Tour de Freakish Monsters of Frankenstinian Disposition

Floyd Landis, the newest American to win the Tour de France, has been accused of using testosterone to enhance his performance. Lance Armstrong, the greatest American hero, repeatedly dealt with accusations of drug use, and Tyler Hamilton, some other American, wasn’t able to compete this year for similar reasons. Apparently, a whole bunch of people from other countries have been caught this year too, but who really cares about them? This whole thing leaves me wondering if:

1: Americans are all cheaters.
2: Bicyclists are all cheaters. It’s just the unlucky ones who get caught.
3. Jose Canseco and Barry Bonds should each get themselves a pair of training wheels and go after it next year in France.
4. Maybe we should give up on regulations and just let the all drug themselves to their hearts' content. Of course, at some point, you have to draw the line. Can you imagine what would happen if, years down the line, we have unregulated sports and genetic modification of bicyclists? Can you imagine how much faster a four-legged Lance Armstrong could go (with four pedals, of course)? That would be terrifying. Or, the coolest thing ever.

Wars I am Currently Waging

I was thinking about war. Like our government’s War on Terrorism, and War on Drugs, I am also waging several ideological, impossible-to-win wars. Just a couple of them are:

The War on Flatulence: My own, I mean. I lose this one daily.

The War on Sleep: Sleep speaks to me, and he sounds like Satan. I’m not talking about the wheedling, sly Satan who whispers slick lies to get you to sign away your soul. No, Sleep/Satan sounds to me like a pro-wrestling manimal, he growls at me nightly to “Succumb to his sweet embrace” and in the morning he reminds me that I can never escape. So, I hit the snooze button. Because I’m afraid. Anyway, the result is, I sleep too much.

The War on My Hair: This one is occurring on several fronts. Recently, we’ve had the Battle of the Partline, the Battle of Hair that Sticks Up and Won’t Go Down Even if I Wet It, and the Second Battle of Dandruff. Add to this the constant shampoo reinforcements, the tactical haircutting campaigns, and the retreat of my hairline, and you’ve got yourself a conflict. I once used the nuclear option and shaved it all off but apparently, guerrilla fighters used the sun to wage a Scorched Skin campaign. It was, unfortunately, quite burny.

The War on Procrastination: Who am I kidding? I’m not really “fighting” this one.

The Vietnamese War: The food, not the people.

Dance Dance Revolution: This conflict resulting from unresolved tensions after the Nintendo Revolution. I have no rhythm.

War on War: this is a fantastic Wilco song. According to the lyrics:

“You're gonna lose
You have to lose
You have to learn how to die”
I don't know what they're talking about, but I like it.

Me, Teddy, and a couple of sailor suits

Ohh, and this, from the Star-Telegram, via Wonkette. Cindy Sheehan, former respected protester, now batshit-crazy protester, has used some of the insurance money from her soldier son’s death to buy some land in Crawford, Texas. I guess she's planning on camping out by his home for another month this year, demanding a meeting with the president, and protesting the something-or-other in the Middle East. Now, instead of being homeless, she and her protester friends can gather at her spread for gin and tonics before they try to chase down the president on his mountain bike.

I remember when I was a boy, I tried to convince my parents to get a place on Cape Cod, right in the neighborhood of the Kennedy Compound. This wasn’t because the Kennedys had given me any great excuse to thrust myself into the fulfilling spotlight of national media, but more because that’s where I figured the good parties were at.

Just as Wonkette now refers to the President and Sheehan as fake ranch owners, I could have been a fake yacht club member. While prevented from actually yachting by lack of a yacht, zero sailing experience, and crippling fear of sharks, I could have taken advantage of sumptuous raw bars, the remarkably awesome yacht club fashion choices, and the company of wonderful, wonderful, wealthy people. Also, I can already talk like a Kennedy, so I was halfway to fully integrating myself into Hyannisport society.

