February 7th, 2003

flavored with age

What I learned yesterday

1. Phil Spector possibly shot the star of "Barbarian Queen II: The Empress Strikes Back" in the face.

2. Michael Jackson calls his son "Blanket".

3. MC Hammer considers himself a professional crapper.

With all this amazing news, it's easy to forget that we have an exciting war or two coming up!
flavored with age

Lifting the dead

A company in Portland, OR has just introduced an ambulance designed to carry people who weigh between 350 and 1000 pounds.

In an interview on NPR’s “All Things Considered” yesterday, a company spokesman said demand for this sort of service has been steadily increasing, and that the ambulance goes on at least one call per day, including routine visits to the city’s only 700-pound man.

Any relationship between this entry and my previous entry regarding the Pizza Hut Ring of Gold Cheddar-Baked Stuffed Crust Pizza is entirely coincidental.
flavored with age

I almost forgot, or rather drove it from my memory

I also received photographic evidence this week that professionally unpleasant person Courtney Love is an anus-bleacher.

You know, I used to try to give Courtney the benefit of the doubt. I tried to pretend that she wasn't an opportunistic, overbearing white-trash junkie that any sane man would kill himself rather than spend one more minute with. Even after the damning "Kurt and Courtney", where the 'caine-stoked former stripper came across as a delightfully repulsive blend of high-falutin, arrogant movie star and pointlessly provocative, low-rent rock star, I really, really tried not to hate her, because it's so cliched to call her the new Yoko or any of the other hoary, vaguely misogynist cavils that are directed against her.

But you know what? Someone's got to be the clown. Someone has to serve as the punching bag for any movement. Someone has to be the living stereotype. And, damn it, she'd probably be disappointed if people like me didn't revile her. She is to rock music what Andrea Dworkin is to feminism, what Al Sharpton is to social activism, what Norman Mailer is to literature. Who am I to deny her that role?

Boy, today is a lite-content day, isn't it. Sorry about that.
flavored with age

Speaking of lite content

I have heard it said, and believed it, that there is nothing more boring than hearing someone else describe their dreams. So, I will now describe last night's sojourn in Dreamland, and leave it to you to judge whether or not this is the most boring entry of all time.

Note: identities of primary characters in these dreams have been concealed in case they read this journal.

DREAM #1: I dreamed that I went to visit a woman of my acquaintance, and she made a rather flagrant pass at me. Things happened, blah blah blah, and the next thing you know we were going at it like two people would go at it in the dreams of a fat loser with no girlfriend. She was very accomodating and open sexually -- downright fiery, in fact, but she would NOT SHUT UP. She talked non-stop, often about inconsequential things, and at one point took a phone call. From a telemarketer.

POSSIBLE INTERPRETATION OF DREAM #1: I desperately need to get laid.

DREAM #2: Massive layoffs at my place of employment took place in a single day. A prominent employee was handed his walking papers in the office right across from mine. Upon hearing the news, he bravely said a fond farewell to all of us, and shook my hand warmly. Then he came back and started shooting people.

POSSIBLE INTERPRETATIONS OF DREAM #2: Sublimated fears of Iraq war, terrorism, Korean nuclear horror; possible fear that this individual actually might shoot up the place someday.

DREAM #3: A male friend of mine and I became lost in the desert and wandered around for days, being spied upon by hostile Indians. We were totally unable to find our way, or even to locate signs of civilization that might lead to our rescue. The entire time, we carried on irritating, faux-hip sitcom-level banter with one another. Eventually we just shut up and quietly loathed each other. There probably would have been a fistfight if the dream had gone on longer.

POSSIBLE INTERPRETATION OF DREAM #3: My subconscious mind has been inexplicably influenced by a recent viewing of the trailer for the upcoming Gus van Sant movie "Gerry", in which two morons with the same name get lost in the desert and trade quips.
flavored with age

It's ovah!

For those interested, the first Iron Scribe Challenge has just finished. Congratulations to Kim for edging the competition! Visit her site, folks; she is, after all, officially the World's Greatest Living Writer, at least for a week.

Also, if anyone else wants to participate in this, just give me a say-so. The whore, the hairier!
flavored with age

Pe tit ion

My pal Conklin (inventor, with me, of the Pierce-Conklin Humor Weighting system and widely acknowledged to be the funniest man on Earth) sent me a list of Onionesque 'news' bits about the Colombia disaster. They were vile, of course, but they were screamingly hilarious, of course. At first I felt guilty about laughing so hard at them but after a while, my comedy-fascist nature kicked in and I just said "fuck it" and laughed without guilt.

The problem is, Conklin has no website, and thus I am condemned to reading his insanely funny writing on a far too infrequent basis. Websites are still free and plentiful, despite the dot-collapse, as the fact that a cheap bastard like me has like six of them indicates. And sure, he's lazy, but no more so than most of my other dope-sotten lumpenproletariat writer friends.

So how can I force him to get a website? There must be something. Something. He has no shame, so there's that. Maybe, since he's a government employee, I could threaten to rat him out if he doesn't entertain me on a more regular basis. Any ideas?