CHANGE JAR STATS
++ As of February 7, 2005,
the change jar was 41.3% full.
++ I last emptied the change jar
on August 11, 2004.
++ The change jar is projected
to be full on October 21, 2005.
[See change jar photo here]
People who post lyrics to entire songs on their blogs. I hate to mention this, because two of my favorite bloggers do this often, but nothing makes me scroll south faster than a screenful of italicized song lyrics. If I know the song, there's no need to list all of the lyrics, and if I don't know the song, the lyrics won't do me any good -- am I supposed to make up my own tune? Referencing a few lines is okay, but dumping the whole song on your blog is like typing in five minutes of movie dialogue.
Why not quote a few lines and discuss their meaning? Tell me about the music and why it inspired and moved you. That will make me want to listen to your favorite tunes a lot more than a wad of lyrics to a song I've never heard.
People who ignore basic principles of courtesy and tact. A lady I work with got divorced recently, and threw a party downtown to celebrate her regained freedom. Divorcée invited all of her friends and a lot of people from work, including me and one of the women in my cubicle -- I work in a large cubicle with two women -- but not the other woman. I'm not sure why. Uninvited is a quiet lady in her mid-forties, shy but very, very nice.
For the entire week leading up to the party, Divorcée and the party invitees discussed the party in loud, happy voices in the hallways and over the cubicle walls. They came into our cubicle to talk about how much fun we would have and how drunk we were all going to get. They did this in front of Uninvited. I'm ashamed to say I did nothing to stop them.
The day of the party, everyone left early to get ready, but Uninvited and I both worked late. As she was leaving, Uninvited stopped by my desk.
"I guess there's a party tonight that I'm not invited to," she said. She smiled as if she found it funny, but she looked sad.
I smiled and squirmed in my chair. "Yeah," I said. "You can come with me, if you want."
"Oh, no," she said. "I wouldn't want to go somewhere I'm not wanted, would you?"
"No," I said. "I'm sorry, Uninvited. If it was my thing I would have invited you."
She smiled again, for real this time. "I know," she said. "Have a good weekend, Kilgore."
"You too, Uninvited."
Man, just think about what you say before you say it.
The vending machine guy's habit of stocking varieties of Hostess Donettes other than Chocolate. Chocolate Donettes -- like Original Pringles -- are perfect foodstuffs, and all other varieties of these products should have been discontinued long ago to allow for greater production of the superior species. But the vending machine guy insists on stocking Powdered and Crumb Donettes, usually two or three packages in front of a whole squadron of yummy Chocolate Donettes. Nobody wants Powdered or Crumb Donettes, of course, so they just sit in the machine while I weep with frustration, watching those precious Chocolate Donettes grow stale. Sometimes I buy the Powdered or Crumb Donettes to hasten the arrival of the Chocolate Donettes, but I'm not made of money, you know.
People who don't know how to behave with their dogs in public. I like to run at Washington Park, a few blocks from my apartment. Wash Park has two water fountains on its perimeter, and one of these fountains has a pail underneath to catch the runoff water so people can let their dogs drink. Usually, when I approach the fountain while a dog is drinking, the owner will pull his dog back to allow me to drink. They do this because I am a human being, and as such I get to drink before dogs, which are not human beings.
A few weeks ago, I approached one of the Wash Park fountains while a young woman's basset hound drank from the pail. She glanced over and saw me, and I hesitated for a moment to let her pull her dog back, but she just turned and watched her dog slowly lap water from the pail. Well, fuck you, then. I walked straight to the fountain and drank, the runoff water splashing on the basset hound's head. The girl yanked her dog back, gasping in astonishment as though I had offered to show her my vasectomy scar. I ignored her and trotted away, feeling pretty good about the blow I had struck for human rights. You know, like Gandhi and stuff.
Another time I approached a Wash Park fountain to find that a lady had tied her dog's leash to the nozzle while she used the bathroom. Look, dog owners: some people don't like dogs, and some people are afraid of dogs, and some of the rest of us don't want to have to mess around with your dog just to grab a drink from the fountain, and still others of us think it's kind of nasty to drink from a water fountain that's had a dog's leash tied around the nozzle.
If you've ever wrestled with the question of God's existence, it's time to knock it off and take up needlepoint, because someone has figured it all out. In his book The Probability of God, physicist Stephen Unwin has calculated the probability of the existence of a personal god to be 67 percent.
The Probability of God has its good points. Unwin explains his method -- a controversial technique called Bayesian probability analysis -- in clear, accessible terms, and includes an informal derivation of Bayes' theorem. He writes about his complex subject in an entertaining (if excessively jokey) and non-dogmatic style. He resists the temptation of intelligent design, refuses to lean on the argument from design, and recognizes the anthropic principle, although he displays an odd affinity for Pascal's Wager. I can't exactly recommend Unwin's book, but he does present a refreshing angle on the problem of God's existence.
I believe his method to be flawed, however. To begin, Unwin sets the baseline probability for God's existence at 50 percent, calling this an "expression of complete ignorance" and therefore an ideal, unbiased starting point for analysis. As a skeptic, I find this absurd. If I proposed an Bayesian analysis of the existence of unicorns or dragons, would Unwin agree with a baseline probability of 50 percent? I doubt it. In my own analysis, I used a baseline probability of 10 percent, which I believe to be mighty generous.
