Good and Bad I
I bought a Coke today with a cap that said “Free 20oz Coke.” Free is good.
The Coke was to help relieve a migraine. Migraines are bad.
The cap from the new Coke said “Free 20oz Coke.” Free is good.
Cokes can dissolve a steak in a matter of hours. Internal dissolving is bad.

Good and Bad II
I got a letter from Comcast that stated that what the Comcast salesman sold me as “Basic” cable is really “Basic Extended” cable, and the channels that I have been getting for a year is erroneous. To reinstate the channels that I currently have, it will cost me another $40 per month. Also, “Digital Bronze” has been bumped to “Digital Classic” leaving me with crap for cable channels.

I spent an hour on the phone with Comcast trying to get them to explain to me what they were pulling. There are two options: 1.) The salesman sold me Basic Extended as Basic to get me to sign up, figuring that the company would eventually audit me and figure out their error. Selling me a service that I already have is easier than selling it initially. 2.) Comcast is bullshitting me and changed basic service on me and is upping the price.

In either case, I argued that it was not my problem. I bought a service that I received, and to extort more was unfair. They argued that 2 techs and a salesman were incorrect about allowing the service I was receiving for the price I was paying. Again, not my problem. The best that Comcast could do was to offer to save me $10 off the “Extended Basic” for the next three months. The catch? I have to pay $37 more than I am currently paying from now on.

My take? Fuck Comcast. If I can switch out my phone, I’m going to. If I can switch out my cable, I’m going to. If I could switch internet services, I would. I’m not angry, I’m just not going to have Comcast decide one month that my internet speed is too high, or my phone is too cheap, and extort more money for a service that I have already paid for.

Man, I miss Earthlink.

But, the good thing is that I watch way too much TV anyway. The downgrade will hopefully put me back to the non-TV watching nut that I once was.

Totally Good I
Lockergnome provided this link today, and it is…boom chap…biboom chap…boom boom chap…schwey schewy freeesssshhhh.
Learning to beatbox from humanbeatbox.com.

Totally Good II
My aunt, Mother, and Sister ganged up on me today. That’s bad.
They ganged up on me to get me to write a book. That’s good.
Turning fun into a career always kills fun. That’s bad.
Did you miss “shaving 101″ at the top of the page? It’s been there for months. That’s Good?

Unreal I
Today is the 41st anniversary of the March on Washington. I was getting choked up listening to some of the excerpts from Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I have a Dream” speech on the radio this morning. I almost forgot, but I had to stay up to listen to the entire thing tonight. It’s a powerful reminder that there is no “us” and “them.” There are only those in power, and those whose necks the boots of opression stand. (Listen (7.5 MB) or Read.

Have no Illusions
I was under the impression that the “P” in EPA stood for “protection,” but after reading an article on MSNBC on how the EPA is increasing pollution exemptions to power plants because they are just too expensive, I’m not so sure.

I feel like an idiot. I know the rules. I simply choose to ignore them and get irritated when the results turn up. Rule #1: If you have the dough, you can do what you please. Sure, pollution from the plants will increase, but it will cost the plants to stop the pollution, so we best eliminate the rule.

This leads us to Rule #2: The little guy is going to pay for the big guy. Massachusetts emissions testing provides a great example. In the last few years, stricter emissions laws were passed in the name of cleaner air. This costs us twice what it used to to have our cars inspected, and the standards are so strict that even cars manufactured in the last ten years could fail. That sounds ok, right? Twenty extra bucks a year to have cleaner air sounds like a deal to me?

There’s a catch. There always is. If you have a Honda Civic, you have to put the car on the dyno and have its emissions tested not only at idle, but under load, to make sure that your little 4 cylinder, clean burning Japanese engine isn’t putting out the smallest bit of pollution. coughBallBusterscough. Now, if you own a fleet of dump trucks with dual smoke stacks and no catalytic converters, you can continue belching untold amounts of pollution into the air.

Why? Testing would hurt businesses: Businesses that would have to pay to have the problem corrected. Businesses are favored over people by government. Like the Greek Gods sat at mount Olympus, American gods sit in American board rooms, buying and selling our freedoms, our health, and anything else that they can get their hands on under the protection of the very system that was created “By the people, For the people.”

There are no people in power anymore. Just blameless corporations, and an expansive government; entities without bodies making the rules just like the gods of old. And, if history teaches us nothing, it’s that if you ignore the gods, they vanish into the air that they’re made of.

It’s all an illusion.

Call continued
I’m running on a mere 4 hours of sleep, and I’m still at work. I’ve been here for over 12 hours today and still trucking. This is getting to be a habit: A baaaad habit. I forget what day it is. I’m gaining job security. I’m a monkey robot. With a rocket car and buns of steel. I’m a turntablist on the wheels of steel. And they’re all after me lucky charms. Manga-na-hoooooo ee aw ee aw winky muddle nicky nicky charoooooooo. Oh shit. It’s over for me. The exits are located here, here, and here. Please be aware that the nearest exits may be behind you. Save yourselves.

Bad Call
The lawyer called. He is still working on getting me a court date as the ex just turned in the financials that were due last week. I should, hopefully, have a finalized divorced by the end of the year, pending any more issues.

Now, when my lawyer asked if I had any further issues pertaining to the divorce beyond the typical impending tax problems, I asked whether there are implications if the rumor that the ex’s pregnancy is true. He congratulated me, as by law, any baby born to a woman who is party to a divorce is legally the child of the divorced husband, even if the child is born up to nine months after the finalization of the divorce.

If anyone in the world has worse luck that turns to better stories, please instant message me so that I can take you to lunch.

You deserve it.

I’m on friendster, and someone sends me a link. When I opened the link, I actually said, “Oh Shit! Nonono,” and hit the back button rapidly several times. Then I had a sour face on like I had eaten some food that was dipped in poop. I didn’t want to play anymore. I didn’t want to find some of my old friends.

It was the ex-wife.

For some reason, I didn’t expect that she was in there, nor did I wish to find her. And as I have been trying to get away from her for years, I have dropped nearly every connection to her just to avoid her. I guess I ignored the very possibility. And there is nothing worse on the human brain than being faced with the impossible.

And this feeling was like a black sheet had been thrown over my day. Things looked bleaker, and and I just pictured me being married to this woman forever like in the Royal Tenenbaums. Then someone mentioned that she was pregnant. That made me laugh, actually. Cheered me right up, because of how absurd my situation had become: the woman who has ruined so many opportunities to dissolve this marriage, actually has a reason to move forward, but hasn’t. I was 4th and inches on calling Jerry Springer.

Anyway, as the day went on, her being pregnant started to bother me. I really don’t give a shit what she does with her life, and go to great pains to avoid her. It’s her life, not ours. It has nothing to do with me, with the exception of a small piece of paper in an office somewhere that says that it does. And that paper is pure bullshit.

The problem was, ugh, and this sucks to say, I found that I wanted to be happy for her. A pregnancy is a lucky thing, and shouldn’t be a negative event. Even though she has done not only rotten things to me, but to my girlfriend as well, I feel like I have to hate her guts. Too many people know the story. Too many people know what she’s done. Too many people offer me support.

