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Perfect.

In some cars, the ’skip to the next song’ button is an arrow pointing right, and to the right of the ‘play’ button. Which makes sense for Western civilization, because that’s how we read. Things to the left are things you’ve already read; things to the right are things you’ll be reading soon. Very intuitive for a Westerner like myself.

But other cars–my car, for instance–my Nissan car, imagined and built by Easterners–place the ’skip’ buttons above and below the ‘play’ button. I suppose the metaphor used here is that, if you lay the faceplate down on the ground, the ‘up arrow’ button would be the one farthest away. The ‘down arrow’ button, when the faceplate is laid flat, is the one closest to you, which (being closer to you) metaphorically represents the beginning of the song you’re currently hearing, or the song that just happened. The problem with this metaphor is that I have to think about it sometimes before I actuate the button, because it’s not as intuitive to me as the other arrangement. I mean, there is another equally compelling metaphor for this arrangement that would require the ’skip to the next song’ arrow button to be below the ‘play’ button: gravity.

If Nissan used a gravity metaphor, the ’skip forward’ button would be at the bottom. Because gravity makes things fall. And before a thing falls, it has to be higher than it will be soon. But they don’t do that. They use the ‘lay the faceplate down on the ground’ metaphor. Which I have to think about before I do anything.

So I prefer the horizontal arrangement of skip buttons, because I don’t have to have an East vs West philosophical conversation with myself before I press them. Thank you.

First of all, Eddie clearly remembers picking on the boy, something I don’t recall ever having done. More importantly, he also remembers being hit with a surprise left. Eddie’s implication here is that, if only Jeremy had thrown a punch with his right hand, he’d have been ready for it. Haymaker, roundhouse, uppercut, jab, iron kite, sopwith meatgrinder, it wouldn’t have mattered: he would have been ready. The sole reason the blow connected was that it didn’t come from Jeremy’s dominant side.

Now, if it had been my jaw that was hit, it wouldn’t matter which fist the boy struck me with. They would both have been equally surprising. And the result–my being laid out like a Sunday dress on a Saturday night–would have been identical.

Eddie Vedder and I are clearly different kinds of people.

I was outside a minute ago, watching the moon. Gibbous, almost full. Awesome. But what an idiot.

It does the same thing over and over again. It’s one stately dude. Obeys all laws. Big as all get out. But, snoresville, right? Same as the stars and the sun. I mean, I understand why the Egyptians and everybody else venerated them. It goes without saying that a God is someone who knows how to be huge and punctual. Everybody likes a punctual God. Is it just me, though, or is the whole punctual thing a bit overwrought? Is the whole predictability thing a tad tiresome?

The Moon’s spouse: “Rice Krispies? Again? How about a nice raisin bagel?”

The Moon: “No; no. Rice Krispies please. I think Rice Krispies would be just right. I like the way they snap.”

Maybe if shamans had been slightly more on the ball five thousand years ago we would just now be getting over the idea that the moon, the stars and the sun were frightful idiots. I wonder if things would be better now.

Probably not.

From divisibleby0.com: How to Turn Your Car Into an Unstoppable Murder Machine

Step 3:

As news has reared its ugly head recently, putinesque, one begins to realize we are living in interesting times. I’ve noticed that magazines and newspapers can’t keep up with the pace.  It’s one flaming brown sack of shit left on our stoop after another. Reading this week’s New Yorker is almost comical, insofar as they’re three sacks of shit behind in their reportage, and fading fast. The newspaper isn’t doing much better. Hell, the net can barely keep up; what chances do papers and magazines have?

And so, my friends, I’ve been searching desperately for calmer waters, where I can spend a little time in respite from the turmoil and strife of daily life; somewhere that I can recharge in order to face the next hour or half hour of gigantic, scary change. And I’ve found it. I’ve found it in Fred Thompson’s forehead.