Unwin then identifies six "evidentiary areas," which are:
The recognition of goodness,
the existence of moral evil,
the existence of natural evil,
the existence of intra-natural miracles,
the existence of extra-natural miracles, and
the existence of religious experiences.
I have two problems here: why only six evidentiary areas? Surely we could think of dozens more, which would make for a more accurate analysis. And why these six areas? Four of the six areas appear to favor God's existence. To his credit, Unwin recognizes this weakness, admitting that "you may even have new evidentiary areas to add."
Unwin then assesses each area, and assigns a probability for that evidentiary area given the existence of God, and a probability for that evidentiary area given the nonexistence of God. For example, he decides that if God exists, the probability that man would recognize goodness is 100 percent. But if God doesn't exist, he guesses, the probability that man would recognize goodness is 10 percent. After assessing each evidentiary area, he plugs these figures into the Bayesian equation to generate an updated probability. After assessing all six evidentiary areas, he arrives at a "final truth probability" for God's existence of 67 percent. Well, maybe not "final." Unwin cheerfully acknowledges that "your assessment of the evidence may differ," and offers instructions for creating a spreadsheet to make your own probability estimations and calculations.
I ran through the analysis myself (without the spreadsheet, thank you) with different probability estimations and added another evidentiary area:There is no direct, sensory evidence for God's existence, even though he loves each one of us very much and wants us to believe in him.I calculated the final truth probability for God's existence to be 0.01 percent. I am Joe's Complete Lack of Surprise, because... I'm an atheist. I bet a devout Southern Baptist would use still different numbers, add even more evidentiary areas, and generate a final truth probability of 99.9 percent. This is, I think, the real weakness of this line of inquiry. Bayesian probability analysis may be valid and useful in solving some types of real-world problems, but when dealing with a completely subjective problem like the existence of God, the final results of this method will only mirror the prejudices and preconceived notions of the man punching the calculator keys. Therefore, Unwin's method is useless because it reveals nothing.
There was much joy in Mudville on Friday morning, as it was Kilgore Trout's turn to bring breakfast for the Finance Department. Most of my coworkers just bring donuts on their breakfast days, but when your life consists of trying to win approval and admiration through extreme feats of endurance and extravagant feats of cookery, donuts simply won't do. So I brought the usual Cheesy Chorizo Egg Bake, plus an extra treat -- Strawberries & Cream, to honor Wimbledon starting this week.
As I was setting the food down, the controller came around. "Strawberries? And yogurt?" he said, his eyes wide and happy.
"That's cream -- real cream," I said. "We don't do yogurt on man-breakfast day."
The food disappeared in about thirty minutes. The delectables earned me the usual round of excited ooohs and aaahs and requests for recipes and very nice compliments and tongue-in-cheek proposals that I should cook breakfast every Friday. To which I responded by mumbling thanks and staring at my monitor. I'm surprisingly clumsy at accepting praise, considering how much effort I expend to reel it in.
I do have one good reason to go overboard on breakfast: it might help me keep my job. My department has fired several people in the two years I've been working there, and nearly all of them were truly antisocial people who never talked to anybody around the office or took part in the Friday breakfasts, or joined the birthday cake club, or showed up for drinks after work. One lady refused to attend the fall picnic, which was a free (and very tasty) lunch served on company property during working hours, meaning she would have gotten paid to go.
Hiring and firing decisions shouldn't be made based on who brought the chocolate crullers and the yummy bear claws, but you're a fool if you think they aren't. My boss even admitted as much after one accounts payable girl cleaned out her desk. "It's sad," she said, looking at the empty chair. "But, you know, she just never talked to anyone."
Failing to mesh with your office's social culture leaves you little room for error. The lady who skipped the fall picnic got fired after making a few clerical mistakes. Granted, these mistakes were magnified because she worked in Payroll, but I bet I would have gotten away with it -- I have too large a reservoir of goodwill built up. But she had none, and nobody wanted to stick up for her. Don't be that guy.
Preheat oven to 350. Fry hash browns and cook chorizo. Mix eggs and cream. Layer hash browns in 13x9 baking pan and spread chorizo on top. Pour egg/cream mixture over top, then half of the cheese. Bake 30 minutes, then add the rest of the cheese and bake 20 more minutes. Cheese should be melted and slightly brown around the edges. Total preparation time: 1.5 to 2 hours.
Strawberries & Cream 1 C. (1/2 pint) heavy whipping cream.
2 T. sugar
1/2 C. sour cream
1 T. Grand Marnier, Amaretto liqueur, or orange juice
About 2 pints fresh strawberries, washed, hulled, and sliced
Whip the cream and sugar together until thick but not stiff. (Do this by hand unless you're a pussy and/or too cheap to buy a mixer.) Add the sour cream and beat until mixture is thoroughly combined. Continue to beat while gradually pouring in the liqueur or juice. To serve: put the strawberries in bowls and slap the cream on top. Duh. Preparation time: depends how fast you can move your hand back and forth. Skippy could probably finish in less time than it took you to read the recipe.
