I never thought video would ever go beyond my beloved silver nitrate celluloid. I was wrong.

I don't want to say more. I don't want to spoil the experience.

Just: here there be beauty and ugliness and they wind together in the most delicious fashion. Here there be film makers and actors that truly love film and are willing to become ugly for it. And here there be tygers, red of tooth and sharp of claw.

Watch it, friends. You won't regret it.

Chicagocrime.org

2005-05-27T03:43:00.000-05:00

Fascinating site. They should do this for the entire country, somehow. Data data data! Gotta love it.

Here's my block.

3 recent crimes. The most interesting is:

Primary crime: Motor vehicle theft
Secondary crime: Truck, bus, motor home
Location: Street
Address: 800 S. State St.
Date: March 4, 2005, 9 p.m.
Arrests? No
Domestic? No
Police district: 1 (Central)
Police beat: 0132

A Tale Of A Man Named Clay

2005-05-16T15:06:00.000-05:00

Clay "Shonk" Shonkwiler

Once upon a time, Shonk was hiking through the woods of Bulgaria. And suddenly a huge Bulgarian cow (the bovine kind, not the widow-of-a-KGB-officer kind) jumped from behind some conveniently placed pine trees and blocked the trail. So, Shonk just sneered at the obstruction, set his pack down, flexed his muscles (causing simultaneous orgasms in every woman in a 50 mile radius) and punched right through th cow's 4 stomachs. Then Shonk, a man of the people, picked it up, cooked it with his heat vision, and gave it to local school children who hadn't eaten anything but soapy soup in a fortnight.

The End

Job 37:18

2005-05-09T02:01:00.000-05:00

(Foreign words requiring difficult fonts were avoided when possible. Some were necessary, such Hebrew words were transliterated. Such Greek words use the Symbol Font, discussed in more detail elsewhere. This entry has not been proofread.)

Time and again, within certain circles, I am presented with the claim that the ancient Hebrews, and in particular the Biblical writers, held to a false cosmology. One area of this supposed false cosmology that is oft-suggested is a belief in a solid sky. Here, then, we find that those within these circles claim support from a number of Biblical verses, and first on the list tends to be Job 37:18. It is not my intention here to defend Biblical inerrancy as a whole, although I believe such can be done. It is merely my intention to examine one verse as it relates to one claim. In so doing, then, I will not approach the subject as if claims for inerrancy have been proved or are, in any meaningful sense, at stake, nor will I argue for those assumptions. In one respect then, our question is merely academic and not religious (although, in actuality one can hardly ignore the religious aspect of the question). This is the case in that we are not asking whether or not Biblical inerrancy can be proved or disproved by this single verse, or that of claims of a certain false cosmology being taught within the Bible. Rather, the question at hand is whether this specific verse necessitates that the writer and by extension the Bible as a whole, as far as this can be implied, are teaching or actively accept and require within their writings such a view. This is not to suggest that this question is unimportant, merely that we must understand what we are and what we are not examining before our examination can begin.

Having adequately (it is hoped) outlined our task, we may safely continue. Due to the difficulty presented by the Hebrew font, the verse will be posted in English. Those interested can find the Hebrew text at a number of places. The NASB here reads:
Can you, with Him, spread out the skies, Strong as a molten mirror?

This appears at the end of Elihu's speech. It is suggested that this clearly teaches the mistaken belief that the skies are solid. And, on first glance we may agree with this. But we cannot be satisfied by our first impression if we actually intend to examine the issue. We must, instead, strive to get beyond the superficial.

