I like to poke fun at Germans. I got really excited when I heard the hidden track on NOFX's most recent album, called "Insulted by Germans Again," The chorus goes, "Germans love to insult me/the whole country condescends/we call it arrogance/they call it making friends." Condescending Germans are hilarious. Anyway, Kerry sent me this Reuters story about a German guy who inadvertantly flew to Sydney, Montana while attempting to visit his girlfriend in Australia. The article is mildy amusing, especially given the German reputation for being efficient and meticulous (the kid does find it odd that he would travel to Australia via the US), but I was interested by what the author left out.
As everyone knows, everything in Australia is the reverse of what it is in the rest of the world. Its fish breathe air, its men have boobs and its summer lasts from December to February. The author subtly illustrates these differences by detailing the kid's traveling attire:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt and shorts, Tobi Gutt left Germany on Saturday for a four-week holiday."
It's obvious to me where the editor's redlines fell, because that passage should have read:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt, shorts, socks and sandals..."
--The Robo-Pirate
Friday, December 29, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
NorCal, the westernmost province of Redneckistan.
The short of it: went to a bar in my hometown with another hometown expat who lives in San Francisco. Came to the conclusion, in conjunction with evidence observed yesterday, that Northern California is at times just about as country as North Texas is. Thus, for the time being, I will be referring to the place in which I grew up as South Carolodi. Or maybe Lodisiana? I dunno. Pick your favorite. Slowdi is easier to say, but it doesn't convey the same sense of jerkoffs roaring past you in jacked-up F-250s. I mean seriously, it's the same NASCAR hats, same Calvin-pissing-on-whatever stickers, same same tacky goatees. If not for the weather and the scenery, I'd swear I never left cowtown.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Dear God, I hope You're not just making this up as You go along.
After spending a wonderful Christmas morning with my family, I got around to reading my friend's blog. I hadn't been by in a while, and when I ran across the post linked here, I teared up. Fallen soldiers are tragic enough, but when casualities are personified beyond the dreary statistics of a headline, the emotional impact is always heavier.
Our military has suffered nearly 3,000 deaths. On an intellectual level, I understand that dying is an occupational hazard one assumes upon choosing to be a soldier. But that doesn't make stories like the one above any less heartbreaking.
Of course, I want this heartbreak to weigh upon the men who started this war with the same totality as the families of every person killed in battle. And maybe it does. Maybe I'm just sad, angry and presumptuous. Maybe I'm making unfair assumptions about our leaders. After all, what do I know about sacrifice, railing at them from the safety of a suburban home? What do I know about the pressures and guilt of running a country in time of war? How dare I presume to know the heart of men who send others to give their lives for their country? Well, President Bush, I guess I have to give you a pass, because I can't read your mind or hear your heart. But God can. I hope you and He are cool about all this.
And what of that, anyway? Given Bush's public proclamations of faith, I wonder what it is that he and God are actually talking about every morning. I hope he isn't asking for wisdom, because if he is, God doesn't seem to be listening. When I started this post, I was filled with righteous indignation, excited at the prospect of declaring "fuck you, President Bush" in big, bolded, angry capital letters. Now I am just sad and even a little frightened. If the President, whose faith is apparently embedded in his character, can't get an open channel, what hope have we who have lapsed into cynicism and doubt?
Maybe he isn't asking God for wisdom. Maybe he's asking for, I dunno, catfish filets or a cure for hiccups or something. I kinda hope that's the case, because I still like to think that God is a pragmatic being. I expect to get denied when I pray for two aces on a split pair of tens. However, wisdom in times of crisis is a very reasonable request, and I don't think God should be silent when His children come looking for some. I can handle it if this disastrous war is a function of Bush's praying for the wrong things. I am ill at ease, however, if he is praying for an end and God is saying no.
Then again, maybe God is counciling President Bush on the direction of the war. If that's the case, then the universe is way more existential than I am comfortable with.
Sorry to bum anybody out. Appreciate the moments with your family and friends, for God doesn't have a rhyme or reason that makes any sense. Life may turn according to His plan, but that doesn't make it any easier.
--Steve
Our military has suffered nearly 3,000 deaths. On an intellectual level, I understand that dying is an occupational hazard one assumes upon choosing to be a soldier. But that doesn't make stories like the one above any less heartbreaking.
Of course, I want this heartbreak to weigh upon the men who started this war with the same totality as the families of every person killed in battle. And maybe it does. Maybe I'm just sad, angry and presumptuous. Maybe I'm making unfair assumptions about our leaders. After all, what do I know about sacrifice, railing at them from the safety of a suburban home? What do I know about the pressures and guilt of running a country in time of war? How dare I presume to know the heart of men who send others to give their lives for their country? Well, President Bush, I guess I have to give you a pass, because I can't read your mind or hear your heart. But God can. I hope you and He are cool about all this.
And what of that, anyway? Given Bush's public proclamations of faith, I wonder what it is that he and God are actually talking about every morning. I hope he isn't asking for wisdom, because if he is, God doesn't seem to be listening. When I started this post, I was filled with righteous indignation, excited at the prospect of declaring "fuck you, President Bush" in big, bolded, angry capital letters. Now I am just sad and even a little frightened. If the President, whose faith is apparently embedded in his character, can't get an open channel, what hope have we who have lapsed into cynicism and doubt?