Kevin Kim at The Big Hominid dropped me this email today asking for help fighting web censorship in South Korea. I don't usually post things like this (by which I mean: please don't all of you start sending me political emails to post), but on the other hand, we're all about freedom of expression here at Chaotic Not Random. Here you go, Kevin:
I am sending this message to the bloggers on my blogroll (and a few
other folks) in the hopes that some of you will print this, or at
least find it interesting enough for comment. I'm not usually the
type to distribute such messages, but I felt this was important enough
to risk disturbing you.
As some of you may already know, a wing of the South Korean
government, the Ministry of Information and Culture (MIC), is
currently clamping down on a variety of blogging service providers and
other websites. The government is attempting to control access to
video of the recent Kim Sun-il beheading, ostensibly because the video
will have a destabilizing influence. (I haven't seen the video.)
Many Western expat bloggers in Korea are in an uproar; others, myself
included, are largely unsurprised: South Korea has not come far out
of the shadow of its military dictatorship past. My own response to
this censorship is not so much anger as amusement, because the
situation represents an intellectual challenge as well as a chance to
fight for freedom of expression. Perhaps even to fight for freedom,
period.
South Korea is a rapidly evolving country, but in many ways it remains
the Hermit Kingdom. Like a turtle retreating into its shell, the
people are on occasion unable to deal with the harsh realities of the
world around them. This country is, for example, in massive denial
about the atrocities perpetrated in North Korea, and, as with many
Americans, is in denial about the realities of Islamic terrorism,
whose roots extend chronologically backward far beyond the lifetime of
the Bush Administration. This cultural tendency toward denial (and
overreaction) at least partially explains the Korean government's move
to censor so many sites.
The fact that the current administration, led by President Noh
Mu-hyon, is supposedly "liberal"-leaning makes this censorship more
ironic. It also fuels propagandistic conservative arguments that
liberals are, at heart, closet totalitarians. I find this to be a
specious caricature of the liberal position (I consider myself neither
liberal nor conservative), but to the extent that Koreans are
concerned about what image they project to the world, it is legitimate
for them to worry over whether they are currently playing into
stereotype: South Korea is going to be associated with other
violators of human rights, such as China.
Of the many hypocrisies associated with the decision to censor, the
central one is that no strong governmental measures were taken to
suppress the distribution of the previous beheading videos (Nick Berg
et al.). This, too, fuels the suspicion that Koreans are selfish or,
to use their own proverbial image, "a frog in a well"-- radically
blinkered in perspective, collectively unable to empathize with the
sufferings of non-Koreans, but overly sensitive to their own
suffering.
I am writing this letter not primarily to criticize all Koreans (I'm
ethnically half-Korean, and an American citizen), nor to express a
generalized condemnation of Korean culture. As is true anywhere else,
this culture has its merits and demerits, and overall, I'm enjoying my
time here. No, my purpose is more specific: to cause the South
Korean government as much embarrassment as possible, and perhaps to
motivate Korean citizens to engage in some much-needed introspection.
To this end, I need the blogosphere's help, and this letter needs wide
distribution (you may receive other letters from different bloggers,
so be prepared!). I hope you'll see fit to publish this letter on
your site, and/or to distribute it to concerned parties: censorship
in a supposedly democratic society simply cannot stand. The best and
quickest way to persuade the South Korean government to back down from
its current position is to make it lose face in the eyes of the world.
This can only happen through a determined (and civilized!) campaign
to expose the government's hypocrisy and to cause Korean citizens to
rethink their own narrow-mindedness.
We can debate all we want about "root causes" with regard to Islamic
terrorism, Muslim rage, and all the rest, but for me, it's much more
constructive to proceed empirically and with an eye to the future.
Like it or not, what we see today is that Korea is inextricably linked
with Iraq issues, and with issues of Islamic fundamentalism. Koreans,
however, may need some persuading that this is in fact the case-- that
we all need to stand together as allies against a common enemy.
If you are interested in giving the South Korean Ministry of
Information and Culture a piece of your mind (or if you're a reporter
who would like to contact them for further information), please email
the MIC at:
webmaster@mic.go.kr
Thank you,
Kevin Kim
bighominid@gmail.com
http://bighominid.blogspot.com
(Blogspot is currently blocked in Korea, along with other providers;
please go to Unipeak.com and type my URL into the search window to
view my blog.)
PS: To send me an email, please type "hairy chasms" in the subject
line to avoid being trashed by my custom-made spam filter.
PPS: Much better blogs than mine have been covering this issue,
offering news updates and heartfelt commentary. To start you off,
visit:
Here as well, Unipeak is the way to go if you're in Korea and unable
to view the above blogs. People in the States should, in theory, have
no problems accessing these sites, which all continue to be updated.
PPPS: This email is being cc'ed to the South Korean Ministry of
Information and Culture. Please note that other bloggers are writing
about the Korean government's creation of a task force that will
presumably fight internet terror. I and others have an idea that this
task force will serve a different purpose. If this is what South
Korea's new "aligning with the PRC" is all about, then there's reason
to worry for the future.
If you read all the way through to the end, congratulations! You may now go to The Big Hominid and look at a picture of a rabbit fucking a chicken.
