The first thing we do is kill all the hipsters

This is incredible. (Thanks, jon.)

Be forewarned, however: Some of us are armed.*

*Photographic proof forthcoming.

The time monitor, the space measurer

Most likely unbeknownst to him, Mark Weisblott has given me the best xmas present ever: news of a documentary about the Minutemen called "We Jam Econo." Seriously, this is the happiest I've been in weeks, which, when you've spent the past six days drinking Listerine filtered through Wonderbread, isn't saying much, but still.

Just in time for the holidays

I meant to post this yesterday. Despite public and professional outcry, Abbott Labs is quadrupling the price of Norvir, an essential component to a number of AIDS drugs.

Critics of the price hike cited by the Journal say Abbott's intention is to push patients away from using Norvir in drug cocktails and switch to its newer AIDS treatment, Kaletra -- something Abbott denies. They also say the company's decision involving the 7-year-old drug raises questions about the industry's traditional contention that drug prices are high because of the need to recoup research and development costs.

After all, this pricing strategy is simply a matter of supply and demand.

Public service announcement

For those of you who are searching this site desperately for my email address to send me hate mail, here you go. As of tomorrow, I will be in the hinterlands, sans internet, but if you'd like, just write down your screed and tie it to a brick and throw it through my ma's window. Thanks.

I assume that bag is not for me

I am a pervert and now everbody knows:

Some of you know how I abhor racial stereotyping often found in pornography. However, Black Gangbangers 2 is a triumph of modern cinematic pornography. The talent of the filmmakers was evident in the original, Black Gangbangers, but their genius was not revealed until the release of the sequel. I think that everyone can agree that the stylistic brilliance and depth of subject matter in this film makes it a masterpiece, the only reason this film did not win Best Picture is the prudery of the American moviegoer. This achievement in adult filmmaking has to be celebrated for it artistry, while objecting to the use of the racial stereotyping for purely prurient purposes. Really, no pornography collection is complete without this classic.

Do you hear what I hear?

Endless Christmas Carols Irk Czech Clerks:

Labor unions in the Czech Republic demanded Monday that stores stop playing Christmas carols incessantly or pay compensation for causing emotional trauma to sales clerks.

That I would never be lacking for something to fuck

You should also go read Come Justin, On Kelly: Porn Titles for 2003 Movies over at Lindsayism. (And, yes, from this point on, all post titles will reference Palace. That is all.)

Just a symbol of women and luck

Here, go read this Lester Bangs interview:

Well, It’s like a friend of mine said when I asked him “ Do you think The Rolling Stones should break up now that they’ve put out ‘Some Girls’ and quit while they’re ahead or should they keep going? ”. And he said “Oh no, absolutely, they should keep going until they’re totally senile, and a little bit more creepy and pathetic and creaky each time playing the same old Chuck Berry riffs until they’re 60 years old”. And I agree that’s exactly what they should do, and I think Rock’n’Roll as it goes along gets more creaky. The whole culture will get more creaky and why not. I mean I’d rather listen to the Stones than Tony Bennett or something like that.

There goes the neighborhood

Olsen twins to attend NYU.

I'm setting up a telescope in my office and charging by the minute, if anyone's interested.

Now, let's take a look at your boils!

That's my new favorite holiday greeting. My dermatologist introduced me to it. As usual, he gave me a prescription for my blemishes. I never have filled it in the past, seeing as my pimples are one of the only things that makes me look younger than I really am.

And, no skin cancer yet. So I got that goin' on too.

On my way back to work I popped into a kiddie boutique to pick up some xmas gifts for my pregnant friend. I never thought I'd find myself buying something called a Winkel that wasn't some sort of wind-up, hopping penis.

While I was shopping at Bumblesticks and Hootenanny (or whatever the fuckin' name of the place was) I was struck by the similarities between kiddie boutiques and sex shops:

• Bright colored plastic.
• Everything nontoxic.
• And waterproof.
• And squeaky.
• Lots of pirate- and ballerina-themed stuff.
• And women in dirndl skirts.

I left with the realization that I will never look at those deranged animal-themed sex toys the same again, particularly after purchasing an item that bore some resemblance to them, but in addition featured a rattle and "can be put into fridge to cool for ease in teething."

My pussy has no stripes

Ha! Eat the Feet:

Without warning, the cat will leap on our feet, bite our toes and apply the patented jackrabbit kick move which you can only get by rotating the D-pad in a deft and quick semi-circle and pressing the X, Y and L buttons simultaneously.
This is a lot of fun for the cat. I imagine he thinks my feet under the covers are some deathly bed-shark or perhaps He Who Walks Behind the Rows from Children of the Corn.

Am reminded of that scene in Poltergeist

Jellybath. (via Cliff Pickover.)