Maybe he isn't asking God for wisdom. Maybe he's asking for, I dunno, catfish filets or a cure for hiccups or something. I kinda hope that's the case, because I still like to think that God is a pragmatic being. I expect to get denied when I pray for two aces on a split pair of tens. However, wisdom in times of crisis is a very reasonable request, and I don't think God should be silent when His children come looking for some. I can handle it if this disastrous war is a function of Bush's praying for the wrong things. I am ill at ease, however, if he is praying for an end and God is saying no.
Then again, maybe God is counciling President Bush on the direction of the war. If that's the case, then the universe is way more existential than I am comfortable with.
Sorry to bum anybody out. Appreciate the moments with your family and friends, for God doesn't have a rhyme or reason that makes any sense. Life may turn according to His plan, but that doesn't make it any easier.
--Steve
Feliz navidad!
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and R.I.P., James Brown! Show those stuffy angels what soul really means!
--The Robo-Pirate
--The Robo-Pirate
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The end of my Wooderson phase. Funny pictures and title tags included!
I've been growing beards on and off for the past few years. Once they start to approach gnarly status, I try to trim them, fuck them up and then shave them off. I grow beards partly because I continue to get fatter; beards are good for several things, but they are really good at distracting people from added poundage. In fact, it's possible that Vikings and wizards grew gnarly beards because they were self-conscious about double-chins. Another reason why I grow beards is that they are totally awesome.
Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.
Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.
Here's why:
Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.
The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.
So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."
"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.
Scenario 1:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."
Scenario 2:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"
Scenario 3:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."
"What do you mean just grown it?"
"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."
Scenario 4:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."
Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.
Guess I'll get started on the next one.
--The Robo-Pirate
Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.
Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.
Here's why:
Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.
The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.
So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."
"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.
Scenario 1:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."
Scenario 2:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"
Scenario 3:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."
"What do you mean just grown it?"
"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."
Scenario 4:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."
Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.
Guess I'll get started on the next one.
--The Robo-Pirate
Look, a post! In half-assed list format!
A List of Super-Rare Wishlist Items That You Probably Won't Get No Matter How Good You Are
1. Enriched uranium
2. Dilithium crystals
3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)
4. Clemency
5. Liver transplant
6. Cop when you need one
7. Chance to do college over
8. Wisecracking pet griffin
9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker
10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots
11. Invulnerability
12. Wings that work
13. Bill Waterson's return
14. Dino DNA!
15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son
16. A way out of this crappy deal memo
17. A "yes" answer to your prayer
18. For uppity rock critic to like your band
19. Indiana Jones IV
20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.
--The Robo-Pirate
1. Enriched uranium
2. Dilithium crystals
3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)
4. Clemency
5. Liver transplant
6. Cop when you need one
7. Chance to do college over
8. Wisecracking pet griffin
9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker
10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots
11. Invulnerability
12. Wings that work
13. Bill Waterson's return
14. Dino DNA!
15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son
16. A way out of this crappy deal memo
17. A "yes" answer to your prayer
18. For uppity rock critic to like your band
19. Indiana Jones IV
20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The stirrup pants of the '00s
Dear women who insist on wearing gauchos,
In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.
You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.
I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.
Sincerely,
The Robo-Pirate
In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.
You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.
I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.
Sincerely,
The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Pauly Shore gets punched out by a redneck in Lubbock.
| Sorry, Pauly, but for once, I'm siding with the redneck. That's what you get for getting Drama kicked out the the Mansion. | |
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Making people on relatively flat expanses of concrete nervous.
Here's a picture of my longboard. You know, in case you're interested. I just like over-using the one piece of html code I know.
--The Robo-Pirate.
--The Robo-Pirate.
A long, boring post about writing comic books. Toward the end, I mention my new skateboard.
I've been very slowly working on my comic book. I used to get annoyed when people said, "Gosh, there just aren't enough hours in the day!" but it turns out it's totally true. This is my third attempt at making sequential art. My first was an original hybrid of Ninja High School and Captain Harlock. I made it in 9th or 10th grade, back when I was obsessed with anime. At the time, you couldn't find it everywhere, so I was limited to the available (and mostly Americanized) manga The Comic Grapevine had in the back shelves. I thought my little three-page story was hilarious back then; it's amusing now because I unwittingly aped most of the same techniques I saw in stuff like Macross and Ranma 1/2. Since Ranma 1/2 occasionally showed boobs, I kept these hidden under junk on a top shelf in my closet. If you were a normal, non-nerdy kid, this is probably similar to where you hid old Playboys. I haven't really thought about that little comic (drawn on typing paper with this runny, expensive roller-ball pen) in a long time until I got into writing the one I'm stuck in now.
Prior to getting off my ass and starting, I read four books about Sequential Art (comics). Two were about writing, one by Denny O'Neil, who wrote and edited various DC titles for millions of years, and the other by Peter David, known to me for his lengthy stint on The Incredible Hulk. I'm partial to this last one because Peter David was mostly a Marvel guy and I'm kind of loyal to that pantheon. Anyway, those were helpful to me in terms of learning how to pace and work in subplots--if you've ever read a How-To-Write-a-Screenplay book, they're pretty similar.
The other two books, however, were a little more esoteric. Written by Scott McCloud, they deal more with the theory behind Sequential Art. While Making Comics focuses more on the craft and is therefore similar to the O'Neil and David books, Understanding Comics is a heady dissertation about what makes comics tick. What's really great is that McCloud writes them in comic-book form.