I love almost everything about backpacking -- the awesome beauty of the alpine wilderness, the challenge of climbing mountain passes, the novelty of trudging through knee-deep snow in July, and the anticipation of meeting twin backpackers from Switzerland named Monika and Gabriele.
But I hate shitting in the woods. I hate squatting over a hole with flies buzzing around my ass, waiting for dinner to be served. I hate missing the hole and walking around with my shorts around my knees, trying to find a stick. I hate cleaning with water afterward to prevent "backpacker butt" -- I won't describe the process, but if you ever meet me in person, I recommend wearing latex gloves. I would avoid shitting altogether while backpacking, if not for the back pain and headaches that result from holding back for seven days.
A few years ago, I went on a backpacking trip with Morocco Man, my best friend. We hiked and camped in the Colorado wilderness for a week and grew accustomed to the solitude, as we saw few people. On the last afternoon, Morocco Man announced he had to take a shit. He wandered a short distance away, dug a hole, and squatted with his back to the trail. I dropped my pack, opened a bag of trail mix and gazed into the distance.
Presently I turned my head to the left to see a family of five -- father, mother, one son, and two daughters -- on horseback, solemnly watching a man squeezing excrement from his ass into a hole in the ground with the determination of Hercules fighting the Hydra. I didn't know what to say, so I just watched as Morocco Man, with his back still to the trail, stood up and began wiping. At a gesture from the father, the mother and two daughters turned their horses away from the grotesque scene. The two men continued silently watching Morocco Man dig around in his asscrack as though he had lost his wallet in there.
Finally Morocco Man finished and turned around. His mouth fell open and his face assumed a look perfectly appropriate to the occasion. If I showed you a picture of his face at that moment, you would immediately say, "That guy just got caught wiping his ass in front of five strangers, including a woman and two little girls." The father turned and spoke quietly, and the family walked their horses down the trail, refusing to make eye contact with either of us, as Morocco Man's face remained frozen in a rictus of horror.
I've seen some crazy stuff in my time. But that... was... awesome.
Any time anyone mentions that it's the first day of summer, ask them how they know for sure. Ask if they've been timing the sunrises and sunsets so as to be sure June 21 was the longest day of the year. If they say they saw it on the calendar or heard it on the news, ask if they believe everything they read or see on television. Then go off on a semicoherent rant about the Rosicrucians and the Trilateral Commission conspiring to control the seasons. Work in some numerology if you can. You should say all of these things in your loudest, most obnoxious voice, with spittle flying out of your mouth, and you should get up the other guy's face and poke him in the chest a few times. Why the hell not? What have you got to lose -- your spot on the General Motors board of directors? Yeah, you'll become known as the guy who started a fistfight over the summer solstice. So what? At least you'll be famous for something. Be an asshole for a few minutes, and not just the guy who cowers in his cubicle and never talks to anyone and takes naps in the john twice a day.
Honor the Mother Earth Goddess by digging a hole in the ground and giving her a good fucking. She likes it rough, so grab some handfuls of grass and really put your hips and back into it. Be sure to wear a rubber -- Mom's been around this solar system a few times. And bring along a copy of the Constitution. That way, if any cops hassle you, you can point out the part that says, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..." I'd have Alan Dershowitz on speed-dial, just in case.
Email me some naked pictures of your sister, as expressly permitted under Article IV of the Chaotic Not Random Reader's Bill of Rights. This is a good idea for any time of year, even if it's not a solstice or an equinox or any other astronomical event. And quit trying to front like you're not the kind of sick fuck who takes naked pictures of his sister. We all know that's exactly the kind of sick fuck you are, and anyway your sister's pretty hot, and nobody would blame you for having a weak moment when she came home drunk and passed out in the bathtub. So send the pictures already. I won't post them on my blog, probably, and if I do I'll say Skippy sent them.
Get some good sandwiches and a can of Original Pringles and a bottle of Beaujolais and surprise a loved one with a picnic at the park. Sit under a tree and enjoy the sunshine and the food and the summer breeze and, after you've had about half the wine, tell your loved one something you've always wanted to say but were afraid he or she would laugh. But I'm pretty sure sure your loved one won't laugh. Loved ones are funny that way.
I had a good weekend. I took some pictures of the things I did, so if you had a bad weekend, maybe you can look at my photos and pretend you had a good weekend like me.
My friend The Negotiator called me at work Friday afternoon, all wound up. "Some guys at the office weren't giving me any help getting a quote to a customer," said The Negotiator, who works as a salesman for a concrete company. "So I went to Target and Hobby Lobby and got a pack of T-shirts and some iron-on letters, and I made some T-shirts that say things like WHAT HAVE I DONE FOR THE CUSTOMER TODAY? and CARE, for 'Customers Are the Reason we Exist.' I wear the T-shirts in the office, and when someone is holding up something for a customer, I just point to the T-shirt."
Right now you are thinking this sounds awfully dorky. But did you just get a $2,500 bonus for being the top concrete salesman in your office? Yeah, that's what I thought.
"That's awesome!" I said. "I want to make a T-shirt!"
"You should!" said The Negotiator. "It only cost me twenty dollars to make four T-shirts."