Dr. Newman, who has done extensive research on this issue, suggests a different reading of the verse. Dr. Newman's main point of disagreement, or more accurately departure, with how this verse is usually understood concerns the words translated as skies and as mirror. The first, and less contriversial of his suggestion, is the word translated skies, which Dr. Newman understands as meaning clouds. It is true, as Dr. Newman points out, that the primary meaning of the word is clouds, with skies being a secondary meaning. Also, of the four times Elihu uses that word, in three cases it is usually translated as cloud, the fourth being this usage. For the second word, which we have as mirror, Dr. Newman suggests appearance. The word we have as mirror occurs only here in the Bible, but a word with technically identical spelling occurs four times. This word, meaning appearance, is the word that Dr. Newman believes we have here. In support of this suggestion, Dr. Newman points out that the word used in the LXX is orasis which means appearance. We might add to this that orasis is found in a number of places in the LXX, often being used to mean appearance. This was chosen despite the fact that the translators had a wealth of words which could be used for mirror, such as katoptrwn (cf. Ex 38:8 (38:26)) or esoptron (cf. I Cor. 13:12; Jas 1:23). Dr. Newman suggests two possible translations, which he believes are better than the current one: "Can you, with him, spread out clouds, which are strong, as an appearance of being cast?" or (preferably it seems) "Can you, with him, spread out mighty clouds, as an appearance of being poured out?" Dr. Newman understands this as speaking of everyday weather, rather than creation. And, as he points out, this would fit the context of the chapter, which thematically is meteorologic. Dr. Newman's suggestion is certainly novel, however its novelty may be its downfall. It seems unnecessary, and possibly misguided. But we should be careful not to overlook his point about the immediate context, which i believe is both valid and useful.

While we cannot agree with those who attempt to translate our word strong as hot, we do agree that it might be that rather than being primarily or exclusively creative, this verse may be speaking of the weather. Some commentators understand this to be speaking of a drought or at least excessive heat. This would certainly go along with our molten and mirror, as well as the context. As for our word strong, while hot seems unacceptable, many translate it as hard. The difference seems, and very well may be, unimportant. However, many commentators agree that strong is better here. This then would be comparable to the usage of mighty in Psalm 150:1, which is similar to our verse. We see also many verses, such as Proverbs 18:10 where God is called a strong tower, where we have to be careful in applying such. The strong then, needn't imply hardness as we usually think of it, and it is common for it not to. Elihu here may be simply contrasting the stabily of the heavens with Job's own weakness. Speaking then of the durability not solidity of the skies. The use of Kaph shows that it is only meant to be a simile. On final point here, before we move on is that raqa here is most properly rendered as spread.

Now we must move on to the speaker, Elihu. Commentators are decidely divided on how to view Elihu. Whether or not he is a positive character is far from decided. So there is hardly a consensus on whether or not he is a good guy, let alone whether everything that comes out of his mouth is supposed to be true. This view also depends on seeing Elihu's speeches as a later addition of a very specific type, which the evidence is against. Although God never responds to Elihu by name, it has been suggested that there is an implied response, especially in Chapter 38. If we accept this, not only would it suggest that we shouldn't see Elihu as being necessarily right here, but also that God replies directly to this verse. As Keil and Delitzsch point out, we find nothing in Elihu like we find in the Greek poets, who used words like sidhreon, calkeon or polucalkon, which strongly suggest solidity. Rather we find description according to appearance, mere poetic similes. This is all the more the case with Elihu who tends to be descriptive in such instances. It is also important to remember that Elihu is a Buzite not an Israelite, so what he says, if he says it, can hardly be taken to represent what the Israelites believed. We might be able to make a case that the Buzites believed in a solid sky based on Elihu's comment, but we are in no position to have Elihu speak for the Israelites, and even less so for the Biblical writers.

All this, though, may very well be unnecessary because of two things. First, this is a quote. Second, this is poetry. Taken alone, either of those is damning enough to rid us of the objection. It is unfortunate then that the BDB was influenced by this verse in its entry for raqia', which is not to be found in the verse.

KILL!

2005-05-05T00:45:00.000-05:00

If this isn't a joke, this man should be castrated.

The 42 Commandments of Ancient Egypt

2005-05-02T01:34:00.000-05:00

Here they are. Apparently, Moses didn't like all of them.

The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy: The Movie (Spoilers)

2005-04-30T21:22:00.000-05:00

I apologize in advance for the somewhat rambling nature of this, I have not given myself time to properly get my thoughts in order.