What I've found out, though, is that now I've almost over-educated to the point of uselessness (you'd think I'd learned my lesson about this already, but whatever). Back in 9th grade, I just told a story. I drew pictures, filled in balloons and channeled my imagination onto 8 1/2 X 11 sheets. It was a lot easier before I knew about things like pacing, decompressed stories and how not to ruin a climax with a talkative ending.
Frankly, it is fucking hard. I imagine this is what learning to walk on two prosthetic legs might be like. Well, that's probably waaaaay harder, but you know what I mean.
In On Writing, Stephen King reiterates that telling the story is the most imperative and important matter when you sit down to write; editing and tightening are what second and third drafts are for. So I try to keep this in mind. And in all fairness to my grownup self, nerdy 14 year old had the advantage of things like Legos and free room and board and actively using his brain on a daily basis. I guess I have to do my best to approximate that context.
Yeah, I know. First post in a week, and it's pretty boring. Well, my friend put together a longboard for me last week, and that's kind of exciting. I've been diligently practicing frontside turns over super-steep 7-degree angles in my apartment parking lot. Yes, I know that's wimpy--I'm old and inflexible, okay? If you're lucky, maybe I'll have pictures. Hopefully not of a trip to the hospital.
--The Robo-Pirate
Prior to getting off my ass and starting, I read four books about Sequential Art (comics). Two were about writing, one by Denny O'Neil, who wrote and edited various DC titles for millions of years, and the other by Peter David, known to me for his lengthy stint on The Incredible Hulk. I'm partial to this last one because Peter David was mostly a Marvel guy and I'm kind of loyal to that pantheon. Anyway, those were helpful to me in terms of learning how to pace and work in subplots--if you've ever read a How-To-Write-a-Screenplay book, they're pretty similar.
The other two books, however, were a little more esoteric. Written by Scott McCloud, they deal more with the theory behind Sequential Art. While Making Comics focuses more on the craft and is therefore similar to the O'Neil and David books, Understanding Comics is a heady dissertation about what makes comics tick. What's really great is that McCloud writes them in comic-book form.
What I've found out, though, is that now I've almost over-educated to the point of uselessness (you'd think I'd learned my lesson about this already, but whatever). Back in 9th grade, I just told a story. I drew pictures, filled in balloons and channeled my imagination onto 8 1/2 X 11 sheets. It was a lot easier before I knew about things like pacing, decompressed stories and how not to ruin a climax with a talkative ending.
Frankly, it is fucking hard. I imagine this is what learning to walk on two prosthetic legs might be like. Well, that's probably waaaaay harder, but you know what I mean.
In On Writing, Stephen King reiterates that telling the story is the most imperative and important matter when you sit down to write; editing and tightening are what second and third drafts are for. So I try to keep this in mind. And in all fairness to my grownup self, nerdy 14 year old had the advantage of things like Legos and free room and board and actively using his brain on a daily basis. I guess I have to do my best to approximate that context.
Yeah, I know. First post in a week, and it's pretty boring. Well, my friend put together a longboard for me last week, and that's kind of exciting. I've been diligently practicing frontside turns over super-steep 7-degree angles in my apartment parking lot. Yes, I know that's wimpy--I'm old and inflexible, okay? If you're lucky, maybe I'll have pictures. Hopefully not of a trip to the hospital.
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, November 30, 2006
The Frost Giant's Daughter
I'm apologizing in advance, because this post is pretty much a repeat of the one last year about how people can’t drive when it’s cold. Not surprisingly, I really can't complain enough. Why is it that in this dumb town, whenever the weather is rumored to freeze, people completely lose their abilities to make rational decisions when sitting near the wheel of a car? Last night, I went over to watch a movie with Kerry (funnily enough, it was An Inconvenient Truth). He lives about five minutes away, and that's if the lights are bad. But last night, the traffic idiocy was such that my trip took fifteen fucking minutes--all because the mercury dropped down to 45 degrees. Every four-way stop featured retarded jackoffs simultaneously barreling into the intersections as if right-of-way rules have never existed. Imagine a bunch of near-sighted old people on acid driving bumper cars, and this is a little bit like what happens here every goddamn winter. I'm not saying I am the best driver, and frankly, I am terrified of driving on ice, but at least I error on the side of caution. These other assholes, though... it's like they forget/ignore all prior knowledge and experience of physics, traffic decorum and common sense.
I wish I lived in Hawaii.
--The Robo-Pirate
I wish I lived in Hawaii.
--The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Ulysses
I should write about Darth Vato's trip to Austin. So here's the short of it.
The tread ripped off a tire near Itasca. We changed it, and made it to Austin in time for Kerry to buy a Les Paul at a vintage shop. We ate Cuban food. We played at Headhunters. It was a good show. We went back to motel, and the next day, Kerry took the Grampus to get new tires. He found out it needs about $1100 worth of repairs. Then we drove home. Someone parked their truck in the space where the trailer goes. I wrote him a snooty note. He moved his car. The End.
Actually, that's the long of it. Here's how it went. We got a flat and fixed it. Kerry bought a guitar. The show was good.
But here's what I'd rather write about: all the scattered thoughts/songs/pictures that cycled through my head today.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse"
This is a crappy NOFX song off 46 or 47 Songs That Weren't Good Enough for Our Other Albums. Though I'd like to, I can't actually listen to it, because it's on my broken iPod, and my computer here at work has a broken headphone jack. Thus, one single half-line continues to bounce around my head indefinitely.