Happy Hours

God, I hate happy hours. I mean, I haven't been to one in a while or anything, but I was just thinking about them. I always end up sitting next to people I don't like (most people), and talking awkwardly about work, while I'd rather be chugging my way toward a pool table or even a dart game, and conversing with the few people I already know and like. "Happy hour" = false advertising (you know, because they don't make me happy). It's just like Super Size (too big!), Greenland (could be greener), and Must See TV (nope!).

Bringing it back to Jesus

From US News and World Report :

"How Not to Label the Holy City

It's no secret that Fox likes its news a certain way. John Moody, the network's senior VP for news, sends out daily missives micromanaging coverage. Last week, as rockets rained on Nazareth in Israel, Moody instructed: "The attacks on Nazareth become the lead until further notice. Nazareth is a historic and holy city. We can refer to it as the holy city, the biblical city, etc. Let's NOT call it the 'hometown of Jesus' though many would argue the city's favorite son turned out pretty well." Apparently, not everyone got the memo, as Fox ran graphics about rocket strikes on "the birthplace of Jesus" later that day."

Now, some might take this as yet another overt sign of Fox’s religious (go Christianity!) and political (boo Arabs! especially anti-Israeli ones) bias. Not me. I take this to be an attempt by Fox to distract their viewers from the real tragedy with a bit of historical context. Let’s ignore the fact that, for some strange reason, Fox execs think Nazareth should be the lead. I mean yes, as far as I can tell from the news, the two brothers who (I think) were the only ones killed in Nazareth are dwarfed by the hundreds who have died in the conflict up until now, and yes, the Fox story on the brothers is one of the few that fails to mention that they were Arab http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,204315,00.html, and yes, Fox also managed to work this question into its ten question weekly news quiz:

"Question 4: On Wednesday, Hezbollah rockets made their first hits near Christian holy sites. In which city did a Hezbollah rocket kill two brothers, bringing the Israeli death toll to 29?
A. Bethlehem
B. Nazareth
C. Jerusalem
D. Jericho"

But really, I think this is a noble attempt on Fox’s part to keep attention away from the really traumatizing fact for it’s hard-rocking, Christian viewership. The town, Nazareth, is the namesake of the Scottish band Nazareth. Can you imagine the uproar, the absolute panic, if people realized that the nominal homeland of the performers behind such hits as “Love Hurts” and “Hair of the Dog” was threatened. To me, and many others, Nazareth has a sacred legacy of miraculous, bone-crunching rock and roll that goes back over thirty-five years. If Hezbollah is messing with Nazareth, they truly would be “messin’ with a son of a bitch.” I for one, can barely stand it any longer and I’m happy Fox has kept others away from the anguish that I’ve been feeling over these attacks. But for those few who have now come to the realization that attacks on Nazareth are unacceptable, I think it’s time to realize that we can turn on Fox News, come together in song, have a good cry over attacks on Nazareth, and show the Arabs attacking our rockin’ heritage that
“Love hurts, love scars,
Love wounds, and marks,
Any heart, not tough,
Or strong, enough
To take a lot of pain,
Take a lot of pain
Love is like a cloud
Holds a lot of rain
Love hurts, ooh ooh love hurts”

Which coincidentally, sounds to me like something Jesus might have said.

Overheard in Santa Barbara

On the way to the farmer's market this morning. . .

"It's so beautiful here. It reminds me of Saint Louis."

I detected no sarcasm. And felt like reminding the speaker that there is a real reason that housing in Saint Louis is so much more affordable than in Santa Barbara.

At the market, over o.j., I wondered how the fresh-squeezed in East Saint Louis might taste.

I am blogger, here me bore

Clever, yes? . . .No?
Then you can go to hell.
I, for one, have been impressed with myself for nigh on twenty years, undaunted not by the onus of my genius, but inspired by my creativity, and my ability to utilate such scarce words as “nigh”, “onus”, and “undaunted” (got that one here). So yes, even without your agreement, I know. I am clever. Hence, I blog. Without readers. Which is fine by me.