I am a fan of the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, I've read all five of the books many times over, read the short story "Young Zaphod Plays It Safe". I have listened to recordings of the radio show, and seen the BBC television adaptation. Now, I have seen the Hollywood movie adaptation.

When I first heard they were going to make a movie out of the HHGTTG, I was somewhat wary. But, I was reassured countless times by many fans, Douglas Adams wrote the screenplay, so it must be good. I allowed myself to be calmed, and I waited. Today, I went to see the movie with a friend of mine. And the jury returned its verdict.

This movie was the blatant raping of Douglas Adams' corpse. The... creatures (I would claim they're Vogons, but that would be doing a great disservice to Vogons everywhere) behind this movie have somehow managed to take one of the most beautifully-crafted pieces of existential, depressing (YES! I said it!) literature ever and turn it into: a cheap Hollywood love story, dime a zarking dozen!

Perhaps what they're failing to realize is that the books of the No-Longer-Increasingly Inaccurately Named Hitchhiker's Trilogy are a story of how utterly MEANINGLESS life is, and that the only pleasure we can derive from life is knowing that we will, one day, die. Or (and this is more likely) they simply do not care and changed the story into cheap romantic drivel to increase the audience beyond the small core of geeks who will faithfully line up, go see it, and never doubt that it is good because it has the name "Douglas Adams" attached to it. Whatever the reason, they have changed the entire point of the stories.

I realize many fans will claim that the stories of the HHGTTG are not existential and depressing, and I would respond by asking whether or not they've ever actually read the books. The meaning of life is forty-two with no intelligible question attached, and we're supposed to conclude something other than the obvious point that life is anything other than meaningless, or at the very least, ineffable? The Babel Fish, the only conclusive proof that God (ya know, that guy who is supposed to be the one giving life meaning and a good purpose) exists, is responsible for more and bloodier wars than any other creature in history, and I'm expected to think that's not depressing? Arthur Dent only achieves peace when he realizes that he is about to die; I'm not sure how anyone could possibly try to square that with any kind of optimism about life.

I think that many fans, and certainly the people who made this movie, see nothing behind the HHGTTG than the jokes. Yes, it is a very funny series of books, but if we look at the story behind the jokes, it is all about the meaninglessness and absurdity of life, classic existential points. And it is certainly not the cute little love story the moviemakers turned it into. I don't care how many people wanted it to happen, the point of the HHGTTG was not for Arthur and Trillian to have an awkward relationship and then finally end up in love, with smiles all around and Marvin returning from the dead to save the day in a heavy-handed pseudo-emotional scene. This movie really shows what is wrong with many mainstream movies today, they're all about ending as a saccharin love story that the whole family can enjoy. The best analogy I can think of to sum up what happened here is Disney doing an animated version of Camus' "The Stranger".

Now, on to the other details. Arthur was cast well, as were Trillian, Slartibartfast, and Marvin. Ford, and most depressingly, Zaphod were horribly miscast. The special effects in the movie were good for the most part, although Zaphod's second head could've been done much better (Is it really so hard to put them side-by-side? The only reason it didn't work in the BBC miniseries is because they weren't able to animate both). The story was sometimes incredibly heavy-handed, and nigh incomprehensible at other times. The entire subplot with Humma Kavula was wholly unnecessary and seemed to be nothing but an excuse to have John Malkovich play a religious leader. The Guide quotations were pretty faithfully adapted (with a few exceptions) from the books, and were like breaths of fresh air that kept me in my seat. I think that the best way I can sum up this movie is by saying that THE high point of the entire movie was the cameo by the Marvin robot from the BBC miniseries.

Final score: 2 out of 10
I plead with all readers that you boycott this movie in the hopes that we might prevent a sequel.

State Property 2 SUCKS

2005-04-28T22:54:00.000-05:00

"I fucking suck!"

This week, I saw a movie called State Property 2. Leaving the theater, I felt like a drunken Salvation Army Santa had just vomited in my mouth.