Here is the picture that led me to peace:

Fred Thompson

Not very impressive, you say? Just some Republican/movie star hack who rose beyond his level of incompetence? Well, you’d be right, but you’re not looking at the big picture. Or rather, you’re not looking at a small part of the big picture that you should be looking at, viz:

Fred's head

The magnificence should be coming into view, but let me direct your attention closer:

Like ripples on a still, deep pond

And even closer:

Fred's rippling forehead

And now, a quick pull back, like that one tulip film that pulls back to show shocking thousands of tulips, to blow your mind and calm your fears:

Fredlines, peace be upon you and yours

When all seems hopeless, and misery and fear lurk in every shadow, Fredlines will be here for you. Good night.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve gone from someone who treated boxers as alien ‘fogey-wear’ to someone who wore them when all his briefs were in the washer to someone who will ransack his dresser drawers to find a pair to avoid having to wear something else.

I’m a boxers guy now. There! I said it! It’s good to finally come out of the closet.

panel 1: Man at desk, poring over book with a look of grim determination. Other books are stacked and scattered on the desktop.

panel 2: With air of finality, man slams book shut with both hands. Relief and hard-won wisdom are etched on his face. He says “There! It’s done!”

panel 3: Man leans back in seat, talking over his shoulder to another student at another desk who glances up briefly from his own studies to hear ”I can now say ‘go fuck yourself’ in six different languages.”

We’ve had a subscription to The New Yorker for about four months now. I guess I got tired of having to wait until I had to use the facilities in other people’s houses to read it. I mainly got tired of spending a suspicious amount of time in other people’s bathrooms, time that other people might imagine is being put to other uses. You know how people who aren’t me are! And it turns out that the magazines are incredibly cheap if you get the mailman to bring them to you.

But there’s one other thing I’ve noticed about The New Yorker: it just keeps coming. Every other day, it seems, there’s a new one squatting in my mailbox with the flyers and the bills. Did I have time to read the last one? I did not. Am I falling farther behind? I am. It’s gotten so bad that I haven’t even managed to look at the comics for the last two issues. That, ladies and gentlemen, is bad. And I see it only getting worse, unless I remember to bring an issue or five with me on plane trips in order to catch up.

Life was easier when The New Yorker happened only in other people’s bathrooms.

Earliest American Scat Found

The earliest-known fossilized feces was found recently in Oregon, placing humans on the American continents 1000 years earlier than previously believed. What do you think?

Sarah Fripp,
Systems Analyst
“I like to think that in thousands of years somebody is going to be looking at my poop.”

Sarah, we’d all like to think that. Or maybe just me.

“Drinkability,” as a rating of a beer, has to be among the most egregious bullshit terms ever devised by man. Drinkability. Drinkability. In a peer-reviewed paper (a peer-reviewed paper), drinkability is defined as “A beer that … invites the drinker to another glass.” Stop. Right. There. STOP. Stop, stop, stop. Right. There.

Drinkability is the category a brewer uses to hype his brew when every other category one can use has failed him:

“The customers think our beer tastes like gravel. They say it tastes like watered-down gravel.”

“That’s one of the categories?”

“No, that’s just the write-in votes.”

“Have you asked about wetness? Or fizziness? Or foofarallitude? How does our beer do on foofarallitude?”

“It’s not looking good, sir.”

“Hmm. Have you asked them about its drinkability?”

“Not yet. What’s that?”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what it is, just ask them about it. They’re going to get tired sooner or later.”

“Okay. How do you want me to spell that?”

I hate people.

I’m hanging out in this apartment in Miami again, whiling away the time sitting in a chair on the balcony gazing down 15 floors to the beach and street below. Cars going by, boats in the water. Then I see a wheeze of geezers across the way, next to a tennis court, playing some game on a long rectangular strip of astroturf, dressed in sweat pants and parkas. It must be down to 68 degrees outside. They take turns rolling balls down the rectangle. It’s an almost motionless game which I’m going to call “lawn bowling” even if it’s not. Ball rolls, six geezers watch it roll to a stop, different ball rolls, six geezers watch it roll to a stop. I watch it for a few minutes, idly absorbing possible rules of play.

After the 14th or 15th ball rolls down the rectangle, I find myself inexplicably saying “nice shot.”

