on friday at 7:30pm we decide, fuck it, let's go to reno. 2 1/2 hours later i'm eating greasy fish n chips at circus circus across from a 60 year old bald guy from seattle and his sunglassed, ukrainian counterpart.
"you winnin' or losin'?" he smalltalks.
"just got here" we reply.
"i'm up $130. that'll pay for our wedding tomorrow. she's from ukraine."
"congratulations."
"she's never seen a $100 bill before."
the waitress comes and he orders booze for both of them. it takes some persuading: the ukrainian is obvioulsy way past drunk.
"she's never seen so many cars before. in russia, everyone takes the bus."
"gas is expensive over there," i say, trying desperately to convince myself this is a normal conversation so as not to make bizarro faces.
"well, it's only a dollar more," he says. "you ordered too much food. you're never going to eat all that. you'll have to take it to your room. she can't get enough of that $100 bill, man!"
welcome to civilization! where ukraine = russia, there's no public transportation and everyone's married to a crotchbat who never stops talking. the strangest part for her must have been being introduced to america at circus circus in reno. rarely have i seen such a dazzling juxtaposition of neon, taz shirts, small children, mustaches and prostitutes.
i was down $60 that night but up $200 the next day, which paid for the trip.
reno, baby. reno.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
"put this on my tombstone"
i had a dream several years ago in which i was required to memorize the following message:
"the sun was like boiling bananas casting rust on orange and clear on white at leaves like burning trees."
i also had to say "put this on my tombstone" between each recital.
just between me and you though, never put this on my tombstone. it would totally freak out the other zombies.
"the sun was like boiling bananas casting rust on orange and clear on white at leaves like burning trees."
i also had to say "put this on my tombstone" between each recital.
just between me and you though, never put this on my tombstone. it would totally freak out the other zombies.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
"shit i learned in graduate school!" episodes 1 and 2
graduate school is a veritable cornucopia of knowledge. were i to relay my learnings to you, dear reader, in all their dazzling complexity, your brittle skull would swell and surely rupture. vast expanses of knowledge such as mine must be slowly digested over many weeks. you know, shoot seven thousand needles full of heroin between your toes all at once and the show's over. however, over a lifetime the results can fashion even the healthiest square into the very model of junkydom. which brings us to this week's lesson, the first installment in a continuing segment: "shit i learned in grad school":
episode 1: burrito experiment
i proudly count myself amongst the cynics on most everything. for instance: i don't believe in salmonella because if it existed i would have had it by now. however, after conducting a 3-week experiment i have scientifically proven that burrito consumption results in exponential increases in flatulence. during the first week i ate 2 lunch burritos and split the other three between chinese food and a vegetable sandwich. farting was moderate to heavy-at-times. during week two, my control week, i ate no burritos whatsover, but chinese, the sandwich, soup, and a sandwich from a different place. farting was light and breezy. the air was fresh and clean. during week three, i ate a burrito daily. farting was heavy-to-thunderous.
suggested future experiment: why does burrito consumption increase flatulence primarily during classes or at the workplace? hypothesis: because there is a god and it has a sense of humor. alternate hypothesis: because the beans have legions of tiny omnipotent bean-gods in them that lash out in furious anger at work-related activities.
we use the scientific method in graduate school.
episode 2: Y fashion
guess what? here's something else i learned: it's not cool to wear a bandana-cum-headband at the Y. it's even less cool to wear said headband and jogging pants you just put through the heavy dry cycle against your better judgment and which now resemble capri pants and may or may not cradle your manparts suggestively.
oh yes, and i did use the elliptical machine. also not cool.
you should have seen the stares. guess i forgot my carefully tailored addidas track pants and gray michigan t-shirt, you cocks.
next week i'm wearing a green accountant visor, my lickety jackbarn t-shirt, the sport-capris, black socks and the sandals my sister got me for christmas that have bottle openers on the bottom. and i'll use the stair machine backwards. also, in lieu of ipod, a boombox playing the macarena in a gold chain around my neck.
episode 1: burrito experiment
i proudly count myself amongst the cynics on most everything. for instance: i don't believe in salmonella because if it existed i would have had it by now. however, after conducting a 3-week experiment i have scientifically proven that burrito consumption results in exponential increases in flatulence. during the first week i ate 2 lunch burritos and split the other three between chinese food and a vegetable sandwich. farting was moderate to heavy-at-times. during week two, my control week, i ate no burritos whatsover, but chinese, the sandwich, soup, and a sandwich from a different place. farting was light and breezy. the air was fresh and clean. during week three, i ate a burrito daily. farting was heavy-to-thunderous.