"The Space Jockey"
This is the weird fossilized alien thing in the spaceship where Kane found the xenomorph eggs in Alien. It's gross and thinking about it gives me the willies. And I can't not ponder it. Why is it fused to that weird turntable/telescope thing?
"Busey and the Beach"
I watched this episode of Entourage last night. It's the one where Turtle knocks over this ridiculous sculpture of Gary Busey's. Then later, there's this party in Malibu thrown by that eel Josh Weinstien, and Busy later pours a bucket of water on Turtle's head. He also tells Ari, "you're a gut maggot, without any guts." Ari goes, "you're going to spin right off this planet, Gary." This episode has a lot of good lines in it, and Busey is so fucking weird, which makes it one of my favorites. Also, Monica Keena looks swollen.
"IO"
This has to do with work. It's boring.
"So tell me, Luke... What's a Friday night like in Fantasy Land for you? Do you meet up with the Care Bears and cruise around in that cloud car?"
This is a line from the comic I'm working on. I don't think it works very well, but I like it and can't seem to part with it. It's just really cumbersome. But not "Cumbersome," because then it would be completely terrible and a relic from 1994.
"Doritos"
This is a new Darth Vato song I've been working on this song for over a month. It's about being how pathetic and depressing life is when one just sits at home alone smoking pot. I'm having trouble with the second verse. Since I don't sing, my melodies always always sound half-baked. It's actually a pretty moronic song, which is par for the course of Darth Vato.
"How much I hate phones"
I hate them. A lot. Especially when they are ringing or other people are using them. This corresponds with how....
"I hope I get to be self-employed someday"
I have a really hard time tuning things out and focusing, and I feel like it makes my performance at work suffer. But why should I be the "special needs" employee? Just because I get bothered by other people's meetings and phone calls doesn't mean I should be allowed to separate myself. But I really do bristle whenever someone is on the phone longer than necessary. You become painfully aware of everyone's verbal tics when you hear them several times a day for extensive periods of times. I recently read this book about an austisic teenager called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. In that book, he talks about how he becomes overwhelmed by everyone's voices, and I can totally relate to this.
"The Asteroid"
Apparently, there is an asteroid that has a 1 in 50,000 chance of hitting the Earth in like 2029. That's a pretty good chance--better than winning the lottery or even that stupid Chili's Guest Satisfaction Survey. NASA is trying to come up with a plan, and not surprisingly, one of the plans involves landing an astronaut on the asteroid and somehow causing it to change its trajectory like three degrees or something. This is all based upon what Kerry told me; I tried to watch it on CNN.com, but what the idiot reporter lady wanted to talk about was how she imagined Bruce Willis might be interested or something. I don't know, because I quit watching. It really pissed me off. Here, I wanted some information, and all this fucking bitch could do was be a fucking moron. If I wanted this kind of fluff, I'd hit myself in the head with a brick and get my news from E! Online. All of this has made me consider that:
"CNN is fucking useless to me."
I don't want to watch a video that has a 20 second ad tacked to the front of it. It's part of why I like to read things. Thanks for not helping me out, CNN. Maybe you can get together with Apple and make more iPods that quit working.
"Would I rather be a dolphin or a dog?"
This is a tough call. Domesticated dogs have it pretty sweet. Everything is exciting for a dog, and nothing seems to rival dogs in experiencing pure joy. However, dolphins are highly intelligent. And I love being underwater. And they team up and beat the shit out of sharks. Still a toss up.
"Is 'Luke or Han?' an appropriate question for a dude to ask a girl on a first date?"
Probably not. But it should be.
"But anyway, what if he askes and she says, 'Luke'?"
Then you should never call her again. Any girl who would pick Luke over Han is probably prone to melodrama. And if you're a dude who hopes that she'll say Luke because you're a nice guy and Luke's a nice guy, well, we know how nice guys finish.
"I hope our show at Fitz's is good on Thursday."
Indeed. Darth Vato is playing at Fitzgerald's again on Thanksgiving night in the first slot. Hopefully this turns out well. Hopefully I have shit enough before hand so as not to feel bloated and tired.
"How'd I get so far into debt?"
Rhetorical question.
"How'd I get this fat?"
Again. Pointless to ask. Beer, pretty much.
"Why does working out suck?"
Because I'm out of shape. And it's hard.
"Why does my brother like Avenged Sevenfold?"
It's embarrassing.
"What if I had gotten good grades in college?"
Then I'd probably have the stress of a more successful job.
"Will I ever get my tattoo finished?"
Only time will tell. Gayest self-answer ever. Which really means, "probably never."
"Does my failure to anticipate the plot twists of the current Astonishing X-Men story arc mean that I am not as perceptive as I think I am?"
This probably will leave most people scratching their heads. I include this because I often question my own perceived intelligence, especially when I miss the hints to major plot revelations in movies and books. For instance, in hindsight, the end of the Sixth Sense was totally obvious, yet I was among the many who was totally surprised. I did pick up on Amanda's impending doom in Saw III, but the clues weren't exactly subtle. As for the comic mentioned above, understanding it required a lot of research on preceding backstory. Basically, this malevolent psychic entity called Cassandra Nova has caused a bunch of illusions, in the process incapacitating the X-Men one by one. Her goal is to use one of them to transfer her essence from this blob into--you know what? Who fucking cares? I read this title because Joss Whedon's dialogue is the best, not because the plots make any sense..