Lagniappe

Overheard on the subway this morning, one smartly dressed marketing coordinator (headband, courduroy topcoat) to a smartly dressed PR flack (Stila lipgloss, pointy-toed knee boots): "I can't *believe* Mike's marrying a fat girl."

Was tempted to kick one or both of them.

You got a pig that good you don't eat 'im all at once

Y'all could do worse than to go visit redclay and read man bites dawg:

she stands there for a minute lookin at me,
then she draws her hand back and smacks me in the face.
one of the thorns catches and cuts my jaw all the way across.
she throws the flowers in my lap, and leaves.
i had to laugh.

I met an anarchist in Tompkins Square Park

Maybe this is the hangover speaking, but FUH2 | Fuck You And Your H2 is my new fravoritest website EVAR.

The Question

Why are the Reagans worried that John Hinkley's out on his own? Even if he shot the poor old bastard again, at this point wouldn't that be -as they say- a blessing?

As you look into the abyss and all that

The universe mocks me: I come up fifth in a search for vagina plastic surgery photos.

One thing is certain; we are *never* drinking again

It's a bad night when the last thing your friends tell you (trying to be helpful, I presume) is "Don't puke on anyone, okay?"

In the spirit of this, I present to you I Wonder If You're Drunk Enough To Sleep With Me Tonight, by Ballboy, who, as some of you may recall, had the misfortune of playing with VHS or Beta.

The Angels in America Drinking Game

I'm positive that black labrador puppy is Mary Stuart Masterson or whatever her name is. Now finish that hard lemonade or I'll punch your dick in!

Rubbin' one out for the once and future king

God bless friends who, in the spirit of the giving season, tell you stories abt Viggo Mortensen deflowering a certain overrated NY artist's pubescent daughter. I'm going to take lunch now.

I'm going to set fire to your glamour

Last night I attended an xmas party where I knew no one, which is usually the best kind of party. I stuffed a wheel of brie into my purse, slipped a dark-eyed gamine the tongue under the mistletoe, and performed ablutions in the punch bowl. I also told the treasurer of the building's co-op board which apartments sold the best skag.

When I walked over to the mulled wine I was approached by a tall blond woman. "Have you ever skied in Europe?" she asked, by way of introduction. For a moment I thought she was making some allusion to cocaine. I debated the merits of each withering reply that popped rapidfire into my head, and just said no. God bless us, everyone!

My boss is a 17-lb calico

So I'm currently cat- and housesitting for my friends while they're out gallivanting all over Italy. The cats haven't quite figured out that I'm the one who's supposed to feed them. They look at me imploringly When do our feeders return? And who are you? This is just as well, because they go elsewhere in the apartment to do their predawn dryfood assdance shakedown. I guess they'll figure it out soon enough, though, won't they.

I love housesitting for people. I love eating their food, using their toiletries, trying on their clothes, listening to their CDs. (I realize that admitting as much will not get me invited back many places, but oh well.) These friends in particular have the most excellent array of bath products and fancy foods. Organic butter! A quart of maple syrup! Gourmet salsa! Jacques Torres chocolates! The only thing the place is missing is cable. And coffee. And booze. (There's Ricard and cooking sherry under the sink, my friend offered helpfully before she left.) But these are all things that can be taken care of. And the Prisoner and Stanley Kubrick box sets certainly make up for the absence of the Hitler Channel and the You're a Miserable Cunt So We're Going to Give Your Cheap Ass a Makeover Channel.

Before they left on Sunday, we actually discovered that Saddam had been captured not on CNN, not even on Face the Nation, but on the Italian news on Channel 25. We were waiting for the Juve v. Parma match. A pretty, pneumatic blonde wearing a white suit with a plunging neckline asked people on the street in Rome what they thought. "Important if true," most of them seemed to say. (Who knows what they were saying, eh, but they shrugged fairly indifferently.) "Where is football?" S said, flicking through the four channels on the TV angrily. The Italians, knowing what was good for them, did not postpone the broadcast for some trifling captured war criminal, and soon we were shouting Juve! Juve! Juve! happily.

I still have very little to relay right now, I'm afraid. Oh, except this: I got a spam email from one Radunz Kahoohalphala. I don't know what it was for, as I didn't even open it, but the name so charmed me that it has become my mantra, my call to arms, and my idle threat. "Don't make me send Radunz Kahoohalphala over to your desk to hurt you! I need that manuscript now."

Radunz Kahoohalphala is also my date for the office xmas party.

The candy-colored clown

I just remembered dreaming last night that I was watching a new TV show in which Ozzy Osbourne and Willie Nelson drive an RV around the country. I was angry because they were letting Ozzy drive, when clearly willie nelson is the more capable of the two. "This is very dangerous," I thought. Then I realized that it was a ratings ploy. Of course they'd make the drugged up one drive! Hijinx ensue!

My friend O suggested I send my dream to this guy, who does these neat comic strips based on dreams people tell him.