suggested future experiment: why does burrito consumption increase flatulence primarily during classes or at the workplace? hypothesis: because there is a god and it has a sense of humor. alternate hypothesis: because the beans have legions of tiny omnipotent bean-gods in them that lash out in furious anger at work-related activities.
we use the scientific method in graduate school.
episode 2: Y fashion
guess what? here's something else i learned: it's not cool to wear a bandana-cum-headband at the Y. it's even less cool to wear said headband and jogging pants you just put through the heavy dry cycle against your better judgment and which now resemble capri pants and may or may not cradle your manparts suggestively.
oh yes, and i did use the elliptical machine. also not cool.
you should have seen the stares. guess i forgot my carefully tailored addidas track pants and gray michigan t-shirt, you cocks.
next week i'm wearing a green accountant visor, my lickety jackbarn t-shirt, the sport-capris, black socks and the sandals my sister got me for christmas that have bottle openers on the bottom. and i'll use the stair machine backwards. also, in lieu of ipod, a boombox playing the macarena in a gold chain around my neck.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
826 michigan
my friend and colleague works at 826 michigan. he hosted a crime mystery workshop for some 6th graders and i was one of the suspects, pictured below.
While the other suspects were given fake sinister sounding names, it was determined that my last name was already one of the more sinister in existence.
While the other suspects were given fake sinister sounding names, it was determined that my last name was already one of the more sinister in existence.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
larouchejugend
just when i thought i had escaped my nemeses.
last week my mailbox, along with the rest of the policy grad students', was stuffed with the latest wacko-tract from ex-felon, sociopath, fascist nutbag and perennial presidential candidate larouche.
it's sad is what it is. . jason, the guy mentioned in this wikipedia entry on the "larouche youth" movement was my friends' college roommate from stanford. after being mind-swept by larouchies, he left to brainwash other once-bright idealistic younguns. so long, stanford! hello, crazy!
consider this famous larouche quote:
the washington post did a fantastic article on him in 2004 -- read it here. brainwashing, inexplicable murders, international intrigue. it's a fascinating story. too bad it's real. and the proof is in the crazy-eyes of all the larouche youth on DC streetcorners and, apparently, at least one crazy in A2.
for more fun, check the FEC database to see if anyone in your town is nuts enough to donate to him. you'll be amazed how many there are.
last week my mailbox, along with the rest of the policy grad students', was stuffed with the latest wacko-tract from ex-felon, sociopath, fascist nutbag and perennial presidential candidate larouche.
it's sad is what it is. . jason, the guy mentioned in this wikipedia entry on the "larouche youth" movement was my friends' college roommate from stanford. after being mind-swept by larouchies, he left to brainwash other once-bright idealistic younguns. so long, stanford! hello, crazy!
consider this famous larouche quote:
"I AM GOING TO MAKE YOU ORGANIZERS -- by taking your bedrooms away from you . . . What I shall do is expose to you the cruel act of your sexual impotence . . . I will take away from you all hope that you can flee the terrors of politics to the safety of 'personal life.' I shall do this by showing to you that your frightened personal sexual life contains for you such terrors as the outside world could never offer you. I will thus destroy your rabbit-holes, mental as well as physical. I shall destroy your sense of safety in the place to which you ordinarily imagine you can flee."
the washington post did a fantastic article on him in 2004 -- read it here. brainwashing, inexplicable murders, international intrigue. it's a fascinating story. too bad it's real. and the proof is in the crazy-eyes of all the larouche youth on DC streetcorners and, apparently, at least one crazy in A2.
for more fun, check the FEC database to see if anyone in your town is nuts enough to donate to him. you'll be amazed how many there are.
Friday, September 29, 2006
shaped like a mitten, cold like a cowboy
ahoy children of israel! i bring great news from the north.
a lie. i have no news. but the bloggery beckons el vaquero frio nevertheless to his innumerable adoring digital fans.
i love you all. alas! you know not how bone-chillingly high my secret hit-counter for this site has risen! rest assured: bone-chillingly high.
know this:
michigan is cold and they have a large football stadium.
the construction workers who've been painting my house for a month play strictly pop country hits starting at 8:30am
when the football team plays, energy drinks and chewing tobaccos sponsor frat house tailgating parties.
i still like ann arbor.
there are a billion record stores.
it's lots of work
but better than actual work
calculus is my favorite class
if i was a crazy man, i would ride a pony-on-a-stick always.
i will try to post real things when real things happen.