I don’t want to be her friend. I don’t want to be in her life at all. But, on a happy occasion, I didn’t want to harbor ill will. I wanted the freedom to just let go. Forget.

And that I can’t sucks. I wish not to forgive, but to just forget. Pretend like it all never happened. But everyone knows the story. Everyone hates her by proxy. And that keeps me in a negative place. I just want her to go away, and be happy. Not be miserable and live in squalor. Just be as happy as I would wish on any other person. But away from me, and Forgotten.

The frustration of the nearly 2 year divorce process, and all the trimmings that go with it, coupled with the anger of other people, helps to keep the anger alive. How can I just let go if it keeps coming up?

One drop of hate, like a single drop of ink in a milk bottle, poisons the soul. It’s true, and I feel it. I’m not a bad guy, and I hate having to feel like one. I want to get the crappy milk out of the fridge without feeling like someone will miss it in there.

I want this:

“Jenn Gibbs is pregnant.”
“Jenn who?”
“Jenn Gibbs.”
“Ooooh, right, her. That’s nice. More tea?”

Forgotten.

It’s rare that I eat a meal that doesn’t contain either: A.) Meat, B.) Pasta, or C.) Meat and Pasta, but last night my sister made the girlfriend and I a vegetarian dinner. Before we were scheduled to head over to there, I was trying to describe to the girlfriend what my sister was making for dinner. I described it as “placenta pie,” which was not only inccorect, but would be so non-vegetarian as to border on cannibalistic.

It was polenta pie, and it was really good.

After dinner, we headed out to grab a cone at one of the local beach ice cream shops. With all the choices available, the girlfriend chose a simple chocolate cone. The sister on the other end chose something with so much crap jammed in it that it had a funny name like “harbor sludge” or something. I went the zen route, and had some ginger ice cream…in a cup. No mess, and my kung fu became strong. Weeeeeeeeaaaaaaaawwww (a gong rings in the distance.)

As Hull is very close to the city, it can be a very socially varied environment during the day, but at night it’s even more so. Last night was no exception. As we were on the return trip of our walk (turning around in front of a bar in which a friend of mine was, unbeknownst to me, sitting having a beer) two kids and their late teens walked past us mumbling incoherently. One turned to me and said,

Badger? Hedgehog Japan?

while pointing at the ground in front of the three of us. He said it again, and I started trying to figure out if he was foreign and needed help. Then, he ran three steps forward in the direction we were walking. He began talking even more incoherently, and pointing with much more conviction.

Drugs. Fuck. And it wasn’t your garden variety. This kid was fucked up and unpredictable.

Jon went into full battle mode. While he was mumbling more bullshit, I was trying to calculate whether I would have to move my sister out of the way to punch him in the face hard enough to hopefully put him down. I was also calculating distance to his drugged out friend, and trying to figure out if he’d run, fight, or aid the casualty. At the same time, I’m peripherally judging if they have friends within a 10 second run that might come to aid him. This happens lightning fast, and I become very focused on the task at hand. People have told me that it looks menacing to the point of virtually crazy, which has to help ward off idiots like these two.

The kid must’ve seen a beacon through the fog, because he just pointed again and quizzically said “No?”
I replied, “No.”
He said, “Nothing?”
I replied, “Nothing.”

And they walked off in the other direction. As there were no manly or even junior weights for me to lift to calm down, we ducked into the local arcade to play a little air hockey. It was there that my female escorts proceeded to whoop my ass, locking me out of the final elimination. If they were the US and Canada, then I was Uganda.

So much for mr. toughguy, eh?

As we were walking back, a kid ran up behind us full speed to scare his friends. Kid almost got knocked out just by the fucking remnants of the battle mode of thinking. I heard him at 15 feet, and was ready by 3. Even though I find the mode very useful, I hate it. It winds me up (without actually raising my heart rate, which is odd), and makes me as paranoid as I was when I was a teenager. And I hate that feeling. Waiting for someone or something to attack can really color the day in the wrong way.

Birds of a Feather

If Joey didn’t make the mistake of signing up for friendster on the assumption that I already had, I would’ve never signed up. Through 9 friends, I am indirectly connected with over 63,000 people. I was hoping to expand a little on the social network, but this is truly imposing. By what I’ve read of the profiles, my interesting friends are connected with very interesting people that can eat up tons of time. Most people put pretty clever descriptions of themselves in there, although my favorite “Interests” listing so far was “hand jobs, blow jobs, and dry humping.”Even through your friends, you may be connected to a freak or two.

Flock in Threes

Today was the third day that I was supposed to have a court date to finalize my divorce. This was also the third time that the ex stymied the hearing by neglecting to turn in a simple, two sided financial form to the court.Now it moves into motions to compel and a bunch of hitherto whereto for legalese just to get out of a simple failed contract.

Two words to get in, two years to get out…and counting.

As a kid, Alongside my Led Zeppelin and Iron Maiden posters, were posters of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. I used to think that they were as timeless, inalienable, and rebellious as the rock posters with which they shared wall space. Freedom and rock were branches off the same tree.Now that I’m older, I’m starting to see that a lot of what rock has become is less about the music, and more about image. The glittery shirt is more important than the song lyrics. “Freedom” has followed suit. We’ve learned to take more in useless laws and pay more to support them. We are heavily taxed, and nominally represented. It is more important to wave the flag and eat “freedom fries” than to actually retain the rights that make us free.

Image is Everything. Image is Nothing.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. –That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”

“He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.”

“He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.”

“He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.”

“He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the consent of our legislatures.”

“He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.”

“For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:”

“For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:”

“For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:”

“For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:”

“For depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:”

“He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.”

“He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us…”

-From the Declaration of Independence (full text), July 4, 1776

Spoken
I swore a while back that I was done with WAAF in Boston, because the views of the DJ’s are so conservative that they make a Rush Limbaugh listener seem like free-lovin’ hippy.

On the way to work this morning, I was scanning through the dial looking for one actual song that I could listen to to get me through the commute, but found channel after channel of jabber and commercials. Then, I found a song. A country song. On WAAF. It had something to do with America, flag waving, and remembering 9/11. It was broken up with bits from people saying that the war in Iraq is unjust.

I was unclear as to what the point of the song was, and was rather surprised to hear it on a rock format station, but found the clips in the song interesting enough to sit through. Then, the DJ came on and started spouting about how America has forgotten 9/11 and that our soldiers blah blah blah. As people called in, like any conservative talk show, they were berated and hung up on.

Not my thing, and I understand that there are other views out there other than my own, so why did it bother me?

Because it’s worse than a lie. There still aren’t any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Still. A government that can cover up The Kennedy assassination for 40 years can’t even plant some god damned chemical weapons to justify it’s invasion of another country? That had nothing to do with 9/11 (You might recall that Bin Laden is Afghani). But that’s all my opinion. The real lie is that the DJ’s, while waving the flag of Rock n’ roll and catering to a young audience, are truly nothing more than an extension of those in power.

They tow the corporate line,
They support any conservative government cause,
They sell the poor for the wealthy,
And they recruit our youth.