I was watching an episode of “Guess Who Married Your Mother?” or “I Married Your Mother?” or “Guess I Totally Bagged Your Mother!” a few minutes ago in the kitchen of this place in Miami I hang out in. The show was doing what all these shows do from time to time, which is to trot out an ex-star and have the “real people” played by the regular actors moon over him like he was the second coming of Christ Almighty. Or her, waltzing in as Mary. But in this case it was Patrick Swayze, so the Christ metaphor is probably the one to go with. Anyhow, it was one of those “Don’t look now, but PATRICK SWAYZE is sitting at the table right behind you.” “PATRICK SWAYZE? RIGHT BEHIND ME? [looks, swoons]“

The regular actors on this show play people who I assume are in their mid to late twenties. I play a person who is in his mid forties; I barely remember who Patrick Swayze is. I’m not sure I could pick him out of a police lineup unless he actually was the shit who knocked me down and took my wallet half an hour beforehand. The man flash-danced twenty years ago. Or danced dirtily, whatever. Since then he’s been in a string of piddly-ass movies. Or has had piddly-ass parts in slightly more than piddly-ass movies. The point is that the generation blankers on this show can’t POSSIBLY really know who he is, let alone adore him enough to suck his cock. But there they go.

Remember when Carroll O’Connor sucked Sammy Davis, Jr’s cock on “All in the Family?” Or when Gary Coleman sucked Nancy Reagan’s cock on “Diff’rent Strokes?” Sure you do. Is this a contractual thing? Or is it just somebody on the show asking for a favor, or (more likely) doing a favor for one of their old heroes who’s fallen on hard times? It’s probably that. That’s what it probably is.

I don’t mind favors being done for friends. Of course that’s a good thing. But when they’re not my friends, when it happens so publicly, when the favor involves me in the transaction somehow, then I start minding it. There should be a warning scroll during the show, to allow me time to change channels before I’m compelled to see things untoward: “Patrick Swayze’s cock sucked in the following episode, viewer discretion advised.” That sort of thing.

panel 1: man and dog outside, man bending over to pet dog.

panel 2: man and dog standing there looking at each other.

panel 3: same as panel 2, but man says: “That being said, go shit in someone else’s yard.”

I’d never seen the show until it was on the inflight screens on a New Orleans-Miami leg last night. I happened to have some earbuds with me, so I tapped into the sound. Abomination! An all-around abomination! The acting, the directing, the writing–especially the writing–all designed to infuse me with hatred for those associated with this show. And by extension, all mankind.

The show is filled with so many cliches; so many cliches. The wise father who can be an idiot about the small things but knows the big picture; the wiser wife; friends and family, all wise in their own ways; the wise dog; and the single unwise, un-self aware antagonist lurching through the show that the others all will make wise in time.

From what depths of cynicism did this thing come? Because the writers, the producers, everyone, all had to be deeply cynical to allow this thing to waft over the airways. “Let’s make a Christian show,” they said. “Let’s make a Christian show that the people who write in complaining about real shows will watch.” So they called in their hacks and desperate has-beens and this thing, this rough beast, slouched toward Hollywood to be born.

The child actors! Make them sound like miniature adults, with miniature complex relationships with their miniature pals! And let there be huge, awkward spaces of silence when characters read the spines of books or gaze off into the middle distance as other characters leave and enter scenes! And let the bridges between awkward gaps be filled with soft little lighthearted jokes about milk! Yes, let that happen! And give some real people some lines, too, so that the painfully embarrassing shortcomings of the show can be refocused on them. And make them retarded! Christians love that!

I have this colossal hatred for 7th Heaven.

There’s a sign at around mile marker 1 or 2 going West on I-10 in Mississippi just prior to Louisiana that says “Welcome Center Closed for Reconstruction.”

I mean, shit! That’s over 140 years! I wonder what the hold-up is!

(Unfortunately it doesn’t say that it’s a Mississippi welcome center, else it would make a great picture. It still makes me laugh when I pass it, though.)

My letter-writing campaign to the various cartooning syndicates and independents urging more cartoons about visits to breweries has started to pay off:

This is one of my favorite memes to come along in a long time. It’s getting kind of long in the tooth as memes go, but I like it anyway. One can tell a meme is a good one when one can use it for one’s own nefarious ends.

“Now with 30% more fail!”