"I'm not going to get any work done the rest of the day," I said. "I'm going to be too busy thinking about what to put on my T-shirt."
So I stopped at Hobby Lobby on the way home, picked up a white T-shirt and some iron-on letters, and made a T-shirt, except mine doesn't say CARE or anything like that. Click here to see a picture of the T-shirt I made. Go here to read about the time The Negotiator (a.k.a. DK) got me into a hot tub with models.
Saturday morning I noticed some squirrels frolicking outside, so I took this picture and this other picture. I like squirrels. They rock because they can climb anything and run along telephone wires and jump from branch to branch in trees. If I could be any kind of animal, I would either be a squirrel or a gnat on the wall of Catherine Keener's bedroom.
I even like the word "squirrel." I think it looks cool, like it's in motion. I dream of playing Scrabble and drawing the rack ILQRRSU, and my opponent drops a naked E in the triple-triple lane, and I make SQUIRREL for 212 points.
On Sunday I went to Coors Field to watch the Rockies play the Orioles. When I go to Rockies games, I usually buy $4 Rockpile seats behind center field, but today I got to sit in a luxury suite, courtesy of my company's insurance broker. Luxury suites kick ass: free brats, free chicken wings, free beer, padded seats, and convenient restroom access.
Too bad Rox "closer" Shawn Chacon wasted a great effort by starter Joe Kennedy, who scattered four hits and walked one over seven shutout innings and handed a 2-0 lead to the bullpen. Chacon walked the bases full in the ninth inning and gave up a grand slam to Brian Roberts to record his sixth blown save (against only 13 successful saves), bump his ERA to 8.38, and make Rockies fans ache for the good ol' days of Jose Jimenez.
Here is an action photo of Todd Helton striking out.
In other baseball news, this team has the coolest name and animated logo ever. (Link via Bohnsack.)
Some of you have asked if UU Wendy had a hand in helping break my latest involuntary celibacy streak on May 26.
Unfortunately, no.
To review: I met UU Wendy at an introductory class at the Unitarian Universalist church here in Denver. If I had seen her in a crowded club downtown on a Saturday night, I would have said, "Wow, she's hot," to nobody in particular, and then hunched over my vodka tonic while entertaining fantasies of writing my initials in white letters on her tummy. But at church UU Wendy seemed friendly and approachable, and we chatted several times. One Sunday, after church, I asked her to have coffee with me.
"Well..." she frowned and looked at her watch. "Yeah, I guess I have an hour or so."
A less than enthusiastic response. But a win's a win, right? So we spent a pleasant hour sipping caffeinated beverages and comparing the weather in our home states. As we left the coffee shop, I asked for her number.
"Well..." she frowned again. "Uh, yeah, I guess so."
"Are you sure?" I asked, and smiled. This was not a rhetorical question.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," she said, and handed it over. This was cause for bragging on the next day's CNR post.
I waited three days, like a good Swinger, and called Wednesday evening. Answering machine. I called back a couple of hours later, and left a message -- a controversial strategy, I know, but I figured over the course of our several conversations and our half-a-date she had already decided whether she wanted to go out with me or not.
I ran to the phone every time it rang for the next week. But UU Wendy never called. I interpret this to mean that UU Wendy did not want me to call her. So I present this question for discussion: why would a woman give her phone number to a man unless she wanted him to call?
Perhaps I took UU Wendy by surprise. But if you're an attractive woman in your early thirties, and a man goes out of his way to talk to you, and asks you out for coffee, how thick are you not to realize that he's interested, and his next step will be to ask for your phone number?
More likely, UU Wendy is a nice person who couldn't bear to reject me to my face and hurt my feelings. But, ladies, if you don't want to go out with a man, you're going to have to turn him down sooner or later. The indirect rejection of screening my calls and not returning my message only prolonged my agony.
One would think that by UU Wendy's age, she would have mastered the Flimsy Excuse Technique: My number? Gee, I'm sorry. I'm really busy at work these days, and I'm not looking to date anyone. Or whatever. Just hand me some lame reason that allows me to say, "Oh, I understand," and save face. Sure, some men are clods and will press the issue, forcing you to progress to more explicit rejection strategies. But most guys will take the hint.
I'm more annoyed than angry. I'm thirty years old, for chrissake. I've asked enough women for dates to know that I'm not going to spontaneously combust if someone turns me down.
Right now you are wondering, "Well, with whom did Kilgore end his drought, then?" That is a subject for a future post.
Narc (2002)
Starring Jason Patric and Ray Liotta.
Directed by Joe Carnahan.
Kilgore rates it: 5 (out of 10)
IMDb rates it: 7.4 (out of 10)
What's better than a movie about a cop on the edge? How about a movie about two cops on the edge! Comes complete with: grubby facial hair, leather coats, cops on heroin, beating information out of informants, bullshit politics with the suits downtown who don't know what it's like to watch your buddy get shot and die in your arms, rain-slicked streets, grabbing shotguns out of the backseat of the undercover cop car, and this priceless line:
"I'm gonna find the bastards who murdered Mike, even if it means breaking every rule of procedure in the book."
You can probably write the rest of the screenplay on your lunch break.