The beauty of youth is it’s positive vision of the future, it’s rebellious nature, and it’s belief that it can render old views obsolete, while simultaneously creating a new and better world in its wake. When youth is corralled into getting behind slogans like “Fuck Iraq,” as espoused by corporate pundits posing as one of their own, the message becomes one that originates from “us” rather than from “them.” And it is a lie. But, it’s worse than a lie, as it relies on the naivety of the listener: the naivety of youth.

Unspoken
When I was in Sweden, I met a couple of Iraqis. Both were very nice, and one even bought me lunch. They didn’t hate me automatically for being American, even though America as really done a number on their homeland over the last 40 years.

In one conversation, and with a sly smile, one asked me something quickly in Swedish that I couldn’t comprehend fast enough to respond to. Faced with my blank expression, my friend stepped in and translated.

“He wants to know what you think of Iraq. And him.”

And he stood, looking at me with wide eyes and a half smile waiting to see how I’d react. Shit. I was actually embarrassed. I had nothing. I just waved off the question and mumbled something like, “Shit. I don’t care about all that. I mean… I’m not…” Then, I just shook my head and smiled at him.

That’s all I could do.

When your big brother is out on the block pushing people around and generally acting like an asshole, it can make it difficult if the neighbors can’t see that you and he are not one in the same.

It’s really easy to talk about “neutralizing targets” than “killing people.” It’s easier to view people as abstracts rather than as human beings. It’s easier to sit in the safety of the zero feedback DJ booth and tow the line that gets you paid, than to tell the truth.

Or just do everyone a favor, shut the fuck up, and play some fucking music.

Shitty Pt. I
So, I got a message from my lawyer that the ex is ready to negotiate her settlement to help move things along. What a darling. She is now willing to negotiate after a year and a half. Wow. I can now pay her slightly less than outrageous for nothing other than getting out of this god forsaken marriage.

I called the lawyer back and said, ahem, and I quote, “Fuck her. Don’t waste your time. She’s not getting a dime. File for discovery. Let the courts sort it out.” Then I requested that we attach any and all of the ex’s appreciated assets, and file a civil/criminal case for fraud against the ex and her real estate agent for falsifying the sale price of my house behind my back. It’s illegal. It happened. And it was typical.

Look, I have been patient and gave a thousand chances and avenues to settle this. I caved on the household items, I caved on all the records and CDs, I caved on paying her bills and for the house, I caved on paying a lawyer to prepare a nice joint divorce (that she threw away), and after a year and a half, she is still undeservedly crying Gimme, Gimme, Gimme. And it’s typical.

I’d rather just be able to walk away from the whole thing simply and cleanly, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a good fight, and I refuse to buy myself out of this mess by paying her for using me like an emotional and financial pack mule for five years. I will pay a lawyer ten fold before I give her one, single, solitary dime. And if things go badly, it will be too messy, too long, and too expensive. And it’s typical.

It reminds me of a marriage I was once in.

First Day of School
I spent last week tooling around Florida, getting a tan (through 45 sun block) and pretending that work didn’t exist. Today, I swore that I was not going in. Then, I swore that I was going to resign at 9 AM. Then, I tried to get my coworkers in on my scheme of chartering fishing boats by giving them titles like “Admiral Pete” or “Cap’n Pat”. Then panic set in. Then, the lack of sunlight put me in a coma that should last me through the next round of layoffs.

If I make through those, I can probably cruise the next twenty or thirty years and die peacefully in my sleep.

Jon Dyer, wage slave.

Last Week in Brief

• Fri: Went out with some friends, got a late burned dinner at a restaurant in Somerville, argued about Iraq, heard a New Zealand accent, went home, and fell asleep.
• Sat: Went to a party and laughed at the effects of grappa on the human brain. Told people that I was in the porn business and that my name was Steve.
• Sun: Avoided buying running shoes like I was supposed to and bought some Vans at Famous Footwear, which are the easily the puffiest sneakers I’ve ever owned. If someone had Gazelles for $30 like Jones Stores used to (and they weren’t getting so goddamned hip), I would’ve rocked my Adidas for a 7th straight year. Now, I merely try to rock my Vans. If the Vans are a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.
• Monday: Ate a pork roast with rice and beans. Started taking apart all of my computers.
• Tuesday: Ate leftover pork roast, and put most of computers back together, adding a 200Gb, 7200RPM, 8MB cache, ATA 100 drive ($179 at BestBuy) while subtracting both a 14Gb and a 6 Gb drive. I then began ripping CDs until 1 AM.

The Future in Brief

Don’t worry! As long as you hit that wire with the connecting hook at precisely eighty-eight miles per hour the instant the lightning strikes the tower … everything will be fine!

Or will it?

Bill 2743
Steve Tobin, the Massachusetts congressional rep from Quincy is trying to push a bill through congress that makes it illegal and punishable by a fine of $3000 or 2.5 years in prison for concealing the origin or destination of telecommunications traffic. Like any good geek, I have a firewall on my network that does exactly that. It keeps the bad guys out by disguising the origin and destination of my traffic.

What this bill could do is further strengthen the already overwhelming DCMA by making personal firewalls illegal. I would hope that this is not the intention of the law, but a vague law will lead to vague interpretation.

If you are a Masshole, you can find your state rep and send him or her a quick e-mail saying that you think that bill 2743 is a bad idea. If you want to help, tack your name and address to the end of the following and use it like a form letter. Be sure to CC Steve Tobin (Rep.AStephenTobin@hou.state.ma.us).

I would like to express my concern with section 42B section (b) of house Bill #2743, which makes the use of common internet firewalls punishable by a fine of $3000 and 2.5 years in jail.

Firewalls are very common and serve to protect the end user’s network from malicious attackers by hiding both the origin and destination of traffic. Removing firewalls will not serve to help the public, but to hinder in terms of major business and privacy loss.

The only benefit of this bill will be to strengthen the Music Industry’s fairly liberal interpretation of their rights to invade privacy to preserve copyright under the DCMA. Removing firewalls will give them, and everyone else, the right to hack, crack, and invade computer networks un-hindered as if they were their own.

This is the computer network equivalent of making it illegal for people to lock their doors.

This may not be the intent of the law, but it is how the paragraph is defined.

Please vote against this bill.

Thanks for your time.

Experiments

The 13″ TV did not work as well as the 19″, but the projector wasn’t tuned to a 13″, so I can make no concrete assertions on the topic. Maybe I’ll cut the thing down and try again tomorrow, but there are computer parts all over that need to be played with first.

The Morning at Work

“Looks like our boys killed 500 of them Iraqi bastards last night.”

Yes. Another day of the loud right wingers. After being inderectly referred to as one of the “Quincy Flower Crew” (?Non-Bush/War supporters?), I fired off an e-mail to let them know that they could really help their cause if they could transfer their “armchair general” roles into a real-world actions.

I included the link to the USMC enlistment site. Unlike this war, it was all in good fun.

Too tired

My new workout program of pyramids and strip sets is making me tired enough to take a vacation. Now, if I can only plan it around Easter to avoid all of that hoo ha.