Actually, I would have stuck with my journal, but my mother kept reading it. Now, I keep my drag queen fantasies to myself (and they are just fantasies), and I’ve hidden myself online, where mother can’t find me.

My journal, my “blog,” is my private space to write down my thoughts. I am not here looking for fame, or attention, or validation. I mean, God knows all of my public attempts at having my genius validated have failed. From my “bedroom community performance art” (the bourgeoisie is still not ready for public nudity), to my attempts at stand-up comedy (a whole goddam room full of hecklers!), to my meteoric rise through the ranks of the Democratic party (going door-to-door makes my feet hurt, and making cold calls makes me stutter), I have encountered the universal resistance of the masses to accepting my brilliance. So, fuck you, masses, I have a blog now, and I don’t care if you show up. I’m in this for my own enrichment and enjoyment, and, for the eventual day that I am discovered, and asked to write a novel, which will be about a blogger who is discovered and writes a novel, or something on that level of originality. So, I blog, without the aid of friends, or links, or fictional instructional video, but with my pure heart, my chaste soul, and my disdain for all of those bloggers who “make an effort” to “get readers”, because I have found that disdain is the best way to mask resentment.

Politics and PDA

Ned Lamont supporters have frequently utilized Joe Lieberman's public displays of affection with President Bush as a sign of him being out of touch with the Democratic Party. Similarly, John McCain has received scorn for the semi-regularity with which he humps the President's leg. Consider these events along with the recent man-boy love between Vladimir Putin and a young, kittenish lad, and of course, President Clinton's blowjob problems (no picture link for this one), which may have begun privately, but ended quite publicly. One conclusion presents itself: public politics should be one of those "no-touching" sots of activities, just like Catholic school dances, women's lacrosse, and the dreaded Portuguese Man-O-War.

Other, less well-known PDA have had major ramifications in politics. A few of the examples are below:


An early 1960s spin-the-bottle game in which Kruschev claimed that John F. Kennedy's bottle spin pointed at him, but JFK locked lips with British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan instead, began the buildup of tension, note-passing, and rumormongering that led to the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Kennedy also played a minor role in the Bentsen-Quayle debate, during which Lloyd Bentsen said to Dan Quayle, "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy." While Bentsen was largely referring to Quayle's political character, his friends also claim he held a grudge against Quayle after a "Seven minutes in heaven" session during which Bentsen claimed Quayle played "Way too much grabass." Bentsen freuquently cited Kennedy as the kind of gentleman you could trust, even during closet makeout sessions.

Tension between the Democratic-Republicans and the Federalists created the historical setting for the The Burr-Hamilton duel of 1804, but the duel's immediate cause was a handshake between President Jefferson and Hamilton that Burr described as "overly affectionate". On his deathbed, Hamilton later described the physical contact as "totally worth it," saying Jefferson's was "the kind of firm grip that makes you all wet and quivery inside."

While not literal hugs or kisses, former Senator Strom Thurmond was given a bag of Hershey's Hugs & Kisses, which are chocolate "Hershey's Kisses hugged by white chocolate." Believing that the bag was a political statement from Hershey's, and that integration had come so far as to be represented in candy form, Thurmond died.

Fish market

Man, I went to the fish market today, and it was fantastic. I think buying fish may be one of my favorite consumer activities. First, there's the fact that you’re buying something I consider to be a luxury in a place that’s smelly and quite unfancy, with its chain link fence and backstreet locale. Then, theres’ the whole fish cutting process, where you get to pick exactly what size fillet you want and watch that beautiful knife slide cleanly through your selection (I went with halibut). Finally, there’s the fact that you exit the whole transaction with a hunk of delicious, soft, fishy meat, sitting to next some crushed ice in a brown paper bag. Awesome.

Also, it reminded me of this joke I hate. It's something like, Q: What's the definition of confusion? A: Twenty blindfolded lesbians in a fish market.