not that they haven't
i'm just lazy again, and it's marvelous
as an added treat just for you, i have written a tlcnet-style angst poem about graduate school:
Softly have they hewn,
cleverly;
the names of the sweater-clad tenured ones,
their studies,
their research methods,
their aclu donation receipts,
their beards,
their contempt for the cell phone,
their memorized seating charts,
their powerpoint presentations,
their poopy journals;
Softly have they hewn,
cleverly;
hewn them into the living skulls of the admitted,
like so many squealing, teething, milk-hungry tiger cubs,
fed daily on the lactose of their homogenized,
pasteurized brain feculence,
corking each precious fang
with
the
blood
of
the
righteous.
did you like my poem? i love you.
a lie. i have no news. but the bloggery beckons el vaquero frio nevertheless to his innumerable adoring digital fans.
i love you all. alas! you know not how bone-chillingly high my secret hit-counter for this site has risen! rest assured: bone-chillingly high.
know this:
as an added treat just for you, i have written a tlcnet-style angst poem about graduate school:
Softly have they hewn,
cleverly;
the names of the sweater-clad tenured ones,
their studies,
their research methods,
their aclu donation receipts,
their beards,
their contempt for the cell phone,
their memorized seating charts,
their powerpoint presentations,
their poopy journals;
Softly have they hewn,
cleverly;
hewn them into the living skulls of the admitted,
like so many squealing, teething, milk-hungry tiger cubs,
fed daily on the lactose of their homogenized,
pasteurized brain feculence,
corking each precious fang
with
the
blood
of
the
righteous.
did you like my poem? i love you.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
escape from D.C.
let the exodus begin.
dang, dawg. it's grad school decision time. the degree is a masters of public policy. i already gave the slip to georgetown and american - this town is so played out. the ol' cowboy came here to fix this town and as you can see, mission accomplished. so i'm headin' back to the heartland, ladies. the only question remains: where shall i take up residence for the next 52 fortnights?
the two contenders:
1. ann arbor : university of michigan to be exact. got into their public policy program, but with only a meager workstudy. still, the list price is a bit cheaper than u of c. i visited the campus last weekend and was blown away. they have one of the top 5 programs in the country - seems like it's considered marginally better than u of chicago but with different emphasis. the average class size is between 10 and 18 - there are 85 students total in the entering class. i've never met happier grad students - they clearly have a heavy workload and a very intensive program but they also love what they're doing and couldn't say enough good things about their professors.
the program also allows for a dual degree in Urban Planning with an emphasis in transportation policy. happens to be one of the best urban planning programs in the country as well... go figure. all in all, a badass choice that incorporates everything i wanted to do with my masters.
2. chicago : university of chicago to be exact. got into their public policy program (is that jeff goldblum?) and with a fat ol' scholarship to boot. tha' benefitz iz obviouz - fresh town, full o' tweaked out homies and dank flygirls and most of my tuition already paid for. not that ann arbor blows, but it's obviously no chicago.
on the other hand, after my trip to ann arbor i find it hard to imagine u of chicago can compare curriculumwise. no urban planning emphasis, very few of the class opportunities offered by a school of Michigan's size. just the best economics program in the country (tied with MIT). but i shall find out this weekend when i visit.
oh, and i've got to make my choice by the end of next week.
dang, dawg. it's grad school decision time. the degree is a masters of public policy. i already gave the slip to georgetown and american - this town is so played out. the ol' cowboy came here to fix this town and as you can see, mission accomplished. so i'm headin' back to the heartland, ladies. the only question remains: where shall i take up residence for the next 52 fortnights?
the two contenders:
1. ann arbor : university of michigan to be exact. got into their public policy program, but with only a meager workstudy. still, the list price is a bit cheaper than u of c. i visited the campus last weekend and was blown away. they have one of the top 5 programs in the country - seems like it's considered marginally better than u of chicago but with different emphasis. the average class size is between 10 and 18 - there are 85 students total in the entering class. i've never met happier grad students - they clearly have a heavy workload and a very intensive program but they also love what they're doing and couldn't say enough good things about their professors.
the program also allows for a dual degree in Urban Planning with an emphasis in transportation policy. happens to be one of the best urban planning programs in the country as well... go figure. all in all, a badass choice that incorporates everything i wanted to do with my masters.