Today, I heard one guy bragging about how his buddy was on a ship launching the first missiles on Iraq. How proud. Dear fuckers: War is not a movie, war is not entertainment, and even if it is necessary, you are watching civilians just like those in the trade towers die, and die terribly. Our military personnel will also be dying horribly. Shut off the fucking TV, and thank whoever you have to that you are not currently on someone’s smart bomb radar. Thank whoever you have to that you are not being burned alive, or dying under rubble as an acceptable casualty. Be thankful that you are not the current target.

I guess the difference between a terrorist and military is what side your on, or what propaganda model you believe.

Stop watching and Think.

I listen to a wind bag spouting off about the war every morning at work. He talks too loudly and gets too animated about leveling the middle east or any other country that the press says is “bad” these days. Given the fact that a woman within earshot had her husband shipped off to the Middle East to fight in this crummy war, I can assume that this guy’s sensitivity level is not at its highest. I know that he’s in no danger of being drafted, and I’m going to make a quick and dirty assumption that he doesn’t have a loved one running off to fight. Most of us, if given the choice between a putting a loved one in harms way over a presidential hard-on for war, and keeping that person with us, most of us would retain the loved one.

That’s normal.

To the right-wing, it’s blindly following the Republic wherever it leads, sacrificing our boys under the guise of Democracy to secure corporate freedom in a lands teaming with cheap labor. It’s making more noise, even if you’re making less sense than the other guy. It’s following an ideal that you are right, and everyone who does not agree with you is wrong. It’s conquering and preserving, rather than giving and creating.

It’s being the first to ask, and the last to give.

Most days, I just ignore the rhetoric in favor of getting some work done. Today, I heard this:

“There are 275 million people in this country. 10 million people oppose the war. 10 million people don’t mean shit.”

Using data from the 2000 U.S. Census Overview of Race and Hispanic Origin, and using this logic we can deduce that:

• If you are more than one race, you don’t mean shit.
• If you are from the Pacific rim, you don’t mean shit.
• If you are Asian, you don’t mean shit.
• Native Americans? Yea, no sorry, you’re not shit, either.
• African Americans? With 12.3 percent of the population (34,658,190), you might mean shit.
• Latinos? Sorry. With only 12.5 percent of the population (35,305,818), you might mean shit, too.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure how hard the line this guy made is between who means shit, and who doesn’t. I’ll try to get a hard, right-winged line drawn for you, so that you might get on with your lives.

In my opinion, everyone means something. That’s why war is horrific. People die. They don’t die for freedom, or pride, or honor. They die because they were placed in harms way by people who will profit from it. But, if we look at the history of this country, I think we can easily deduce that the Republic’s opinion on this matter, no matter what sound bite they give the press.

None of us really mean shit.

And Them
I find it funny that the world makes French “surrender” jokes, when they are the only country standing up to the world’s largest super power. Horribly outnumbered and outgunned, they must really believe in what they are doing to stand up to the U.S. I actually find it somewhat courageous. As Americans we always root for the underdog. It’s in our movies, books, and ingrained in our minds. Have we come so far and gotten so fat as to give up rooting for the underdog?

Or is that just another silly ideal?

I have been going through this divorce crap for 16 months now. It is amazing to me that someone can drag out a three month process out this far. So far, it has cost hours and hours of prep and thousands of dollars in cash to simply tell someone in a very proper, very legal way that they can go fuck themselves. Tonight, I spent a lovely evening digging up every financial transaction that I have made over the last three years doing preliminary work for a court ordered Rule 410 Discovery related to my divorce a.k.a. The Neverending Story.

Divorces with no children or joint assets should be simple: the parties pay $150 in court fees, sign under ten documents, and within three months, the parties go their separate way. This, my friends, is called a joint, uncontested divorce. What if she won’t sign the papers, Jon? Well, then it becomes a single petition for divorce, which actually takes a little less time to complete than a joint divorce. Well, what If she then decides that she doesn’t feel like signing a settlement agreement that simply says that you have no common assets? Well, then it becomes a contested divorce, and you will spend six months waiting for court date number one, where you must dig up all financial papers from the last three years. Then, you present those and go into a lengthy process called “discovery” where the lawyers get rich by asking each other questions about each parties financials. Then, you go to court again.

Then the judge says, “No kids. No joint assets. What is this all about? Please stop wasting my time.” Then you go home and wait another four months until you are officially divorced.

Even though she cleaned you out, and used you like a mule for her every possible burden for five years, you enjoy going through your financials for no reason. That’s because the sooner you get through them, the sooner you can get this over with. The sooner you have your ducks in a row, you can enjoy shooting hers down one by one. The sooner that discovery begins, the sooner you can watch her metaphorically hang herself.

Then you can walk away ginning ear to ear, no matter what happens.

I was chatting with a female friend in the lobby today, who said “Look at you, Mr. Smilng and Chatting with everyone. What’s the deal?”
“I don’t really know,” I said, “ever since the ex walked out, I have been pretty damned happy. Happy people are social people.”
“You know you were like that before you got married, too,” she continued, “and then it was like shooom! A wall came down and you shut up for five years. I always wondered what happened.”
“Wow. I never really thought about it that way.”

Sometimes I think that my thought processes might not be right, so when people confirm what’s in my head unscripted, it catches me off guard.

#1GF!’s Mom has a standing request for canolis from Mike’s Pastry in the North End for special occasions. I prefer anything from Montilio’s to Mike’s, but as she lives pretty far from town and that’s what she prefers, I try to go and get them whenever possible. It’s a small deal to me, but a big deal to her. It’s a win-win situation.

Every time I go to Mike’s, the place is mobbed. This time, there must’ve been 75 people jammed in there waiting for pastry. One thing that I’ve learned in my short lifetime is that if you are in a crowded amorphous line and the counter help asks, “Who’s next?” even if you are 4 people back, if no one answers within 15 seconds, you are free to cut the morons. They should’ve been paying better attention.

I did just that. Maybe they were all from the Midwest, and were trying to be polite, or maybe they were all a little afraid of Bostonians and were too busy guarding their “Boston” sweatshirts lest someone whip them off of their back while they ordered a canoli, but that was not my problem.

As I was ordering there was a definite non-tourist next to me. It was very likely that I had spotted a member of the new breed of North End residents. Now, I have to check my Encyclopedia, but I think he was of the genus Yuppyus, class Assholus. Wearing a black wool coat, pudgy face, slick hair, leather gloves, and accessorizing with a cell phone, Yuppyus Assholus was not only barely paying attention to the girl asking who’s next, but was talking so loudly that he must’ve thought the rest of us wanted to hear his play by play of what he thought was going on around him…

Huh? Yea. Huh? Yea. What? Yea. I dunno. Huh? Yea. Hahahaha. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. Yea. Huh?

This went on until the counter lady looked directly at him and said, “Who’s next?” To which he replied, phone still to ear…

“Huh? Yea. Um. Yea. No not you. Huh? She’s trying to help me. Huh? Sure. I know. I know, really. Hold on. Uh, give me six canolis. Whatever. Yea, uh… (pointing with a gloved pinky vaguely at some pastry) Three of those and um three of those. Yea. Huh? Whatever. What? Yea right. She’ll probably spit in my canolis or something.

The look on the girl’s face summed up what I was feeling. It was a mixture of disbelief, hatred, and a little “if I only had a cake knife, I would slowly saw your head off while these kind people applauded.”