"Maybe I should work on my comic book."
But when would I drink and sleep? I guess during work.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse."
See? Still there.
"What's the difference between Monet and Manet?"
You'd think I'd have learned this in college, but the fact is, I really didn't learn much of anything in college.
"Flights are expensive."
"I hate the Dallas Cowboys."
"I hate that Dallas Cowboy fans quote Larry the Cable Guy."
"I hate 1310 The Ticket."
"I hate the Colts for losing to the Cowboys."
"I hate that I ever think about football, even for two seconds."
"Having a band that can't tour constantly is kind a of a bummer."
I've been thinking about this one for three years. Oh sure, we go out of town a couple times a month on average, but never for more than a weekend. If you want to make music your life, your biggest obstacle will be debt. It's amazing how cheaply one can live if one does not have to pay on student loans, credit cards or vehicle notes. When I worked at Chili's, I made around $10/hr, which basically worked out to $1600 a month. My current rent and utilities, in the most expensive and nicest apartment I've lived in, are under $700 per month. When I examine the choices I have made over the years, the only ones I regret are the ones that were the most expensive. Dumb dumb dumb. And what's funny is that I have never used my degrees for anything.
"This one Garfield strip."
I know. It's not cool to like Garfield, and I'm not really a fan anymore, but there is one strip where Garfield leaps at Jon's cheeseburger, and Jon says "Stop right there." And Garfield is left suspended in mid-air, his mouth crossed in an X of perplexion. Jon says, "Sometimes that's all a cat ever understands." This always killed me when I was a kid, and it still makes me smile. I like it because it shows how every cartoon, even a hack-job like Garfield, indulges in absurdities that don't translate nearly as well in other media. And there's also the implication that a cat understands anything. Or rather, obeys anything. I love cats, but c'mon, it's their world. We just live in it. They are the embodiment of aloofness.
No One Wants to Play Sega with Harrison Ford
Brandon Bird is one of my favorite artists, and this is one of my favorite paintings. Though it's easy to get burned out on pop culture tweaks, his are always surreal, wry, and spot-on.
"Science Friction."
Though this is probably also the name of a porno, it's also the name of a Hot Wheels car I had as a kid. It was maroonish, with an orange laser cannon on the roof.
"Transformers, as a concept, is kind of stupid. The level of belief suspension is not for the faint of heart."
But I guess that's why it's a cartoon, right? I hate what adulthood can do to one's imagination.
"Heroes is awesome."
Next to Entourage, this is my favorite show. Though I'm relieved as to how Monday's episode ended, I'm now frustrated for a bunch of new reasons.
I could go on. I love to backtrack through thought patterns, and looking back at this list is interesting when I consider the intangible threads between each item. As I sit here excited at the prospect of my work week ending on Today, I hope that someday, I'll make my living doing this sort of thing. Not because I'm lazy (okay, maybe a little bit), but because it's a lot easier for me to be passionate about thinking and writing than it is anything else. For those of you who are able to do this, (Heather Armstrong, I'm looking at you), I am totally jealous. God bless you, and may your ad revenue continue to roll in until the internet collapses or that asteroids collides with the Earth.
--The Robo-Pirate
The tread ripped off a tire near Itasca. We changed it, and made it to Austin in time for Kerry to buy a Les Paul at a vintage shop. We ate Cuban food. We played at Headhunters. It was a good show. We went back to motel, and the next day, Kerry took the Grampus to get new tires. He found out it needs about $1100 worth of repairs. Then we drove home. Someone parked their truck in the space where the trailer goes. I wrote him a snooty note. He moved his car. The End.
Actually, that's the long of it. Here's how it went. We got a flat and fixed it. Kerry bought a guitar. The show was good.
But here's what I'd rather write about: all the scattered thoughts/songs/pictures that cycled through my head today.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse"
This is a crappy NOFX song off 46 or 47 Songs That Weren't Good Enough for Our Other Albums. Though I'd like to, I can't actually listen to it, because it's on my broken iPod, and my computer here at work has a broken headphone jack. Thus, one single half-line continues to bounce around my head indefinitely.
"The Space Jockey"
This is the weird fossilized alien thing in the spaceship where Kane found the xenomorph eggs in Alien. It's gross and thinking about it gives me the willies. And I can't not ponder it. Why is it fused to that weird turntable/telescope thing?
"Busey and the Beach"
I watched this episode of Entourage last night. It's the one where Turtle knocks over this ridiculous sculpture of Gary Busey's. Then later, there's this party in Malibu thrown by that eel Josh Weinstien, and Busy later pours a bucket of water on Turtle's head. He also tells Ari, "you're a gut maggot, without any guts." Ari goes, "you're going to spin right off this planet, Gary." This episode has a lot of good lines in it, and Busey is so fucking weird, which makes it one of my favorites. Also, Monica Keena looks swollen.
"IO"
This has to do with work. It's boring.
"So tell me, Luke... What's a Friday night like in Fantasy Land for you? Do you meet up with the Care Bears and cruise around in that cloud car?"
This is a line from the comic I'm working on. I don't think it works very well, but I like it and can't seem to part with it. It's just really cumbersome. But not "Cumbersome," because then it would be completely terrible and a relic from 1994.