Actually, thats giving this film too much credit. This film is simply boring, tedious crap, sort of like attending public school or eating cardboard. I think I should have been actually paid to watch this film.

This movie is about a bunch of gangsters straight out of rap lyrics, and with about that much character depth. But you know what? That's fine. If that had been the limit of it, I could have just turned my brain off and looked at the pretty moving colors, like during The Amityville Horror, or yet another VH1 "Best Week Ever" or frivolous celebrity countdown.

But Damon Dash is either a sick, sadistic, or downright retarded motherfucker. It's almost impossible to see the faces of the characters in many scenes, as they sit in clubs which are made to look like horrible dungeons. Aren't clubs supposed to look cool? Exciting? Full of hot bitches shaking their booties as you spray vodka out of a hose all over their ripened tits? No fucking way. Its a bunch of ugly, fat black guys who must have mastered fellating Damon Dash, but can't act worth a 50% off cum-rag.

Another big problem with the movie is that, apparently (this is a tentative theory I advanced while leaving the theater, trying to reassamble the fragmented remains of my mind) this movie has three main characters, and all have them have different voiceovers. Sometimes, one of them says a sentence, and then another says another sentence, with no apparent transition at all. To state the obvious: this is pretty fucking confusing!

But the worst crime of the movie is probably the action scenes. Apparently, when gangstas get in to gunfights, both sides assemble in to a sort of ragged line, and sit and shoot at eachother for at least a minute, before one of them gets grazed in the shoulder and falls over. Apparently, on the hard streets of Philly, all you know about combat comes from a tattered, hand me down copy of a visual history of the Napoleonic Wars, and no word has reached you about the American Revolution or Ho Chi Minh! Sorry to bring plausability in to criticism of an action scene, but seriously. Damon Dash fucking sucks. Thats all there is to it.

Couldnt he have made the action scenes more exciting? Fine, maybe its cool to stand in a line and shoot. But at least, have somebodys head explode or something! For fucks sake! Does that minor character really need to live for us to feel good about ourselves?!

The only intelligible part of the whole movie was the product placement. We got to hear about some trendy restaurant, and see bottles of some shitty drink that the Rockafella folk are peddling. And I can't even remember the name! Part of the reason was, Damon Dash is fucking retarded and in a long 30 second shot of the bottles of it, he didnt set the focus right so that we could actually SEE THE NAME OF THE PRODUCT ON THE BOTTLE! Plus, as was mentioned before, it was horribly lit. I think they secretly shot these club scenes in Tropicana Field.

Anyways, I'm out for now. Stay up and stay real, soldiers.

Bixi, Qaato, Bax

2005-04-28T22:43:00.000-05:00

Over at SomaliAnarchy, we have an excellent post from rising ancap star Somboi:

There is a famous line gun dealers use in Somalia, "bixi, qaato, bax." And that means, "You pay, you get, and you go."

Awesome motto. Its the new laissez-faire, people! Propagate the meme.

Discover What The Martial Artists And The Army Don't Want You To Know

2005-04-28T02:14:00.000-05:00

http://www.topsecrettraining.com/combat.html

FEAR NO MAN!

Are these high-level combat skills too powerful for the public?

"The Shocking Story of How The
U.S. Military, The Feds, and Every Martial Art School On The Planet Is Trying To Prevent You From Getting This
Elite Combat Training."

"When we decided to reveal these accelerated combat skills formulated exclusively for Spec-Op soldiers, Secret Service agents, and top CIA operatives,
word quickly got back to Washington- and the whole thing sent shockwaves throughout the entire Defense bureaucracy!"

"Top-level government “higher-ups” started asking serious questions and even conducted “private” investigations. 12 public venues suddenly “clammed up” and said we couldn’t use their facilities for training. 3 film production companies, one right after the next, abruptly cancelled our taping sessions. And get this…57 different, privately owned martial art schools, all originally excited to have us, suddenly seemed scared to let us hold a seminar, or even speak to their students!"