Maybe. Or maybe I should go straight to Fox.

Playing doctor

Listen to this jive ass shit:
"Without medical advice, use of Plan B by teens will be disastrous," said Dr. John Bruchalski of the Catholic Medical Association. "We are passing up the opportunity to educate our teens about the hazards of sexual intercourse."

Oh, yeah. Right when they need emergency contraception - i.e. after they've already had sex - that's a perfect opportunity!

Then again, it's probably difficult for Dr. Bruchalski to think clearly with the archbishop's tongue in his 'ear.

Some days you are the monkey, other days you are the kitten

A classic example

Um, hi?

thanks, gang, for not taking her rightfully away from me and seeing that she got home safe and sound. i can assure you she did not. ladies, please write if you found me gallant and sexy. docs, if you can hook me up with more roofies.

[this is good]

A Cotton Candy Autopsy, via Pixelsurgeon.

Nick Cave Dolls

OK, that title has nothing to do with anything.

After a supremely bad week here, I will admit that this made me slightly happier. And a little frightened. Maybe more frightened than happy. Kinda the way a baby looks when you turn the electric swing on "high."

Thanks Todd.

Satanically Yours Online Dating Service

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go on a date with a bonafide rock and roll star? To have VIP treatment at every exclusive high brow club in the world? To take champaigne bubble baths? To be escorted around town in a lavish stretch limosine with a strip club in the back? To become gossip fodder in every tabloid newspaper on the stands? Well, ladies, here it comes...

Win a date with Piss Pissedoffherson!

That's right. That sexy motherfucker who heads up The Devil's Own is whoring himself out to the winner at no cost to you what-so-ever. All you have to so is state in ten words or less why you should be the winner of the Win a Date with Piss Pissedoffherson contest. Submit your answers to Dana and she will choose the winner. But, it ain't even that easy, you dripping lasses. Read below for terms and conditions.

Terms and Conditions:

1. For the love of God, please be hot. By this, I mean, don't go trying to pull one over on me. I have a very serious reputation to uphold and uglies don't fit in it.
2. Please, be 18 or older. I have a serious reputation I'm trying to shake and if the cops see me meandering around the schoolyard again, well, off I go.
3. No high school dimploma or college degree required. It'd be nice if you have a brain though. Worry none, honey, I won't make you use it.
4. If you are the winner of this date, please leave all of your baggage at home. It's only a date and I couldn't care less if your boss sexually harrassed you at the office early that day. It'll be my cock you're sucking, not his.
5. Again, if you are the winner of the most exciting contest ever held, and if you are really lucky (two kinds of luck, sweetness, remember that!), expect to have your legs scrambled and your eggs deviled.
6. Suicide Girls greatly encouraged to participate. If you are a Suicide Girl and you don't win (hint: it's rigged in your favor), you are still encouraged to go on the date.
7. Now, depending on if you take this seriously or not, I may or may not take this seriously either. But, if you're diamond enough (and just fucking sexy hot), I'll fly out to you and take you on a date and pay for the whole thing and all I would expect is a warm bed, some giving up of the jewelry box and you pay for coffee the next morning.

I can feel you gushing now. Ladies, rev up for your downfall.

Like the groundhog and Jesus, I re-emerge

If only for a short while. Days turn into nights, nights into days, etc. Overheard last night: "And I would have fucked her for free if I didn't need the money."

OK, more important things that you should care about. Stop Prisoner Rape is releasing a report today about routine sexual abuse of female inmates in Ohio.

In the report, former ORW program coordinator Tim Daniell, former ORW corrections officer Mike Coffey, and former ORW health care administrator Traci Douglass-Coffey testify that a persistent climate of sexual abuse exists at ORW. The report details problematic incidents including violent encounters, coerced sexual activity, the trading of sex for favors, and relationships that could be characterized as "consensual," if it were not for the severe power imbalance between inmates and staff.

The report also claims that ORW officials acknowledge the practice of isolating women who report abuse and argue that it protects inmates. In contrast, the former staff members testify in the report that isolation is used to intimidate and harass inmates who speak out. “Placing a woman who reports sexual abuse in solitary confinement is counterproductive and abusive,” Stemple said. “This policy punishes the victim, emboldens perpetrators, and makes it much easier for abuse to flourish.”

He's the cranky one...

Some people say that bowling alleys got big lanes. Some people say that bowling alleys all look the same.

Coming to you from the aforementioned Corporate Death Star, it's me, tizzie. While Dana is attaining enlightment from a strict regime of fasting and high colonics, I'll be bringing you messages of sweetness and light.

Or not! Let's start with this game: can you count how many things are fucked up in this picture?

Dead Skinhead? Yes, please!