2. chicago : university of chicago to be exact. got into their public policy program (is that jeff goldblum?) and with a fat ol' scholarship to boot. tha' benefitz iz obviouz - fresh town, full o' tweaked out homies and dank flygirls and most of my tuition already paid for. not that ann arbor blows, but it's obviously no chicago.
on the other hand, after my trip to ann arbor i find it hard to imagine u of chicago can compare curriculumwise. no urban planning emphasis, very few of the class opportunities offered by a school of Michigan's size. just the best economics program in the country (tied with MIT). but i shall find out this weekend when i visit.
oh, and i've got to make my choice by the end of next week.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
more SOTU
oh yeah remember that whole "the u.s. is addicted to oil" part of the state of the union address? just kididng
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
SOTU play by play
oh isn't that sweet? it's brand new justice ammy alito! he looks so happy walking in! poor breyer inbetween him and clarence thomas! somebody feed him a dramamine!
condi steps out. good gravy she's looking foxy tonight. there's attorney general gonzalez! i'm fucking starstruck just sitting on my couch - how can those a-hole members of congress contain themselves?
oh great jolly rumsfeld! how spirited you laugh on national television before the speaker's podium!
oh fuck yes! chertoff is in the house. try not to piss yourselves, congressmen!
three words: norman. fucking. mineta. secretary of transportation doesn't give a fuck: he'll privatize him some amtrak and then he'll take a shit and he won't care. the man is a prince. prince of the cabinet. most princely of secretaries is he.
bill livingood belts it out - that man still has his man-testes. he's yelling at the press: "move back, bitches!" bill livingood will beat that photographer in his stupid face. the president's coming through, poopstains! grovel before him!
bush kisses condoleeza. bush hesitates to kiss alito. bush shakes the hand of the joint chiefs. he doesn't kiss them either. then he skips up on the podium like a dandy and chuckles like a wee scottish lad in his highland knickers. what would happen now if the teleprompter broke like it did on clinton? answer: everyone would poop themselves.
oh how sweet, he's leading off with a coretta scott king memorial, and how touching of NBC to flash up their own coretta scott memorial graphic!. then he wastes no time reminding everyone about 9/11. his ears are especially elfin tonight. and like a prick, he subtly accuses all of his opponents of being cruel.
pursue the enemies of freedom!
warns against isolation and protectionism! who the fuck is advocating that?
we seek the end of tyranny! (good job so far!)
ah, so it's weapons of mass murder now? where have i been?
"the terrorists have chosen the weapon of fear" - i think my first clue was when they earned the name "terror-ist". does "fear" count as a "weapon of mass murder?"
cheney takes a sip from his water like a palsied ogre.
how exactly would the united states "retreat from the world?" is such a move possible? let's talk more about this.
cut to lynne cheney with some little girl - how sweet! the girl hates evildoers. she loves freedom and nick lachey.
"i am confident in the will of the iraqi people" - you are also a crazy bastard.
"there is a difference between responsible criticism...and defeatism!... second guessing is not a strategy!" : 1) responsible criticism is criticism that comes from republicans. 2) holy shit, john murtha and his democratic henchmen want to put bin laden and zarqawi in charge of iraq! hide the kids!
[pause for brief jingoistic exploitation of military death]
holy crap, andy card looks like a pedophile!
isolationism mentioned again. who advocates this...? ah, i see! so isolationism = against the war! you isolationist savages wear your hemp and flash your peace signs while the kids in zambia die of the river blindness!
others want to centralize more power in washington by raising taxes!!!! you democrat fucks! thank you president bush for stopping their insidious power grab!
promises to save 14 billion by cutting social programs while saying it's also important to renew the tax cuts (that cost $880 billion!
actually lies outright on the amount of money it will take to save social security. bush wags finger at democrats who embarrass him.
you democrats with your partisanship! a-holes!
mentions immigration, amnesty. conservatives fart audibly in protest.
ah, 'making use of electronic records' will help me pay my $1000 hospital bill from last month! thank you president!
and once again we repeat the outright lie that lawsuits and lawyers cost consumers more than insurance bitches.
the future of american energy?: coal and nuclear power.
hey dick: the research is done on alternative fuels. we know how they work. federal funding needs to go into infrastructure. oh shit, that's socialism!
time to talk about education: flash back to lynne cheney and the kid. how cute.
math and science education though: probably the first part of the speech that makes sense. we're going to get donged on this. we're already being donged.
secretary of education margaret spellings? fox.
no child left behind act? donkey poop.
"our greatness is measured in who we are and how we treat one another" -- fuck yeah, torture!