"Doritos"
This is a new Darth Vato song I've been working on this song for over a month. It's about being how pathetic and depressing life is when one just sits at home alone smoking pot. I'm having trouble with the second verse. Since I don't sing, my melodies always always sound half-baked. It's actually a pretty moronic song, which is par for the course of Darth Vato.
"How much I hate phones"
I hate them. A lot. Especially when they are ringing or other people are using them. This corresponds with how....
"I hope I get to be self-employed someday"
I have a really hard time tuning things out and focusing, and I feel like it makes my performance at work suffer. But why should I be the "special needs" employee? Just because I get bothered by other people's meetings and phone calls doesn't mean I should be allowed to separate myself. But I really do bristle whenever someone is on the phone longer than necessary. You become painfully aware of everyone's verbal tics when you hear them several times a day for extensive periods of times. I recently read this book about an austisic teenager called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. In that book, he talks about how he becomes overwhelmed by everyone's voices, and I can totally relate to this.
"The Asteroid"
Apparently, there is an asteroid that has a 1 in 50,000 chance of hitting the Earth in like 2029. That's a pretty good chance--better than winning the lottery or even that stupid Chili's Guest Satisfaction Survey. NASA is trying to come up with a plan, and not surprisingly, one of the plans involves landing an astronaut on the asteroid and somehow causing it to change its trajectory like three degrees or something. This is all based upon what Kerry told me; I tried to watch it on CNN.com, but what the idiot reporter lady wanted to talk about was how she imagined Bruce Willis might be interested or something. I don't know, because I quit watching. It really pissed me off. Here, I wanted some information, and all this fucking bitch could do was be a fucking moron. If I wanted this kind of fluff, I'd hit myself in the head with a brick and get my news from E! Online. All of this has made me consider that:
"CNN is fucking useless to me."
I don't want to watch a video that has a 20 second ad tacked to the front of it. It's part of why I like to read things. Thanks for not helping me out, CNN. Maybe you can get together with Apple and make more iPods that quit working.
"Would I rather be a dolphin or a dog?"
This is a tough call. Domesticated dogs have it pretty sweet. Everything is exciting for a dog, and nothing seems to rival dogs in experiencing pure joy. However, dolphins are highly intelligent. And I love being underwater. And they team up and beat the shit out of sharks. Still a toss up.
"Is 'Luke or Han?' an appropriate question for a dude to ask a girl on a first date?"
Probably not. But it should be.
"But anyway, what if he askes and she says, 'Luke'?"
Then you should never call her again. Any girl who would pick Luke over Han is probably prone to melodrama. And if you're a dude who hopes that she'll say Luke because you're a nice guy and Luke's a nice guy, well, we know how nice guys finish.
"I hope our show at Fitz's is good on Thursday."
Indeed. Darth Vato is playing at Fitzgerald's again on Thanksgiving night in the first slot. Hopefully this turns out well. Hopefully I have shit enough before hand so as not to feel bloated and tired.
"How'd I get so far into debt?"
Rhetorical question.
"How'd I get this fat?"
Again. Pointless to ask. Beer, pretty much.
"Why does working out suck?"
Because I'm out of shape. And it's hard.
"Why does my brother like Avenged Sevenfold?"
It's embarrassing.
"What if I had gotten good grades in college?"
Then I'd probably have the stress of a more successful job.
"Will I ever get my tattoo finished?"
Only time will tell. Gayest self-answer ever. Which really means, "probably never."
"Does my failure to anticipate the plot twists of the current Astonishing X-Men story arc mean that I am not as perceptive as I think I am?"
This probably will leave most people scratching their heads. I include this because I often question my own perceived intelligence, especially when I miss the hints to major plot revelations in movies and books. For instance, in hindsight, the end of the Sixth Sense was totally obvious, yet I was among the many who was totally surprised. I did pick up on Amanda's impending doom in Saw III, but the clues weren't exactly subtle. As for the comic mentioned above, understanding it required a lot of research on preceding backstory. Basically, this malevolent psychic entity called Cassandra Nova has caused a bunch of illusions, in the process incapacitating the X-Men one by one. Her goal is to use one of them to transfer her essence from this blob into--you know what? Who fucking cares? I read this title because Joss Whedon's dialogue is the best, not because the plots make any sense..
"Maybe I should work on my comic book."
But when would I drink and sleep? I guess during work.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse."
See? Still there.
"What's the difference between Monet and Manet?"
You'd think I'd have learned this in college, but the fact is, I really didn't learn much of anything in college.
"Flights are expensive."
"I hate the Dallas Cowboys."
"I hate that Dallas Cowboy fans quote Larry the Cable Guy."
"I hate 1310 The Ticket."
"I hate the Colts for losing to the Cowboys."
"I hate that I ever think about football, even for two seconds."
"Having a band that can't tour constantly is kind a of a bummer."
I've been thinking about this one for three years. Oh sure, we go out of town a couple times a month on average, but never for more than a weekend. If you want to make music your life, your biggest obstacle will be debt. It's amazing how cheaply one can live if one does not have to pay on student loans, credit cards or vehicle notes. When I worked at Chili's, I made around $10/hr, which basically worked out to $1600 a month. My current rent and utilities, in the most expensive and nicest apartment I've lived in, are under $700 per month. When I examine the choices I have made over the years, the only ones I regret are the ones that were the most expensive. Dumb dumb dumb. And what's funny is that I have never used my degrees for anything.
"This one Garfield strip."