I was helped at about the same time as Yuppyus Assholus, and right as I got my order he hung up his phone, turned to me as if I gave a fuck and said, “It was my brother. He wanted to know if I wanted beer.” No way. No way are these people going to think that I am with you, Assholus. He was right next to me, and I didn’t even fire the neurons to turn my head to acknowledge. You’ll hang alone when this canoli starved crowd decides to turn on someone. 15 minutes and 18 canolis (they call me “Big Brownie”) later, I jumped into the getaway car and sped off…

Ok, I didn’t actually leap into the car like Starsky or Jim Rockford, but I was would’ve. Like a bad getaway driver in a good movie, my driver had unfortunately locked the doors, and was on the phone (possibly with 911) just in case someone tried to steal her from the car as she waited. In the North End. In broad daylight. So, I stood there dumbly for a few seconds, avoiding looking cool yet again while she did a fingerprint scan to make sure it was me before letting me in.

Old School
Then, not twelve feet from Mike’s, I saw the old breed of the North end standing on a corner looking like he wanted to cross the street. Like the new school North Ender, he also had a top coat, but he also had a black hat, scarf, and big glasses on. Unlike the New Schooler, the Old Schooler was either hard into his seventies, or gently into his eighties. We waved him across. He waved us on. We waved him across. He waved us on. We waved him across, and he smiled, gave up, walked over to my window, and motioned for me to roll it down.

He reached in the window, shook my hand, and in a thick Italian accent said, How are you a doing today?” I said that I was great, while remaining thoroughly amused by the situation. “Ah, I see a you went to visit a my friend a Mike. You see a him inna there?” I replied that I didn’t think so, but I really wasn’t sure what he looked like. “I just a kidding you. He’s in a the Florida.” Then we talked about the weather in Florida for a bit, and how cold it was here. Then he looks over at my driver and squints a little and looks at my a little funny. In a lower voice he said, “How come a you let a her drive?” I then assured him that it was ok, because she was a very good driver. He looked at me, looked at her, and after a pause said, “You a very lucky a man,” Then we shook hands once again and he was off.

He has no idea how right he is. I am a the very a lucky a man.

Rock is Dead
This morning I happened to catch 5 minutes of the Hill Man morning show on WAAF. It’s a mediocre drive time morning show at best, and a nightmare of bland right wing bullshit at worst. It has a dynamic that doesn’t work, and really doesn’t work on a station who’s tagline is, “If it ROCKS, it’s WAAF.”

Today, Greg Hill decided that in light of the lead singer of Mudvayne comparing president Bush to Osama bin Laden, he would no longer play Mudvayne on the show.

Reason’s that I don’t care:

1. The Hill Man morning show sucks, and I don’t listen,
2. Mudvayne sucks, and I don’t listen,
3. There are many radio stations, and people can get their fix of shitty corporate rock elsewhere,
4. All the radio stations are owned by large parent companies that control all that you see and hear, anyway.
5. Greg Hill has been staring at his 401(k) numbers for so long that he can’t remember what it’s like to need to rock
6. Greg Hill would gladly wipe president Bush’s ass if he took a shit on his own mother, and
7. did I mention that the Hill Man morning show sucks?

Reasons I do care:

1. If your station’s tagline says that you rock, look at that as your prime directive. Rock. Don’t put politics over rock, or dress codes over rock. Just rock.
2. Since when has the political views of a rock band mattered in the question of if they get airplay or not? Rage against the Machine are Communists. System of a Down are libertarians at best. Hell, the Sex Pistols were Anarchists.
3. If you say to bands, “Bands that stand on this side of the political spectrum will not get airplay,” bands will conform to get airplay. You are then furthering corporate control and homogenization of music.
4. Since when did it become a band’s job to be right-wing or conform to the establishment? I always thought that the core of rock was rebellion, and I thought the only job of a band was to get really drunk, play really loud, and tear up hotel rooms.

The sad thing was that the lead singer of Mudvayne was on air kissing Greg Hill’s ass to get his songs back on the air.

Mudvayne is a prime example of the level of corporate control of the music industry. What happened to the days when bands like the ‘Crue, and ‘Sabbath had hands full of tail and noses full of coke, and were throwing TV’s out the window while giving everyone the finger? That was rock. If you have not been banned from a hotel, I have news for you: You’re not Rock. If you’re a DJ who bans music based upon their political views, I have news for you: You have no understanding of what Rock is. Cash in. Head for talk radio or AM. You can fit in, rub elbows with Limbaugh, and wear cool izod sweaters while complaining about the youth of today.

Rock is dead.

My car turned 100,000 miles old today. I picked up on it on the way to work when it was 100,002. Damn it. I actually thought about smashing the dashboard and rolling the number back with my index finger.

The last time this happened, my car died within a week. The computer, the tranny, the brakes, the water pump and the alternator went all at once. I sunk $1100 into it before getting fed up with the all the problems of my beloved 1987 Chevy Celebrity. Weighing my options, I thought that I’d either put monster truck tires on it, paint Celebrasaurus down the side in fancy letters, paint a big, scary mouth on the front, and take on BigFoot And GraveDigger in the Monster Truck Nationals on Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY! …or possibly just donate her to a charitable organization.

Given my lack of cash due to an unheathy music habit, and lack of parking due to the Quincy bachelor pad, the Celebrasaurus dream was a little out of reach. I called a Jewish temple in the Quincy area, telling them that the I had a car that they could have free, but it couldn’t be driven more than 10 feet. After 15 minutes of explaining that I wouldn’t drive it to them, tow it to them, or push it to them, that it was free, and he didn’t have to take the car, the guy from the Temple grudgingly relented and said that he’d come over and pick it up while I was at work. The next day, the car was gone.

Three days later, the guy calls me up furious, and yelling at me about the poor condition of the car…

Him: Are you aware that the brakes in that car you donated are a mess?
Me: Uh, yea. I told you the brakes were a mess. That’s why I donated it instead of selling it.
Him: Are you aware that the transmission needs work.?
Me: I told you that.
Him: You didn’t say how much work!
Me: Did I pose as a mechanic?
Him: No, but this thing has problems…
Me: It was free.
Him: …and the brake lines had no pressure
Me: It was free.
Him: I had to tow it from your house, and my mechanic is still working on it.
Me: I told you that you’d have to tow it. Did I mention that the car was free?? Do you want a refund or something?
Him: You ought to take better care of your car.
Me Look, thanks for calling, but although amusing, this is a big waste of my time. I gotta go. It’s time for a smoke break.
Him: But, I…
Me: Really. Thanks for calling.
Him: You…
Me: Bye now.

While I sat there smoking in my tiny bachelor pad after the call, I could only laugh. Some people feel that they are entitled. To what, I don’t know.

By 14, I was working at the Villa Rosa as a dishwasher. A kid that was known for getting his ass kicked by everyone and everything (including kids younger than him) worked there, too. On his way out the door one night, I asked him why everyone kicked his ass. He said, “Oh, they don’t kick my ass, anymore,” and lifted his shirt displaying a snub nosed .38 jammed into his pants.