"a revolution of conscience!" the kiddies are going conservative, bitches!
it's feelgood time!: "everyone, republican and democrat, has a right to be proud of our record"
i know! let's equate jack abramoff and gay marriage!
laura bush has creepy blue fake contact lenses, like some kind of fremin robotress.
ah, katrina talk! hey, it's not my fault, it's the locals! hey you fucks! the schools sucked and that's why you're homeless now!
someone's nokia cell phone goes off during AIDS talk
finale: "every great victory in history comes to a point in choosing"
...and so has every great failure.
condi steps out. good gravy she's looking foxy tonight. there's attorney general gonzalez! i'm fucking starstruck just sitting on my couch - how can those a-hole members of congress contain themselves?
oh great jolly rumsfeld! how spirited you laugh on national television before the speaker's podium!
oh fuck yes! chertoff is in the house. try not to piss yourselves, congressmen!
three words: norman. fucking. mineta. secretary of transportation doesn't give a fuck: he'll privatize him some amtrak and then he'll take a shit and he won't care. the man is a prince. prince of the cabinet. most princely of secretaries is he.
bill livingood belts it out - that man still has his man-testes. he's yelling at the press: "move back, bitches!" bill livingood will beat that photographer in his stupid face. the president's coming through, poopstains! grovel before him!
bush kisses condoleeza. bush hesitates to kiss alito. bush shakes the hand of the joint chiefs. he doesn't kiss them either. then he skips up on the podium like a dandy and chuckles like a wee scottish lad in his highland knickers. what would happen now if the teleprompter broke like it did on clinton? answer: everyone would poop themselves.
oh how sweet, he's leading off with a coretta scott king memorial, and how touching of NBC to flash up their own coretta scott memorial graphic!. then he wastes no time reminding everyone about 9/11. his ears are especially elfin tonight. and like a prick, he subtly accuses all of his opponents of being cruel.
pursue the enemies of freedom!
warns against isolation and protectionism! who the fuck is advocating that?
we seek the end of tyranny! (good job so far!)
finale: "every great victory in history comes to a point in choosing"
...and so has every great failure.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
"just pizza" pt. 2
like sunburned moseses we held back the tides of madness with the flimsy veil of hope that we might one day discover some heavenly portal to deliver us back from whence we came. for days we slogged onward in the freakish humidity that snarled our hair and summoned cascades of sweat from our tortured pores. our soiled "clothes" baked and crisped off our bodies within hours. and at length we shunned our civilized past and went primal once more, our bones protruding from flesh worn thin by lack of nourishment.
for despite the intoxicating aroma of our terrible new home, we found to sign of food. no game to hunt, no fronds on which to nibble, not even insect pests to collect and suck free of life. our frenzied attempts at rehydration slowed our pace significantly, for the only palatable water source appeared to be scattered dimples of paltry moisture in the rubbery soil from which we frantically sucked the very sweat of the earth. we called it "sweat diving."
it was nicorette who, lost in the primal impetus of a lustful sweat dive, discovered the delectability of the earth itself.
there, crouched like a filthy cro-magnon centerfold, hair lionized by the freakish humidity, lips frothing with crude streaks of hot drool, face stained by luscious morsels of piping-hot earth, nicorette bent her haunted eyes skyward and bellowed the clarion call: "just! pizza!"
and like beasts, we ate. and ate. and ate.
for despite the intoxicating aroma of our terrible new home, we found to sign of food. no game to hunt, no fronds on which to nibble, not even insect pests to collect and suck free of life. our frenzied attempts at rehydration slowed our pace significantly, for the only palatable water source appeared to be scattered dimples of paltry moisture in the rubbery soil from which we frantically sucked the very sweat of the earth. we called it "sweat diving."
it was nicorette who, lost in the primal impetus of a lustful sweat dive, discovered the delectability of the earth itself.
there, crouched like a filthy cro-magnon centerfold, hair lionized by the freakish humidity, lips frothing with crude streaks of hot drool, face stained by luscious morsels of piping-hot earth, nicorette bent her haunted eyes skyward and bellowed the clarion call: "just! pizza!"
and like beasts, we ate. and ate. and ate.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
mandatory end-of-year business
let's face it folks, 2k5 was a year of misery saved only by album-after-album of booty-shaking pumped religiously through decimated ipod earphones. so here we go, it's the cold cowboy's top ten albums of 2005, whose slogan in time immemorial shall inevitably be "well, at least we got some good songs out of it.":
10.caribou – the milk of human kindness
well-crafted but weird crap for the most part, which is reason enough for me. first line on first song ('yeti'): "his greasy fingers strung together and stretching cross the sky..." like some kind of modern day shakespeare!
9.calexico/iron & wine - in the reins
8.bright eyes – i’m wide awake it’s morning
in the past i mostly couldn't stand conor oberst's wimpy-but-clever ramblings but i hold no grudges. naturally it has its far-too-emo moments... but she's a keeper.