Ahhh, stupid jokes. If you're really into bad lesbian jokes, here. A sample to warn you, "What is a lesbian dinosaur called? A Lickalotapuss."

What some political-types might drink if they had signature drinks:

George W. Bush: Robitussin
Pete Coors: Coors
Ken Mehlman: Pear appletini
Ann Coulter: Paint thinner
Dick Cheney: Wild Turkey
Scooter Libby: Suffering Bastard
Patrick Kennedy: everything
Robert Byrd: formaldehyde

And Baghdad gives me gas

I am in an extremely bad mood. And sometimes, when I’m in a bad mood, it goes straight to my pants. My ass itches and feels inflamed, and my genitals feel shrunken and achy. Also, I have this slight notion that I smell of poo. And I think it’s the Middle East’s fault. You know, it used to be fun and interesting to hear what was going on over there. Whether or not a specific day started with a Palestinian bus bombing or a rocket strike by Israel, you knew you’d have the resultant hijinks, the goofy excuses made by one said and the assertive (but still goofy) justifications of the other. Accusations would get hurled back and forth, someone would be taken prisoner and, in the good old days, Arafat would comment on how he had no control over the bombings, but they’d probably stop if the Israelis took some key steps, and I would laugh and laugh and laugh. I mean, not at the dying part, but all the foofarrah that came after, and at our earnest Jewish friends, and our Palestinian friends who claim they just want to be left alone. Funny stuff. Ok, I don’t actually have a Palestinian friend, or know a Palestinian, but they seem to be such funny people on tv (again, not during the dying part, then they’re actually a bit boring). But, to my point, the Middle East is no longer funny. The unfunny, dying and killing part is overwhelming the hilarious argumentation and liemaking. If the Israelis and Hezbollah don’t stop sending rockets up each others’ asses, I am going to keep feeling like there’s munitions going up mine, and also, like I have a shrunken penis, which I could probably work into some rocket-like analogy, but I won’t. For my bad feelings, I blame all governments. I hate you politics.

And religion. You’re on my list, too.

Oh, I’m also in a bad mood because no one loves me. Really, there’s no one to blame for that but myself. And that’s no fun.

And their satellite antenna has a tennis ball on top

From Cnn.com

"The spacewalkers hope they can use Kapton tape to hold the backpack latches in place when they make their next spacewalk on Wednesday. The tape is like duct tape but slippery [?0and able to withstand both frigid cold and fiery hot temperatures."

Apparently, CNN is working with an egregiously weak command of simile. Other potential choices below.

"The tape is like a pretty pink ribbon that the astronaut can use to wrap the best Christmas in July present ever, his ability to return home safely."

"The tape has the ability of icicles to withstand frigid cold temperatures, but, unlike icicles, can also stand heat."

"The backpacks are like fanny packs, worn not around the waist, but on the back. And with engines."

"The tape provides a convenient excuse for us to make the clever connection between space shuttle repairs and sloppy fixes you'd do at home. Except not so convenient. And not so clever."

Chipmunk Fucker

Joseph called me “chipmunk fucker” all day. I’m tired of it. It’s not like I actually fucked a chipmunk, or like it’s actually possible - though Karl did tell this one joke. I think it went,
Q: Why should you wrap a chipmunk in duct tape?
A: So it doesn’t explode when you fuck it.

Anyway, I didn’t fuck a chipmunk. I swear. I didn’t kiss, fondle, touch, or even gaze adoringly at a chipmunk. What happened was, we had been hiking all morning, right? We found a tiny piece of shade around two, and since we were hot and a little bit tired from all the socializing we’ve been doing lately, we lay down in that shade and took a nap. It was a good nap.