It was at that time that I got the idea that getting out of the public school system might be a good idea. If I went to public, I figured that I would continue on the same path that I was on, and the trouble looked like it was only going to get bigger. We were already started occasionally drinking before school, and we were fighting everyone and everything that crossed our paths. The prospect that I could be in a fight with someone with a gun was enough to make me want out. I figured that private school might get me out of there: pull me out of the crowd, and out of the town. I wasn’t a drug dealing, gun toting gangsta in the hood, but I was definitely on the wrong track. Although it was never discussed, my mother and sister recently confirmed my feelings of that time by expressing the same sentiment.

The thing about private High School that is beneficial is that they don’t take any trouble. If you fight in school, or make a general punk of yourself, you’re gone. The standard for expulsion is much lower in the private schools, and there are no second chances because they don’t have to keep teaching you. It was settle down, or ship out. There were new rules, but it is easier to take the kid out of the environment than to take the environment out of the kid. This is where the second stage of the progression settled in: The Freak.

The Freaks are close relations to the nerds, and may even qualify as nerds in some cases. They are as low on the social scale as the nerds, but they are usually rebellious enough to take care of business better than the nerd. This is where I landed once I realized that my current path would not be tolerated. Fights were still conducted, but they were conducted off school grounds. The drinking kept going, and it fueled more fighting. Mostly, it was more of the same, though. The football players liked to pick on the nerds and the freaks, and there was a social pecking order, but it was to a lesser extent than in middle school.

I found that violence was still an amazing tool, but an even better tool was intimidation. If you throw up signs that say “Danger! Do not touch,” you will weed out over half of your prospective tormentors. If you have the attitude to match, you weed out another quarter. If there is enough proof out there that you can ultimately back it up, you’ll get another 20 or so percent. Without raising a fist, you have eliminated 95% of all the torment. This is the way that the freak operates.

If people have the option of picking on a dork with glasses, or a guy in a flight jacket, combat boots and a shaved head who is not afraid to stare them down, on whom are they going to pick? The nerd. The freak avoids the heat, and can provide full support to the nerds, as he doesn’t have a circle to fall out of. In my opinion, it’s a more advantageous place to be, as the pressure is much lower. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint) you can’t really befriend too many people in this circle. Most of the freaks that you hang out with won’t ever attend a reunion. Just like you, they’ve all opted out.

I found the best article that I have ever read on school social politics. “Why Nerds are Unpopular,” by Paul Graham delves into not only the reasons behind being a nerd, the consequences of being a nerd, the social system that punishes them, but offers possible solutions to the problem. As I have been away from the school social system for nearly 12 years, he brought back points that are not only accurate, but had been pushed out of my brain either intentionally or unintentionally over time. I found myself saying “Oh, yea” and “wow” a lot as not only memories, but social regulations came dripping and then flooding back.

Some of his points:

• “Nerds serve two masters. They want to be popular, certainly, but they want even more to be smart.”
• “Public school teachers are in much the same position as prison wardens. Wardens’ main concern is to keep the prisoners on the premises. They also need to keep them fed, and as far as possible prevent them from killing one another. Beyond that, they want to have as little to do with the prisoners as possible, so they leave them to create whatever social organization they want. From what I’ve read, the society that the prisoners create is warped, savage, and pervasive, and it is no fun to be at the bottom of it.”
• Freaks and nerds were allies, and there was a good deal of overlap between them. Freaks were on the whole smarter than other kids, though never studying, or at least never appearing to, was an important tribal value.
• “I didn’t realize that the reason we nerds didn’t fit in was that we were a step ahead. We were already thinking about the kind of things that matter…”

When I showed up to school in my thick brown glasses, plaid pants, and a part that started just slightly above my ear (example), I had no idea that the next decade would not only penalize me for being who I was, but force me to survive in a system in which I did not belong by forcing me to become a part of it.

Having people pick on you all the time is damaging. My mother related a story to me a few months ago in which an older kid was chasing me home from grade school every day. One time, he pushed me out into traffic. As this was over 20 years ago, I had completely forgotten about it. I vaguely remembered the incident, but what came flooding back was the complete fucking terror that only comes with being persecuted constantly, and not being able to do anything about it. Not knowing who was around what corner, and whether they were going to knock the books out of your hands, trip you, or just push you around creates the attitude of a beaten dog. You skulk, you avoid, and you learn to growl because you know that next beating is just around the corner. Even when it’s not, you train yourself to think it is, because the minute you let your guard down and they catch you unaware, it’s going to hurt a lot worse.

So, you become paranoid. Really paranoid. And eventually that paranoia is going to break you.

When I was maybe 6, I remember the confusion and the helplessness of watching my best friend’s brother kicking his ass worse than usual. He terrorized us constantly, and there was nothing that I could do. I was helpless. Then the wisdom passed on by every male over 50 took hold, and I punched his brother square in the nose. I remember the moment of silence where everything was in slow motion. You can observe the same thing when a baby falls. The shock hits, and then behind it comes a wave of confusion where they are deciding whether to cry or not. I can remember the shocked look on his face, and then the blood. I can remember him running into the house screaming, and then my friend getting up and looking at me with an expression that showed almost as much shock and fear as his brother. I can still remember running up the stairs tearing open the screen door and apologizing to everyone in sight, and then Mrs. Chin sending me home with a stern but sympathetic look saying, “It’ll be ok. Come back later. You just have to go home now. Go.”

I was crushed. I didn’t know what else I could’ve done. My friend was screaming in pain, and I tried to help. That was a defining moment for me. It was then that I realized that violence was a powerful tool.

Soon after, when one of the top bullies in my school was doing his usual routine of picking on me, I decided I wasn’t going to take it. I had a new tool in my arsenal, and I was going to test it out. When he tried to push me out of line, I stood up to him and we ended up fighting right there 5 feet from the front door, not a warden in sight. No one won, but more importantly, I didn’t lose. I can remember the kid standing up and saying “Kid, you got guts.” From an 8 year old, this doesn’t seem like much, but for someone at the bottom of the shit pile, this is like a blessing. From there, I started a rep. I was a nerd, there was no question about that, but I was the nerd that might just kick your ass if you fucked with him.

Both the nerds and the tough kids looked at me differently. I was putting a foot in two very different social circles. Because there was no real way to ignore a possible tough kid, there was a respectful tie created, and eventually I had a very solid footing in their crowd. I became the only nerd in the tough crowd. Not only did this give me a free pass from ass kickings, but it put me in a sort of “made” status in the school. I sat with the nerdy kids at lunch, but I could call on the tough kids to make trouble for any popular asshole who tried use me as a wrung on the ladder of popularity. Popularity is fragile in the school system, and nothing will ruin it for you faster than getting your ass kicked by a nerd. And there is something truly beautiful about taking someone from the top of the social food chain and putting him on the bottom for fucking with the wrong nerd. This happened a number of times, and although I hate to admit it, it was immensely satisfying.