7.new pornographers - twin cinema
it still pales in comparison to front dude a.c. newman's solo album of last year (the slow wonder'), but with some notable exceptions (see 'bones of an idol') this is even better than their first album. i think neko case is the weak link but on the albums i hesitate to admit that i like the dude from 'destroyer', arguably one of the most terrible bands i've ever seen live.
6. stephen malkmus - face the truth
speaking of terrible shows: pavement's "last show ever" at bogart's in cincinnati ranks right up there. dudes were drunk and sloppy and the "second drummer" stopped playing towards the beginning of the set in order to scream out of key, submerging malkmus's equally slurred lyrics in a sea of poop-slop. i don't know what happened, but somehow malkmus put out an album that totally rules after several that royally blow.
5.sufjan stevens - illinois
4.clap your hands say yeah - s/t
some slightly irritating a-hole mimicks david byrne with sexy results. it'd be a lot more awesome if it didn't have all the hipster buzz. but it's still awesome. you have to dance.
3.go team! – thunder lightning strike
in a year of booty-shaking, this takes the big ass cake. how can you not groove to this shit? there are only two ways: 1. you are having a stroke, 2. you are 200 years old. even zombies have to party when this record starts playing in the graveyard.
2.wolf parade - apologies to the queen mary
as mayor of rockachussetts, i hereby declare this record to be... awesome.
1.animal collective – feels
can't. stop. listening.
10.
well-crafted but weird crap for the most part, which is reason enough for me. first line on first song ('yeti'): "his greasy fingers strung together and stretching cross the sky..." like some kind of modern day shakespeare!
9.
8.
in the past i mostly couldn't stand conor oberst's wimpy-but-clever ramblings but i hold no grudges. naturally it has its far-too-emo moments... but she's a keeper.
7.
it still pales in comparison to front dude a.c. newman's solo album of last year (the slow wonder'), but with some notable exceptions (see 'bones of an idol') this is even better than their first album. i think neko case is the weak link but on the albums i hesitate to admit that i like the dude from 'destroyer', arguably one of the most terrible bands i've ever seen live.
6. stephen malkmus - face the truth
speaking of terrible shows: pavement's "last show ever" at bogart's in cincinnati ranks right up there. dudes were drunk and sloppy and the "second drummer" stopped playing towards the beginning of the set in order to scream out of key, submerging malkmus's equally slurred lyrics in a sea of poop-slop. i don't know what happened, but somehow malkmus put out an album that totally rules after several that royally blow.
5.
4.
some slightly irritating a-hole mimicks david byrne with sexy results. it'd be a lot more awesome if it didn't have all the hipster buzz. but it's still awesome. you have to dance.
3.
in a year of booty-shaking, this takes the big ass cake. how can you not groove to this shit? there are only two ways: 1. you are having a stroke, 2. you are 200 years old. even zombies have to party when this record starts playing in the graveyard.
2.
as mayor of rockachussetts, i hereby declare this record to be... awesome.
1.
can't. stop. listening.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
"just pizza" pt. 1
we woke at dawn. no clothes, no beds. no streets. no house, no telephones. just the three of us screaming at the molten sky above where a burnt orange canopy had settled and through which pierced only sparse bellicose rays which dotted the sloppy, scarlet landscape below. the unspeakable heat parched our throats and bore through our tender eyelids. we cursed the heavens, damning whatever cruel creator stole us from our precious earth and led us to this snakebit place until there was naught to do but lift ourselves from the spongy ground and carry on.
the three of us: carlos de los gatos, nicorette lewis, and i, vigo van der lapp, rose to our feet and scooped the warm, red soil beneath us to cover such body parts as made us comfortable, for we were hardly friends. we had met the night before at that strange party at dave's house. something there had gone so horribly wrong, but what...?
i fashioned a toga from the soil and carlos adorned some crude, chunky briefs. nicorette crafted a makeshift bikini. the madness of this place and the heat so tortured our being that each of us cried out in pain as we trudged frantically towards what destination we knew not.
it was hot, so hot. jets of steam burst suddenly through unseen bedrock holes at random intervals, searing our already sun-charred flesh, clearly not intended for climates so treacherous. the yellow-orange ozone above us, while blocking out direct rays, seemed only to magnify the sun's heat. great, foreign crags of such radiant colors - emerald greens, deep browns, bright reds and dark mahoganies - towered above us like violent, twisted everests, jutting through the caustic atmosphere above.
only this: it smelled delicious.