It’s crystal clear that the “Powers That Be” don’t want us “sharing” such highly valued military level combat skills with ordinary civilians.
But we are going to do it anyway!

50 Cent Pwns You

2005-04-28T02:09:00.000-05:00

The rapper has boasted that his 48,500-square-foot mansion includes 18 bedrooms, 37 bathrooms and five whirlpool baths. Town records show a man-made pond, boathouse and separate servants' quarters. Two samurai warriors (supposedly left by Tyson) stand guard at the entrance.

Jewess

2005-04-26T23:44:00.000-05:00

And with this, I'm done trying to piss of Aaron.

Film Students

2005-04-26T23:37:00.000-05:00

I must transfer to NYU!

Frenchies

2005-04-26T18:25:00.000-05:00

If we're going to invade France, well by golly draft me Bush!

How to Avoid the Social Security Crunch

2005-04-26T17:24:00.000-05:00

Man Froze Mother's Corpse; Collected Her Social Security Checks

Your seed WILL COME!

2005-04-17T03:28:00.000-05:00

Call in now! 1(800)705-7000!

Make a five hundred dollar or one thousand dollar covenant with god right now!

Break the devils hold on your finances! Break the devils hold on your prosperity!

Oh my! Oh mighty my! Lemme tell ya! Hallelujah!

Cain and Abel both gave to God, what Abel gave took faith!

Listen. You don't even have to like me for this to work! You just have to believe the word of God! I've been up and I've been down and lemme tell ya up is better!

CALL NOW! 1(800)705-7000!

(Seriously do, the robotic Robert Tilton voice is hilarious)

Also, check out my website! Learn how to pay your bills SUPERNATURALLY!

Historic Doubts Relative to Napoleon Buonaparte

2005-04-16T22:44:00.000-05:00

In lieu of an actual entry, I would like to link to Richard Whately's famous satire written in response to the Humean critique of miracles, Historic Doubts Relative to Napolean Buonaparte. If you have not yet done so, also read Section X of Hume's An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. In the future, I plan to respond to the Humean argument (more properly speaking arguments).

Malcolm Muggeridge

2005-04-09T23:52:00.000-05:00

A quick quote from Malcolm Muggeridge (source Ravi Zacharias).
"We look back upon history, and what do we see? Empires rising and falling. Revolutions and Counterrevolutions. Wealth accumulated and wealth disbursed. Shakespeare has written of the rise and fall of great ones, that ebb and flow with the moon. I look back upon my own fellow countrymen, once upon a time dominating a quarter of the world, most of them convinced, in the words of what is still a popular song, that the God who made them mighty, shall make them mightier yet.

"I've heard a crazed, cracked Austrian announce to the world the establishment of a Reich that would last a thousand years. I have seen an Italian clown say he was going to stop and restart the calendar with his own ascension to power. I've heard a murderous Georgian brigand in the Kremlin, acclaimed by the intellectual elite of the world as wiser than Solomon, more humane than Marcus Aurelius, more enlightened than Ashoka.

"I have seen America, wealthier and in terms of military weaponry, more powerful than the rest of the world put together, so that had the American people so desired, they could have outdone a Caesar, or an Alexander in the range and scale of their conquests.

"All in one lifetime, all in one lifetime, all gone. Gone with the wind. England part of a tiny island off the coast of Europe, threatened with dismemberment and even bankruptcy. Hitler and Mussolini dead, remembered only in infamy. Stalin a forbidden name in the regime he helped found and dominate for some three decades. America haunted by fears of running our of those precious fluids that keeps their motorways roaring, and the smog settling, with troubled memories of a disastrous campaign in Vietnam, and the victories of the Don Quixotes of the media as they charged the windmills of Watergate. All in one lifetime, all in one lifetime, all gone. Gone with the wind.

"Behind the debris of these solemn supermen, and self-styled imperial diplomatists, there stands the gigantic figure of one, because of whom, by whom, in whom and through whom alone, mankind may still have peace: The person of Jesus Christ. I present him as the way, the truth, and the life."