This new position gave me the ability to give people free passes from getting their asses kicked by putting a word in the ears of the 4 other tough kids. I could use these structures to either directly ward off a threat, or put the word out on someone that they were under my protection. Simply saying, “If you want a piece of him, you’re going to have to go through me,” can indefinitely ward off terror from someone. I did this as much as I could, but as I said, popularity is a fragile thing. You can’t put in passes for everyone, and you unfortunately have to stand by and watch some people get their ass kicked. If I put in too many passes, I risked falling out of that group. If I fell out of the group, I would lose the ability to give anyone a pass.

As my socialization progressed, I can remember coordinating fights with rival schools, coordinating “official” versions of events for other kids to pass on to school officials, and thumbing my nose at the wardens. It seems pretty cool looking back, but this all takes its toll. You think like an animal. Violence is the answer, and the threat of violence is the means of control. You get not only used to the power structure, but the power structure becomes a part of you. You actually believe that the world operates based on violence, and that there is someone waiting around every corner to kick your ass. You know that you can beat the system, because you have become the worst kind of punk: you’re not a dumb kid bullying because you feel bad about how completely fucking stupid you are. You’re a nerd in punk’s clothing. You are using violence as a means of control, you get the other tough kids to vote your way, and you are building constituencies. The warden watches you and tries to bust you, but no matter how hard they try, you’ll always get the “I’m watchin’ you” speech, because they could never pin anything on you.

You are a mini mobster.

At 14, I really didn’t think I’d make 21, and I really didn’t care. Some kids want to be doctors and lawyers. I really just wanted to grow up to be a mobster. I knew the way power structures worked, had developed an unhealthy and complete disrespect for authority, and was familiar with the power structure of a prison: Go in and kick someone’s ass the first day, or be someone’s bitch. Be number one, but make someone else look like number one, so that you can dodge the bullet when someone guns for number one. Develop alliances, and use them. Sell who you have to sell, and preserve who you can.

I was fucking fourteen.

Something Old

In the last few weeks I’ve had the strangest dreams. In one, some sort of demon was holding me down, by gripping my arms with hands that looked like that the black, cracked, skin of a lava flow. The glow from the molten lava was shining through the cracks. I couldn’t move. I was done for, and there was nothing I could do yet I woke up yelling,

“Yea you motherfucker! That all you got? You want a piece of me?”

Even against demons, I try to be a tough guy. I really was screwed, though.

Then last night I had this dream that my Indian friend gave me his tickets to the local sporting event because he couldn’t make it. All I had to do was pick them up at the gate. First two indicators: I don’t have an Indian friend, and sporting events aren’t really my thing unless it’s something like the Tony Hawk Skateboarding Motocross and Electronics show. Or something. Well, anyway, I try to get in, and the ticket taker won’t give me my tickets because I’m not Mr. Pujabi. Then I tried to explain that he gave me the tickets, but the guy walks off. So, I figure “what the hell,” and start getting money ready to pay for tickets if he won’t give me my friend’s tickets because I had gone all the way down to the stadium, and I was going in one way or another . So, I start pulling out dirty socks to pay the guy at the counter. I think I got up to around twelve before I realized that socks were not the same as dollar bills. Embarrassed, I swept the socks off of the counter before the ticket taker came back and saw them. I thought that he would surely think that I was nuts and never give me the tickets. I then pulled out my cash, and realized that there was no way that I had enough for tickets for both me and whoever was on the periphery of this dream (I couldn’t see them, but I knew that they were there because who goes to a sporting event alone?). So the ticket taker tells me that I can’t have the tickets, and I get the manager who reiterates the same thing because the owner of the company won’t give them to me.

“Get me the owner then.”

I’m told to go talk with the owner, and he’s this tall mean looking Indian guy in a nice suit, who’s pulling this power trip attitude with me. Then, all of a sudden as dreams go, the guy is my boss. The manager’s there, and I work for him, too. So the owner starts in with some power tripping garbage about “How dare you” this and “How dare you that”: and starts pointing a finger in my face and talking real close. Then I leaned in closer and a very even, and very menacing tone said,

“Listen, motherfucker. I don’t need this job. I don’t need you. I can live off the money from the sale of my house and you, you petty cheap suit wearing asshole, can go fuck yourself. I don’t need these tickets, and I really don’t need any more of your shit.” Then he stammered a little and tried to back away. I stepped on his foot before he could get very far and leaned in closer and said,

“And if you ever even think about putting your fucking finger in my face again, you will live to regret it. Am I making myself clear?”

Then, the owner scurried out while my manager was smiling ear to ear and giving me an emphatic thumbs up.

From these, I think that we can conclude with reasonable certainty that I may have a problem with authority, both corporate and divine, and I may have a demon following me. Or…I shouldn’t be eating Concession Obsession, The Big Dig, or any other gooey ice cream before bed.

Something New

I was exploring the web, and came across corporatemofo.com. I found the articles mildly entertaining, and I thought I’d bookmark it for later. So, I did.

Something Borrowed

I stole this right out of Lockergnome’s newsletter: Digital experiences

Something Blue
It’s so cold here that the time to frostbite on exposed skin is reportedly ten minutes. It’s been in the teens and single digits with the wind chill, and it’s getting colder. Most are excited that it’s going to get into the 20’s at the end of the week. The landlord asked that I leave my faucets dripping and the sink cabinets open to avoid extreme pipe bursting action (I wish I had reverb. Suuuunnnndayyyyy! Extreme treme treme Piiiiipe BURSTING action action action…). So, I did.

Typing this with the thermostat set at sixty is making my hands sore. Outside without gloves and my hands actually hurt. The real issue is that anyone left on the street faces a life or death situation on nights like this. From what I’ve heard from the media, the shelters are overcrowded. And I don’t know what to do about it.

Hopefully I’ll call a shelter tomorrow and see if there is anything that they need. I hope that I don’t forget and leave it up to someone else. Damn this memory.

Note

If some of those lazy bloggers that I know don’t get blogging, I might actually have to pick up a phone and find out how they’re doing. Damn them.

American Idol

Today, on Howard Stern they interviewed the pin head judges from American Idol. They were tearing apart singers that Howard brought in to be judged on their singing ability. It was a laugh out loud funny moment when the judges, who supposedly are America’s keenest eyes (and ears) for talent panned a guy who auditioned by singing “Hero” from the latest Spiderman movie. They said he was too old, his voice was weak, and he really needed to project more. They also said that he would never make it because he sang with his eyes closed and didn’t interact with the judges very well.

The singer was Chad Kroeger, the actual singer of “Hero,” which has, at the time of this writing, sold over eight million copies.

I do give them credit for taking it in stride and laughing at themselves afterwards. Howard Stern, 1. American Idol, 0.

I feel very out of touch with the Dubya regime. They’re ramping up to attack Iraq under whatever circumstances that they can find. It was originally that Iraq was somehow connected to the Afghani terrorists, then it was that they are storing weapons of mass destruction, and now it is a “preemptive strike”.

1.) Last time I checked, Bin Laden was in Afghanistan, not Iraq and Dubya couldn’t find him. Maybe he really can’t, or maybe it’s a courtesy to the Bin Laden family. Dubya is on such good terms with the Bin Laden family that he sent a private plane to pick up the entire Bin Laden family and take them out of the country very, very shortly after the Sept. 11th attack. Why? They’re very, very rich.