Km. 0 (2000)
Starring a bunch of cursed Iberians.
Directed by Yolanda Garcia Serrano and Juan Luis Iborra.
Kilgore rates it: 5 (out of 10)
IMDb rates it: 7.7 (out of 10)
Wild coincidences, mistaken identities, silly subterfuges, happy hookers, long-lost loves, and fucking all come included in this bubbly Spanish comedy about 14 people whose lives intersect in wacky fashion at Kilometer Zero in La Plaza de Orinar in Madrid. Km. 0's good-natured tone carries it forward, but it bogs down near the end when the film waxes bizarre and fails to suspend disbelief. There's a nice twist that you won't see coming, though.
I just posted a new essay (see the "Big Macs" link to the left). I solicit your comments and suggestions. And I don't want to hear anything about ripping off Super Size Me -- I did that shit over a year and a half ago!
Thanks to whoever linked over from Skippy's site at 7:25:16 p.m. ET on June 7 and hit Chaotic Not Random for the 15,000th time. Speaking of Skippy, I noticed that CNR accounted for 51 referrals to his blog in the last 24 hours, more than all other sites combined, including Google. Am I the only one who thinks that deserves a handjob at least?
I hope I don't offend anyone when I say you ought to eat as many Pringles as you can manage. I ate an entire can of Pringles tonight, to celebrate my negative chlamydia test, and I curse myself for not buying a twin pack so as to enjoy that crispy, salty potato flavor even as I type these words.
I only buy Original Pringles. No reason exists to mess around with Sweet Mesquite Barbecue or Sour Cream & Chive seasonings when the Original variety is perfect, and therefore impossible to improve.
Sometimes, when I eat Pringles, I empty the can into my green glass serving bowl, turn "ESPN Jock Jams" up to volume level 6, and drink screwdrivers till dawn (or midnight, whichever comes first). When I leave for work the next morning, I make certain to apologize to my neighbors for keeping them up until all hours. "Sorry about all the ruckus," I say, laughing sheepishly. "I had a party last night and it got out of hand."
I think it's sexy how the Pringles fit together so nicely, as though they were spooning. Sometimes I try to explain this to pretty girls at the grocery store. "Don't you think Pringles are erotic?" I say with a suggestive smile. I don't think it's cool to have your boyfriend beat someone up in the Safeway parking lot just for being in touch with his sexuality.
Some freedom-hating people, like Eric Piotrowski, think you shouldn't eat Pringles because they are manufactured by Procter & Gamble, an evil multinational corporation that forces six-year-old boys to stitch Pringles together by hand in Malaysian sweatshops. I easily refute these arguments by pointing out that Pringles are delicious.
(Please don't tell Eric Piotrowski that I eat Pringles.)
When someone asks who you would meet if you could meet anyone, you're supposed to say Jesus or Harvey Keitel, but I always say I want to meet Mr. Pringle. He looks confident and sophisticated with his Fu Manchu mustache and bow tie, but you can't miss the jaunty gleam in his eye. Maybe I could pretend to have terminal leukemia so I could meet Mr. Pringle through the Make-A-Wish program. I bet he would take me to dinner and ask me all kinds of questions about myself, and while we waited for our entrées he would smile this incredible smile and tell me I have beautiful eyes. Later we would have sex. That doesn't make me a homo, though.
I like how every Pringle is the exact same shape and size, so you know exactly what to expect every time you put one in your mouth. True, sometimes there are a few broken Pringles at the bottom of the stack, but that's like life, where some people are retards or speak languages other than English.
OLSEN TWINS CELEBRATE 18TH BIRTHDAY BY HAVING SEX WITH 34-YEAR-OLD SALESMAN
LOS ANGELES -- Celebrity twins Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen spent the early hours of their eighteenth birthday in a ménage à trois with divorced medical-supplies salesman Craig Ralston, 34, sources reported Sunday.
"Ashley and I met Craig on our way to a club Saturday night," said Mary-Kate. "He recognized us and stopped us on the street to tell us he was a longtime fan, ever since we were on Full House."
"It must have been just past midnight, because Craig glanced at his watch and said, 'I guess you guys are eighteen now,'" added Ashley. "So I said, 'Yeah, let's go have sex.'"
"We couldn't decide which one of us would get to sleep with Craig, so finally we just agreed to fuck him at the same time," said Mary-Kate. "That worked out pretty well."
Both Mary-Kate and Ashley admitted that having kinky sex with one of their fans fulfilled a longtime fantasy.
"We've always dreamed about having sex with our older fans, but we didn't want to get anyone in trouble," said Mary-Kate. "Besides, most people think of us as artists -- singers and actors -- and not sexual beings."
"We're kind of shy," said a blushing Ashley. "We've been sheltered from normal life our entire lives, so we're like flowers in the attic, or something. It means a lot to know that somebody out there would want to share himself with us that way."
Neither of the twins would confirm the performing of any specific sex acts, but Mary-Kate acknowledged with a sly grin that "we had to flip a coin to see who would get to swallow."
Ralston could not be reached for comment, as immediately after ejaculation he lapsed into a catatonic state and had to be transported to USC Hospital's mental health ward, where he is now listed in stable condition.