While Karl and I were sleeping, Joseph watched this chipmunk messing with my bag. Any good friend would have scared it off immediately, but Joseph just watched as the little guy crawled up inside my bag. Apparently, the chipmunk was feeling the heat,too, because when it found my Camelbak, it went to town. So, in case you don’t know, Camelbacks are like big bags of water you wear in your backpack, and there’s a long tube coming out of it that you can drink from like a straw as you hike, and the end of the tube has a bite valve on it. So, the chipmunk finds the bite valve, and he begins to chew and bite on it, and apparently Joseph’s still sitting there laughing as it bites and the valve is opening up and the chipmunk is drinking away and I’m snoring a little bit. I woke up soon after the chipmunk was done and gone. Since I had just woken up from a hot nap, I took a drink from my Camelbak. It didn’t taste funny or anything, but the smooth rubber of the straw seemed really rough. I kept drinking anyway, figuring maybe Karl had bit on it when he was drinking, but not wanting to accuse him of anything. As soon as I was done, Joseph starts laughing and pointing at me. “You just made out with a chipmunk. Hey, Karl, this guy’s a chipmunk fucker!” He told the story, and since then, it’s been chipmunk fucker chipmunk fucker chipmunk fucker. I thik it's hurting my self-esteem

Attention Brings Gratification

Photographers wanted !

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Reply to: pers-179182354@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-07, 2:48PM EDT



So I was at this wedding two weekends ago in the Catskills, and there was this photographer there (who was, by the way, quite cute). Anyway, the photographer had set up this photo booth at the reception. The photo booth was one where you sit inside and it takes a series of pictures of you, like the ones at the mall or, if you’re into faux-sublime French films, the ones that feature so prominently in Amelie. Anyway, since the photographer was so cute, I took a look at her web site, in the hopes that there she was really into taking self-portraits and displaying them online. I had no luck on that front, but while I was looking some pictures she had of an ongoing documentary-type project on teenagers, I had an idea for a great photography endeavor. A documentary-type project focusing on me.

I can be much more interesting than teenagers. I have a vast range of expressions beyond the teenage limit of sulky, lustful, or drunk. I have less acne, so you won’t have to airbrush me or only take pictures from one side. And, I’m willing to pay.

Basically, I’m looking for a photographer to follow me around all day and take pictures of me. I’m not so attractive, and I do spend a lot of time just sitting at my computer, staring at the wall, but I am adorable when I’m sleeping, and that happens for twelve to thirteen hours a day, so there’s ample opportunity to photograph me. Also, you could take lots of great action shots of me, like me brushing my teeth, me walking around ogling women, me when I’m actually working (for this one, I picture a slow shutter speed; you’ll be able to see the stillness of my eyes, and my hands will blur across the keyboard as sweat glistens on my acne-free face).

For this project, I’ll pay you minimum wage. Plus, you can sleep in my closet. It’s not a walk-in, but you’ve got to make do with what you’ve got, right? The closet can double as a darkroom if you’re not into that digital stuff. You also get full access to the sublime experience that is my life. You can follow me everywhere, except to the toilet (I don’t like an audience). And, you get all the rights to the photos. You can do whatever you want with them. I’m not in this for fame or money, just the delicious gratification of knowing that someone’s noticing me long enough to take my picture.

Things to do in the Albany area, during State of Emergency-style flooding.

1. Sit in your car, stuck in interminable traffic.
2. Listen to music, drum on steering wheel. If you want to do some good traffic-rocking, I recommend the Black Keys. Once you’ve noticed the tiny amount of gas you have, turn the car off and worry about running out. You can still hum if you’d like.
3. Sweat. Think about air conditioning.
4. Watch news helicopters overhead. Daydream about having your picture taken. Decide that you’d have a better chance if you were shirtless and sunburned and stranded on a rooftop, instead of shirted and stranded in traffic. Think about whether you should take your shirt off.
5. Look at sunken, stranded cars. Wonder how the upholstery will smell when they dry out.
6. Stare at the caramel-brown water in the river. Decide that you’d like to see a floating cow, like in that movie.
7. Conserve your drinking water.
8. Fish for trash.
9. Ford the river that now runs across I-90. Think about how this must have been the best part of being a pioneer. This, and cholera. After you make it across, realize that you would have made a kick-ass pioneer.