[to be continued!]
the three of us: carlos de los gatos, nicorette lewis, and i, vigo van der lapp, rose to our feet and scooped the warm, red soil beneath us to cover such body parts as made us comfortable, for we were hardly friends. we had met the night before at that strange party at dave's house. something there had gone so horribly wrong, but what...?
i fashioned a toga from the soil and carlos adorned some crude, chunky briefs. nicorette crafted a makeshift bikini. the madness of this place and the heat so tortured our being that each of us cried out in pain as we trudged frantically towards what destination we knew not.
it was hot, so hot. jets of steam burst suddenly through unseen bedrock holes at random intervals, searing our already sun-charred flesh, clearly not intended for climates so treacherous. the yellow-orange ozone above us, while blocking out direct rays, seemed only to magnify the sun's heat. great, foreign crags of such radiant colors - emerald greens, deep browns, bright reds and dark mahoganies - towered above us like violent, twisted everests, jutting through the caustic atmosphere above.
only this: it smelled delicious.
[to be continued!]
Sunday, December 04, 2005
January 2, Y2K.
it's Y2K and we're at the rondezvous point awaiting the sentinels who
bear the flask of the millennium from which all must drink the blood
of the oxen. Our clothes have vanished and been replaced by togas made of donkey-cloth. This truly is the apolcalypse.
Earlier tonight in this den of beasts a goat approached me and
declared himself sovereign ruler of my soul. I am afraid. The insane
jugglers have arrived, preaching their dark prophecies and spinning
looms of the deepest blue. I fear a long winter.
In the night, three pipers passed our wayside camp, piping solemn,
greasy melodies that chilled our skin and made us hungry for blood.
The eyes of my compatriots now scream for my flesh-- but I shall not
be the first to dance to the rhythm of the twilight monks who erect
their monoliths in cryptic patterns about our camp.
bear the flask of the millennium from which all must drink the blood
of the oxen. Our clothes have vanished and been replaced by togas made of donkey-cloth. This truly is the apolcalypse.
Earlier tonight in this den of beasts a goat approached me and
declared himself sovereign ruler of my soul. I am afraid. The insane
jugglers have arrived, preaching their dark prophecies and spinning
looms of the deepest blue. I fear a long winter.
In the night, three pipers passed our wayside camp, piping solemn,
greasy melodies that chilled our skin and made us hungry for blood.
The eyes of my compatriots now scream for my flesh-- but I shall not
be the first to dance to the rhythm of the twilight monks who erect
their monoliths in cryptic patterns about our camp.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Thursday, November 03, 2005
congress: who killed tupac?
H.R. 4210: "To provide for the expeditious disclosure of records relevant to the life and death of Tupac Amaru Shakur." a bill introduced in the house sponsored by rep. cynthia mckinney (D-GA).
update : at 22 pages long, this bill is a marvel you must behold for yourself:
call your congressman!
Sense of Congress- It is the sense of the Congress that--
(1) the Attorney General should assist the Archivist in good faith to unseal any records that the Archivist determines to be relevant and held under seal by a court or under the injunction of secrecy of a grand jury;
(2) the Secretary of State should contact any other foreign government that may hold information relevant to the life and death of Tupac Amaru Shakur to seek the disclosure of such information, and report on progress on these matters to the Archivist in a timely fashion; and
(3) all Executive agencies should cooperate in full with the Archivist to seek the disclosure of all information relevant to the life and death of Tupac Amaru Shakur, consistent with the public interest.
call your congressman!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
is my office director a four-year-old in a forty-five year-old's body a la tom hanks in big?
today we examine that pressing metaphysical question on everyone's mind: is my office director a four-year-old in a forty-five-year-old's body a la Tom Hanks in 20th Century Fox's 1988 classic, "Big" ?
let us begin with a disclaimer. i have no evidence to suggest that she has a) ever lived in or around new york's five boroughs, b) visited coney island amusement park*, or c) inserted the necessary exact change into the correct slot of Zoltar's wish-granting machine and stated her wish accordingly, thereby prompting the granting of her wish within a 12 hour period to be decided by Zoltar alone. in her defense, she was born in alabama, far from new york city, and now resides in the district of columbia. best i can tell, her idea of fun is two-fold, neither of which involves amusement parks or genie-bots: 1. leaving work daily for two hours for the express purpose of watching her 2:00pm soap opera, and 2. making my job as bone-crunchingly maddening as humanly possible --though to her credit, she executes both of these with the finesse of a well-oiled serengeti gazelle. further proof that she has not received favors from Zoltar is evidenced by her technological comprehension, which is roughly akin to that of australopithecus robustus. having said that, is my office director a four-year-old in a forty-five-year-old's body a la Tom Hanks in 20th Century Fox's 1988 classic, "Big" ? Let the grand jury convene--i present the following evidence:
1. Do four-year-olds engage in baby talk?:
Yes, on occasion.