I know. It's not cool to like Garfield, and I'm not really a fan anymore, but there is one strip where Garfield leaps at Jon's cheeseburger, and Jon says "Stop right there." And Garfield is left suspended in mid-air, his mouth crossed in an X of perplexion. Jon says, "Sometimes that's all a cat ever understands." This always killed me when I was a kid, and it still makes me smile. I like it because it shows how every cartoon, even a hack-job like Garfield, indulges in absurdities that don't translate nearly as well in other media. And there's also the implication that a cat understands anything. Or rather, obeys anything. I love cats, but c'mon, it's their world. We just live in it. They are the embodiment of aloofness.
No One Wants to Play Sega with Harrison Ford
Brandon Bird is one of my favorite artists, and this is one of my favorite paintings. Though it's easy to get burned out on pop culture tweaks, his are always surreal, wry, and spot-on.
"Science Friction."
Though this is probably also the name of a porno, it's also the name of a Hot Wheels car I had as a kid. It was maroonish, with an orange laser cannon on the roof.
"Transformers, as a concept, is kind of stupid. The level of belief suspension is not for the faint of heart."
But I guess that's why it's a cartoon, right? I hate what adulthood can do to one's imagination.
"Heroes is awesome."
Next to Entourage, this is my favorite show. Though I'm relieved as to how Monday's episode ended, I'm now frustrated for a bunch of new reasons.
I could go on. I love to backtrack through thought patterns, and looking back at this list is interesting when I consider the intangible threads between each item. As I sit here excited at the prospect of my work week ending on Today, I hope that someday, I'll make my living doing this sort of thing. Not because I'm lazy (okay, maybe a little bit), but because it's a lot easier for me to be passionate about thinking and writing than it is anything else. For those of you who are able to do this, (Heather Armstrong, I'm looking at you), I am totally jealous. God bless you, and may your ad revenue continue to roll in until the internet collapses or that asteroids collides with the Earth.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Doppelganger
If you go to this week's Onion A.V. Club, there is an interview with one of my heroes, Chuck Klosterman. Read the interview if you want, but the most important thing is that he looks a lot like my friend this guy.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*That guys is my friend, Walker. He writes songs and hangs around the bar I work at, and is an all-around nice guy.
--The Robo-Pirate
*That guys is my friend, Walker. He writes songs and hangs around the bar I work at, and is an all-around nice guy.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A message from TXDOT
My dad, a recovering technophobe who is finally joining the rest of us in the AGE OF COMPUTERS, sent me this forward today. It's a safety warning. Rather than forward it, I thought I'd post it here. That way, ONLY MY READERS WILL BE SAFE. I think that logic went into writing the Bible. But anyway, feel free to pass around a link to the Robo-Pirate or just tell your friends why you shouldn’t use cruise control on wet roads yourself. If they are skeptical, make sure to tell them you read it on the internet.
1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.
Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*Or is it?
A couple of comments:A 36 year old Kilgore, TX resident had an accident several weeks ago and totaled
her car. She was traveling between Gladewater and Kilgore. It was raining,
though not excessively, when her car suddenly began to hydro-plane and literally
flew through the air. She was not seriously injured but very stunned at the
sudden occurrence!When she explained to the highway patrolman what had happened he told her something that every driver should know - NEVER DRIVE IN THE RAIN WITH YOUR CRUISE CONTROL ON.
She thought she was being cautious by setting the cruise control and maintaining a safe, consistent speed in the rain, but the highway patrolman told her that if the cruise control is on and your car begins to hydro-plane (what happens when your tires lose contact with the pavement), it will accelerate to a higher rate of speed and you will take off like an airplane. She told the patrolman that was exactly what had occurred.
The patrolman said this warning should be listed, on the driver's seat
sun-visor - NEVER USE THE CRUISE CONTROL WHEN THE PAVEMENT IS WET OR ICY.
1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.
Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*Or is it?
Monday, November 13, 2006
Escape from Fort Worth. Except that I just went to work. Which is in Fort Worth. My old title was way better. Just read it, okay?
Prior to the panic I experienced upon discovering I am to be a Leader of Meetings (see below), I drove to work. Driving to work is worth mentioning because it always depresses me. I'm not going to kill myself or anything, but the time spent between my apartment and my job nearly always bums me out.
I live about eleven miles away from my office. There are basically three different routes which I may use, and they all take about twenty minutes. The one with the least congestion is the most out of the way. The one that is a little shorter is rife with cops, stoplights and the occassional horse trailer convoy. The most direct one has the thickest traffic and biggest stretches of construction. It is this combination that shrouds my day in gloomy frustration.
I'm sure that every moderately large city is plagued with bad traffic, but in Fort Worth, unfinished road maintenance is such a salient feature that it might as well be mentioned in the city's tourist literature. It's probably not as bad as I make it out to be, but it is for me because the areas which I normally frequent end up squeezing cars into one lane. As if this weren't annoying enough, these areas have the country's (allegedly) most poorly-timed stoplights at every block. As far as I'm concerned, Fort Worth traffic is an ordeal on par with flying standby at Christmas.