I used to work for a collection agency in San Francisco, at a place called Imperial Collection System. When I showed up for work the first day, my new manager met me in the lobby.
"What's your name again?" he asked.
"Kilgore Trout."
"Okay. From now on, you are... Brian Spencer*. Come on upstairs and I'll introduce you to everybody." He led me into a cramped room where six people worked the phones at tiny desks. "Everybody," he said, "this is Brian Spencer, our new collector."
Now, it's common for bill collectors to use aliases. When I worked as a collector in Iowa, I used the alias "Carl Black," because I thought it sounded tough. Usually you get to choose your alias, though -- the manager doesn't assign it to you. And you only use your alias when talking with debtors, not in everyday conversation with other collectors. But ICS was different.
The manager introduced me to the other collectors, mostly Filipinos and Chinese tagged with the most white-bread aliases possible, so that Ellison San Miguel and Hieu Ly became George Baxter and Robert Thompson. I never learned most of my coworkers' real names. We all called each other by our aliases. Everyone called me "Spence," of course, which means that I had a nickname for my alias. This was not as exciting as it sounds.
My manager's alias was Rex King. "But doesn't 'Rex' mean 'king'?" I asked.
"Yes!" he said, beaming and delighted. "You're the only one to get that!" This did not surprise me. A welding certificate will suffice to make you the most educated man on most collection floors.
Rex had been through two bitter divorces and hated women. "All women are crazy, Spencer," he used to say, with not a whiff of irony. "Just get what you want and dump them before they ruin your life. Better yet, get a prostitute. They're cheaper."
Sometimes I would go to Jamba Juice for a fruit smoothie. The smoothies always came with a free "Boost," like a Fiber Boost or an Antioxidant Boost or a Femme Boost, which was a bunch of vitamins for women. When I returned to the office, Rex would jeer, "Did you get the Femme Boost? Does it make you cry for no reason and think you're psychic?"
Rex was a master motivator. "Come on, guys!" he would holler when morale flagged. "This is the collections business, not the goddam Girl Scouts!"
Rex amused himself by saying ridiculous things to debtors. "When you call back, ask for me, Rex King," he would say. "I'm in charge of Special Operations." There was, of course, no such thing as Special Operations.
Another time, to an angry debtor: "I wouldn't even know what you're talking about, sir. I'm just a simple working man, making a simple working man's wage."
Once I was talking off a debtor who owed over a thousand dollars for jewelry purchased on credit at 18 percent interest. She never made a single payment. "Quit calling me," she said. "I'm raising three kids and I don't have any money."
"Well, where are you working?" I asked.
"I am on welfare," she said, in the same tone of voice that another might use to say I am the head of neurosurgical research at Johns Hopkins University.
"On welfare? Sounds to me like the government is raising your kids," I said. That's an awful thing to say. But I still take sneaking pride in that wisecrack.
Outraged, the debtor demanded to speak to my manager. So I transferred her to Rex.
"Hello, this is Rex King," said Rex. "Why, yes, I am Mr. Spencer's manager. Uh huh... I see. Well, ma'am... ma'am? Ma'am! Thank you. Now, before we go any further with this, I just want to say that Mr. Spencer is one the finest men I have ever had the privilege of working with. In fact, I served with his father in the war."
*I learned later that Brian Spencer was Rex's favorite hockey player.
Those of you who noticed that Sunday's list of "Things That Must Be Done Exactly Right" did not include "Always wear condoms with casual sex partners" will not be surprised to learn that I spent two hours and fifteen dollars Monday morning submitting bodily fluids for testing at the Denver Metro Health STD Clinic.
I'm usually quite careful in this regard. But last December... well, the rubbers were in my jacket pocket, and the jacket was in the other room, and the lady was ready and willing, and I'm just a man, after all. She was no blushing virgin, either -- if having unprotected sex is like having sex with all of your partner's partners, then I believe that last December 25 I fucked most of the male population of Adams County.
I like the STD clinic. I mean, I don't really, but I'm trying to keep a positive attitude about this whole thing, and anyway it's nice that there's a place where a guy can wear Old Navy khakis and a polo shirt and be the best-dressed dude in the joint. Also the nurse was cute, although I suppose the STD clinic isn't the best place to cruise for chicks.
"Are you having any symptoms? Sores in the genital area?"
"No."
"Any discharge from your penis?"
"No."
"Burning or pain when you pass urine?"
"No. Wait." Suddenly I realized I was having burning when I urinated. "I guess so."
"For how long?"
"Um... a while. Months, I guess. Maybe a year?"
The nurse looked at me as if I had confessed to receiving unprotected anal sex from 800 men at a Haitian leper colony. "It's been burning for a year and you didn't tell anyone?"
I hung my head. "I guess so."
"Do you have an unusually small opening in your penis?"
How am I supposed to know? "I wouldn't know what to compare it to."
"Drop your pants."
She unwrapped from sterile paper a swab that looked like a tiny toilet brush. "Take a deep breath," she said, and rammed that swab in a Bad Place. I swear I will wear condoms for the rest of my life, even while masturbating, if I never have to have something inserted there again.