Do forty-year-olds engage in baby talk?:
No, except perhaps during intercourse or when mocking a enemy.
My office director speaks in baby talk several times daily, often in meetings with business and industry representatives, and with an upper register heretofore achieved by mariah carey only.
2. Do forty-year-olds drop all pending business when olfactory nerves sense the nearby presence of edible sustinence?:
Only starving ones, or ones training for competitive eating competitions.
Do four-year-olds drop all pending business when olfactory nerves sense the nearby presence of edible sustinence?:
"Mommy. Ice cream! Now!"
My office director once cancelled a meeting because she smelled a coworker's hot porkchop lunch. she is convincingly overweight and is clearly in no immediate risk of starvation. Though i would fully endorse such a career change, to my knowledge she does not eat competitively in any organized way.
3. Do four-year-olds have a defined sense of shame?
I once saw a smiling four-year-old kid run screaming naked from the girl's restroom, dirty diaper in hand, and plunge into the country club pool in clear and immediate view of hundreds of innocent bystanders. Shameless.
Do forty-year-olds have sense of shame?
Except for Michael Jackson, yes.
My office director has no sense of shame whatsoever. Every conscious thought is public knowledge. In a staff meeting following the departure of our ex-boss, she announced to us all "I don't care what you do. I want that TITLE and I want that MONEY!" At least twice daily, almost always during meetings, she emits the most bone-chilling, phlegm-encrusted, snort/hack heard by man, producing without fail nausea of varying degrees in all who have the terrible luck to hear. This is followed by a baby-talk "'scuse me!" and accompanying giggle. She eats with both hands. She eats everything. All things.
more news as it develops.
*last known whereabouts of Zoltar
let us begin with a disclaimer. i have no evidence to suggest that she has a) ever lived in or around new york's five boroughs, b) visited coney island amusement park*, or c) inserted the necessary exact change into the correct slot of Zoltar's wish-granting machine and stated her wish accordingly, thereby prompting the granting of her wish within a 12 hour period to be decided by Zoltar alone. in her defense, she was born in alabama, far from new york city, and now resides in the district of columbia. best i can tell, her idea of fun is two-fold, neither of which involves amusement parks or genie-bots: 1. leaving work daily for two hours for the express purpose of watching her 2:00pm soap opera, and 2. making my job as bone-crunchingly maddening as humanly possible --though to her credit, she executes both of these with the finesse of a well-oiled serengeti gazelle. further proof that she has not received favors from Zoltar is evidenced by her technological comprehension, which is roughly akin to that of australopithecus robustus. having said that, is my office director a four-year-old in a forty-five-year-old's body a la Tom Hanks in 20th Century Fox's 1988 classic, "Big" ? Let the grand jury convene--i present the following evidence:
1. Do four-year-olds engage in baby talk?:
Yes, on occasion.
Do forty-year-olds engage in baby talk?:
No, except perhaps during intercourse or when mocking a enemy.
My office director speaks in baby talk several times daily, often in meetings with business and industry representatives, and with an upper register heretofore achieved by mariah carey only.
2. Do forty-year-olds drop all pending business when olfactory nerves sense the nearby presence of edible sustinence?:
Only starving ones, or ones training for competitive eating competitions.
Do four-year-olds drop all pending business when olfactory nerves sense the nearby presence of edible sustinence?:
"Mommy. Ice cream! Now!"
My office director once cancelled a meeting because she smelled a coworker's hot porkchop lunch. she is convincingly overweight and is clearly in no immediate risk of starvation. Though i would fully endorse such a career change, to my knowledge she does not eat competitively in any organized way.
3. Do four-year-olds have a defined sense of shame?
I once saw a smiling four-year-old kid run screaming naked from the girl's restroom, dirty diaper in hand, and plunge into the country club pool in clear and immediate view of hundreds of innocent bystanders. Shameless.
Do forty-year-olds have sense of shame?
Except for Michael Jackson, yes.
My office director has no sense of shame whatsoever. Every conscious thought is public knowledge. In a staff meeting following the departure of our ex-boss, she announced to us all "I don't care what you do. I want that TITLE and I want that MONEY!" At least twice daily, almost always during meetings, she emits the most bone-chilling, phlegm-encrusted, snort/hack heard by man, producing without fail nausea of varying degrees in all who have the terrible luck to hear. This is followed by a baby-talk "'scuse me!" and accompanying giggle. She eats with both hands. She eats everything. All things.
more news as it develops.
*last known whereabouts of Zoltar
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)