Today, however, was especially bad. I don't know if it was because I went to work earlier (what a nice reward for trying to get a head start, right?), but the lines of non-moving cars made me want to yank my eyelashes out. So I went a different way. In the process, I became the idiot that you yell at for pulling out at the wrong time and almost t-boning you. Know why? Because I pulled out at the wrong time and almost t-boned this guy in an Acura. As he will probably be telling it for the rest of the week, I was that "idiot in this shitty white-trash van" who continued into a four-way intersection that only had two stop signs. And of course, because I wore flip flops today, I got hung up on the gas pedal and nearly missed stopping in time. And then, when I slammed on the brakes, a hail of change spilled out of the overhead sun visor and onto my head. It's what I imagine hanging a leprechaun upside and shaking it would be like. Or, every day for Super Mario.
Between the excitement of my near miss and roadblocks the traffic and orange cones, I half-expected Lee Van Cleef waiting for me at the office. "We'd make a great team, Steve," he'd say.
I'd light a cigar, give him an icy stare and hiss,
"Call me Plissken."
--The Robo-Pirate
I live about eleven miles away from my office. There are basically three different routes which I may use, and they all take about twenty minutes. The one with the least congestion is the most out of the way. The one that is a little shorter is rife with cops, stoplights and the occassional horse trailer convoy. The most direct one has the thickest traffic and biggest stretches of construction. It is this combination that shrouds my day in gloomy frustration.
I'm sure that every moderately large city is plagued with bad traffic, but in Fort Worth, unfinished road maintenance is such a salient feature that it might as well be mentioned in the city's tourist literature. It's probably not as bad as I make it out to be, but it is for me because the areas which I normally frequent end up squeezing cars into one lane. As if this weren't annoying enough, these areas have the country's (allegedly) most poorly-timed stoplights at every block. As far as I'm concerned, Fort Worth traffic is an ordeal on par with flying standby at Christmas.
Today, however, was especially bad. I don't know if it was because I went to work earlier (what a nice reward for trying to get a head start, right?), but the lines of non-moving cars made me want to yank my eyelashes out. So I went a different way. In the process, I became the idiot that you yell at for pulling out at the wrong time and almost t-boning you. Know why? Because I pulled out at the wrong time and almost t-boned this guy in an Acura. As he will probably be telling it for the rest of the week, I was that "idiot in this shitty white-trash van" who continued into a four-way intersection that only had two stop signs. And of course, because I wore flip flops today, I got hung up on the gas pedal and nearly missed stopping in time. And then, when I slammed on the brakes, a hail of change spilled out of the overhead sun visor and onto my head. It's what I imagine hanging a leprechaun upside and shaking it would be like. Or, every day for Super Mario.
Between the excitement of my near miss and roadblocks the traffic and orange cones, I half-expected Lee Van Cleef waiting for me at the office. "We'd make a great team, Steve," he'd say.
I'd light a cigar, give him an icy stare and hiss,
"Call me Plissken."
--The Robo-Pirate
"I'll be doing what?"
My eyes are crossing in trepidation. I just read a meeting request that contained the sentence "Steve will lead the meeting."
I have no idea what leading a meeting entails. It might as well have read, "Steve will be planning the next space shuttle mission" or "Steve will be demonstrating how to turn pickles into chickens."
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
On the plus side, this looks like a job for....
STEVE'S MEETING PANTS!!!
I have no idea what leading a meeting entails. It might as well have read, "Steve will be planning the next space shuttle mission" or "Steve will be demonstrating how to turn pickles into chickens."
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
On the plus side, this looks like a job for....
STEVE'S MEETING PANTS!!!
Friday, November 10, 2006
Racist frat guys are upset about being portrayed as racist frat guys.
I haven't seen Borat yet, but I know there is a scene in which he encounters some drunk frat guys in South Carolina who, over the course of a bunch of beers, say some really awful things bemoaning the absence of slavery and the apparent power surplus enjoyed by minorities. So in other words, they have made themselves look like bigoted retards in a nationally distributed film. Good work on that, duders.
Not surprisingly, the two guys filed an anonymous lawsuit against 20th Century Fox, alleging that they were basically tricked, and that they have suffered a bunch of the usual nebulous damages (emotional, physical, loss of income, humiliation) because of their appearance in the film.
I'm sorry (wait, no I'm not), but I really can't feel too badly for these two fucks. Too bad you guys were too stupid to keep your racist bullshit under wraps in the presence of a camera. And really? Loss of reputation? What reputation were two redneck frat guys from South Carolina cultivating before? Presumably, if their attorneys can prove that they were essentially tricked into signing waivers after getting hammered (I think there is a precedent set by some regretful Girls Gone Wild stars), they have a leg to stand on, but hopefully, it will not keep them getting their asses whipped by someone big, black and justifiably angry.
I'm just saying is all.
--The Robo-Pirate
Not surprisingly, the two guys filed an anonymous lawsuit against 20th Century Fox, alleging that they were basically tricked, and that they have suffered a bunch of the usual nebulous damages (emotional, physical, loss of income, humiliation) because of their appearance in the film.
I'm sorry (wait, no I'm not), but I really can't feel too badly for these two fucks. Too bad you guys were too stupid to keep your racist bullshit under wraps in the presence of a camera. And really? Loss of reputation? What reputation were two redneck frat guys from South Carolina cultivating before? Presumably, if their attorneys can prove that they were essentially tricked into signing waivers after getting hammered (I think there is a precedent set by some regretful Girls Gone Wild stars), they have a leg to stand on, but hopefully, it will not keep them getting their asses whipped by someone big, black and justifiably angry.
I'm just saying is all.
--The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Don't worry, K-Fed. There's always Wal-Mart.
Well, it took her long enough.
Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.
In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."
Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.
Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.
In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."
Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.
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