The HIV test came back negative. The swab test came back negative. I get syphilis and gonorrhea results back tomorrow, and chlamydia results next Monday, and I am going crazy in the meantime. I will post the results in the sidebar, for those of you keeping score at home. Wish me good luck now and better sense in the future.
Une liaison pornographique (1999)
Starring Nathalie Baye and Sergi López.
Directed by Frédéric Fonteyne.
Kilgore rates it: 6 (out of 10)
IMDb rates it: 7.2 (out of 10)
I only rented this movie because it stars the beautiful French actress Nathalie Baye, who played Leonardo DiCaprio's hot mom in Catch Me if You Can. Mme. Baye turned 51 years old the year she made this film, and I could care fuck-all what you think about that.
Une liaison pornographique is marketed in the US as An Affair of Love, but the French title seems more accurate to me. The plot concerns an unnamed woman and an unnamed man who meet through a sex personals ad, which is somewhat prescient given that... well, never mind about that for now. This being a French movie, He and She talk a lot, and along the way we get to learn about love and sex and relationships and stuff, although mostly I learned that Mme. Baye's body is just as lovely as I had suspected, even if we don't get to see much of it. It's a charming film, though, driven by its sexual tension and its well-defined characters.
Strangely for a French film, though, when the characters finish having sex, they lie rigidly side by side with the sheet down around his waist and pulled tightly up over her breasts. Who does that?
Mystery Men (1999)
Starring Ben Stiller, Hank Azaria, William H. Macy, Janeane Garofalo, Greg Kinnear, Kel Mitchell, Geoffrey Rush, Paul Reubens, Wes Studi, and Claire Forlani.
Directed by Kinka Usher.
Kilgore rates it: 9 (out of 10)
IMDb rates it: 5.8 (out of 10)
This was the third time I watched Mystery Men, and I've liked it better each time I've seen it. This film tells the story of a group of pretend superheroes with idiot "powers": The Shoveller fights with a shovel, The Blue Raja throws forks, Mr. Furious clenches his fists and grunts like a warthog getting a handjob, and The Invisible Boy can turn invisible if nobody is looking, including himself. The story strikes simultaneous chords of goofiness, cleverness, and touching sincerity. Excellent performances here by William H. Macy, Ben Stiller, and a smug Greg Kinnear as Captain Amazing, the real superhero of Champion City. Don't miss the "Bionic Man" sound effect.
The currency in my wallet must be sorted in order by denomination, with the largest bills in the front and the smallest bills in the back. The faces on all bills must be right-side up and facing forward. Cashiers often do not sympathize with my currency-arrangement needs, and hand over bills with the faces backwards and upside-down. Because I don't want to hold up the line while fumbling with my change, this forces me to trundle my purchases a few feet away and then place them on the ground while I put my money in my wallet the correct way. In extreme cases, I might stuff the bills in my pocket in a disgusting wad and arrange them in my wallet when I get to the car. But I try to avoid this.
ATM and debit card receipts must go behind the bills, with the top of the receipt pointing toward the left side of the wallet (with the wallet open and the credit cards facing the observer) and the front of the receipt facing the front of the wallet. In the event that the receipt is too long to fit in the wallet, it must be folded exactly in halves or quarters (not thirds) such that the receipt can be placed in the wallet as described above (that is, it must not be folded so that the printing on the receipt is covered).
Every Sunday night, I deep-fry a package of chicken wings and watch a movie. Half of the wings must be placed in a glass bowl and drenched in soy sauce, and the other half must be placed on a plate and dipped in barbecue sauce (typically KC Masterpiece Hickory Brown Sugar, but the variety is not crucial). A package of chicken wings typically contains 10 drumettes, but in the event that it contains an odd number (such as 9 or 11) of wings, the odd wing must be drenched in soy sauce and not dipped in barbecue sauce.
The dash (--) must not be used more than once in a paragraph, except in the case of a double dash (-- blah blah blah --).
I am not permitted to break out a new pair of Defeet Air-E-Ator running socks until the old pair has developed a visible hole or if I need a new pair for a marathon or ultramarathon. If I do wear a new pair of socks for a race, I must put them away after the race and not wear them for regular running until I've worn out the old pair of socks.
Some of you are rolling your eyes and saying, "Why then, did you start wearing your awesome new Pain Trip Air-E-Ators this weekend after your wore out the Shark Air-E-Ators? You know full well that you wore the Air-E-Ators with the Colorado flags at the race in North Carolina in April, and those socks, having been used, should have been next in line, not the virgin Pain Trips."
I realize that this represents a major break in sock rotation protocol, but I have justified the lapse by reasoning that I only purchased the Colorado Air-E-Ators at the last minute in a blind panic because the Jolly Roger Air-E-Ators I ordered specifically for the North Carolina race did not arrive on time. Had the Jolly Rogers arrived as expected, I would not have purchased the Colorado socks at all, and therefore they do not deserve the same status and consideration as Air-E-Ator styles chosen on their merits and not merely as stop-gap measures.
Sorry for the paucity of posts this week, folks. I moved last weekend and I still haven't hooked up my computer. I should be back posting by Sunday. In the meantime, visit my friends' blogs in the sidebar, or go fuck yourself, whichever is more convenient.
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