2.) If the case is that this is a preemptive strike for weapons of mass destruction, why has Dubya just given 95 million dollars to the communist North Korean government so that they may restart their nuclear program. Nuclear program? North Korea? That’s not only giving our traditional enemies aid, but giving them (say it with me) weapons of mass destruction. Dubya. What the hell is going on?

3.) From what I can recall from the school yard, a preemptive strike is aggression, and aggression is wrong. You can’t just punch someone in the face for having the potential to kick your ass. Otherwise, the rest of the yard might jump on you.

We are being fed the idea that this will somehow be a war on terrorism. What it’s going to be is a war for oil. If we control the Iraqi oil supply, we have a good chance of disrupting OPEC. If we can disrupt OPEC, we can tighten the military strangle hold on the world.

What this has to do with Osama bin Laden is: nothing. What this has to do with mysterious chemical weapons is: nothing. There is no reason, he has no UN backing, and Dubya regime is still moving ahead to start a global war.

If he does, I think that this country is going to be in trouble. We may have bases in every country, but those bases won’t mean anything if the world turns on us. We are already irritating the world, and have been rubbing them the wrong way for the last 50 years. As a citizen, you are currently supporting Dubya’s regime through your taxes, you soon will be supporting it with your sons, and if the world gets in on it, we may be paying individually for the idiocy of our government.

So what to do? Some have suggested beginning impeachment hearings before this goes any further. Others suggest shutting off the TV and writing little pieces like this, as the news media seems to have forgotten how to report when it fell firmly into Bush’s pocket. I really don’t know.

I do know that Bush’s edited address struck me as laugh out loud funny.

Help?
I have tons of space and options on this site, and I don’t use it for crap. It’s partially due to lack of time, partially lack of creativity. If anyone has any suggestions, drop me a line.

I started reading Chomsky’s “Manufacturing Consent.” A really great book if you want to look at what your country and the media are really doing to you. The preface is 60 pages and has over 150 footnotes. This is going to take a while.

A special thanks to those of you that donated to the National kidney foundation this XMas. In the future, when I get my super-human clone kidneys as a result of your donations, I will not use them to damage your bushes or flower beds. Maybe.

Highlights at 11
So, I’m laying in bed over vacation, (which I did rather regularly and for extended periods of time) and I’m listening to AM 1400. AM 1400 is one of those stations that plays Frank Sinatra, Jose Feliciano, and Jim Croce back to back. It plays all the songs that you never hear on FM, and most that you don’t want to. It evokes strange feelings of hatred and comfort at the same time, and a lot of old people call in, so I listen often.

On one morning they had a contest. The question was: “Which state put the pronunciation of it’s name into an actual law?” I thought for a second, and thought Arkansas was a good candidate. Because they were giving away tickets to Mumenchantz, which seemed interesting to me when I was a kid 20 years ago but incited nothing even remotely like interest for me now, I wasn’t going to bother with dialing them up on the rotary phone in my bedroom.

Then the answers started rolling in. “Is it Hawa ee ee?” asked one woman. No, smart ass. Nice try, though. I don’t think the Hawaiians are as concerned with the our pronunciation of their name, as they are with the the fact that we invaded them and never left. I doubt that they would waste one minute of sunshine indoors passing that law. Ah, hell, she sounded old, so I gave her a little leeway and deemed it a good guess, anyway.

Guess number two: “Kansas?” Kansas? Kansas? Are you fucking kidding me? Even the announcer, who is really nice to the old people just let the answer hang in the air for a minute before apologizing and hanging up.

Guess number three: “Iowa?” Arrrggghh. I am actually out of bed and yelling at the radio now. Iowa As I yelled at the radio asking how in the flying fuck someone could mispronounce Iowa, and wondering what genetic bouillabaisse that this woman was privileged to be a part of, the announcer again let the answer hang in the air before saying that he had never actually heard anyone mispronounce Iowa before.

“Well, some people say Aiwa.”

I called in the air strike on the North Shore of Massachusetts, just in case this woman’s genes may have escaped in to one or more humans, and started dialing the rotary phone like a madman.

ziiiiiiipp chick chick chick chick chick chick chick ziiiiiiiiip chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick zip chick

I admit that I didn’t even remember the entire number, and I really really really didn’t want the prize, but I couldn’t listen to another second of this human tragedy. As I dialed the 6th random number, a man as exasperated as I was called in and won the prize. I then wound down.

I took the christ right out of this usurped Christian Holiday. It’s actually a pagan Holiday derived from Sun worship, (why do you have a X-Mas tree in your house, and why does Jesus’ birthday fall right on an a solstice? Because it’s actually a Pagan rip-off. More.), so I’m calling it X-mas this year. My Mom would not like that, as when we were kids, we would have to redraw any X-mas cards into “Christmas” cards.

Right now, another group is having a Holiday (read X-mas, because it never falls on any Jewish, Muslim, Pagan, or any other holiday) party near my desk. (Wouldn’t it be nice if people said what they meant?) I never mind people partying, but I hate being included by proxy. I like to choose to party or not party. I was invited to the company holiday “party” (Chinese food in the basement) yesterday, but I ducked. There are some great workers here, but there is no real incentive to spend my little free time watching the managerial verbal fellatio and ladder climbing, so I duck out of every party. I’ll never be noted as a political wheeler dealer, or someone with a healthy respect for authority.

Now, they’re playing reggae fucking Christmas songs on the boom box so loud that my earphones are having trouble blocking the shit out. It’s not not only annoying, but totally fucking annoying. Putting the boom box on the empty desk next to mine is moving me slowly towards the gun drawer. I have a pen in my ear, but I can’t seem to pierce my ear drum. Damn you Bic and your fat safety pens.

Dear Pagan X-mas sun god, use your infinite solar power to fry this hellish noise and coax the people who play it to a galaxy far, far away. I beg you from the bottom of my Yule.
Love,
Jon

It’s not a big deal, though. Party on, folks. Enjoy. I’m going to lunch with the rest of the dorks.

Today I saw the cutest kids in the mall. The littlest princess of a girl was being led around by her older brother. She looked about 3, with hood up in her fuzzy pink jacket, even though we were inside. I would speculate that the little princess rarely took that jacket off at all. She walked with that clumpy, awkward gate of a 3 year old that always makes me smile. Her brother was probably six, and looked like a relatively average kid, towing his baby sister along. It reminded of my sister and I, and I enjoyed this for a good 3 minutes, until the mother turned to the 6 year old and spat,

“Your such a LOSER!”

I went from happy guy, to feeling really bad for that kid. Really bad. I felt everything sink. Don’t kids get beat up enough by their peers? I did. All the time. It was constant. It was also to be expected, as I’ve had glasses since the age of three, and got stuck in the smart classes. But I didn’t expect it. I had no idea why I was being picked on when I first went to grade school. I remember being really confused, because my parents made me feel good about myself from an early age.

Even though I had to consistently defend myself against other kids with either wit or fist, I never had to take on the insurmountable climb of defending myself against my parents.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Although…my parents did send me to grade school battle in PLAID pants that commanded, “Hey, I need a good ass kicking. Can anyone fit me in? Can anyone put me on a scheduled ass kick, like daily, or hourly? Anyone? I really could use it.”