The early to late 1980s punk rock scene in Los Angeles was fertile ground for all things violent. It was only fitting that one of the nation's most notorious ganglands would play host to a number of punk rock gangs as well... The Suicidals, L.A.D.S. (Los Angeles Death Squad) and any number of skinhead branches. Nothing said "Love" in Los Angeles like a punk rock show with all of them aboard.

I believe it was No For An Answer, Insted, Uniform Choice, Final Conflict and Youth Of Today at the Fender's Ballroom in 1988. The venue was swarming with hostility as the sets stayed cliqued into place and, then.... Confrontation! Just about ten feet infront of me. A large, very brutish Suicidal walked up to a SFV Skinhead and started stabbing the holy fuck out of him. Blatant shanking. As the surrounding crowd panicked and splintered off, I just stood there smiling. Why? Because I hate skinheads that much. The more skinheads die, the better I feel. These courtesies should also be extended to hippies and crusty punks for all the obvious reasons. Does this make me a callous person? I hope to God so. But, nothing puts a spring in my step quite like a dead skinhead. Keep up the good work you saintly murderers. I'm in your corner.

Do You Like My Sunflower?

"Do you like my sunflower?" she asked. I could have said yes, if I did. But, I was more concerned with hovering. "If only I were a bee." I gave her. She was tall, slender, very well dressed and went by the name Salome, self confessed royalty from Ethiopia. She started buying the rounds at this swank bar in some alley downtown. Any man's eyes would come from looking at her but, you'd have to listen very intently to make sense of what she has to say. So, I just smiled, winked and nodded a lot. After sharking the pool table against the regulars, her and I lit out to my place. There wasn't even a verbal agreement to do so, we just assumed that direction and went. A fifth of whiskey secured on the way and that's how it was going to go down... I knew that I had to wake up early as I was heading down to Los Angeles in the morning to record a demo. This conflicted with the slow motion some women possess when it comes to removing clothes and she wore every favorite garment. And, then, there she was, dressed only in the mock moonlight of the streetlights. "If I let you fuck me, you have to promise to fuck me five more times," was her tokenentry line that opened the floodgates and I turned her into a poseable mannequinn. It was a pornographic black and white film about a peasant and a Princess. As I sat there on her chest, my cock getting some royal mouth treatment, she pulls it out and asks if I would like to come on her tits or in her mouth. "Well, I ain't never seen a pearl necklace on a black woman before so,..." and I shot thick across her chin, neck and tits. Then, she pulled out her cell phone and called her thug of a gangster boyfriend and told him that she was with another man and that she won't be home tonight. The break of light, I gave her some cab fare and sent her on her way.

The girls I mean

I also thought I'd take this opportunity to welcome Tizzie, a friend and confidante, who will also be guest blogging this week, when she's not too busy battling the Corporate Death Star. You might remember her from this summer, while I was away being deprogrammed on vacation. She is not refined, but in a good way, like raw sugar. Or crude oil.

Thanks Tizzie!

Insert heart-attack-Blow-Up joke here

While my guest blogger is in the process of extricating himself from some lurid excapade, I would just like to say, RIP David Hemmings.

I trust you'll all behave

You may have noticed my absence today. It will continue, unfortunately. For a while. But in the meantime I am collecting guest bloggers like Hummels over here.

The first (and only, if he plays his cards right)(and by "playing his cards right", I mean "paying me off") is my good friend Pissed Pissedofferson (known by his un-Christian name, Mark, in some circles). My readers from San Francisco are probably already familar with him, particularly if they're of the female persuasion. He's a popular boy.

In addition to being a Lothario, he's a gifted singer and songwriter. You can catch him in innumerable locations around the Bay Area heading up his band, The Devil's Own, who are currently in between websites for reasons we shall not disclose.

Also, this man can drink me under the table, which says a lot, I think.

So while I'm off getting my blood transfused out at that clinic in Zurich where Keith Richards goes, P.P. will be regaling you with stories about love, sex, death, and music.

Please offer him a warm welcome, and let's hope he don't mung up the html.

One for the Alamo, one for the Pope

Have you heard about the most recent terrorist bust? Probably not. As far as I can tell, the only other news service to report on this (aside from WorldNetDaily, whom I can only assume were secretly chuffed) is the Asbury Park Press. Here's the FBI's press release.

In cases like this, the government and the news media alike seem to dismiss the enormity of the situation by assuring us that it's all just a bunch of crazy rednecks who don't have the smarts or the werewithal of their swarthier brothers in arms, but isn't this how we got into trouble in the past? (I mean, if you wanna believe what They tell you about the Oklahoma City bombing...those of us on the outer frequencies know the truth.)

They're driving from heaven into our eyes

T.A.R.R. Business: Engineering Reality is exactly what it says it is. (No, I don't know either.)

If blogs was hard liquor, I'd be Leavin' Las Vegas

Perhaps it seems a bit suspicious that both The Minor Fall, The Major Lift and I have been a bit too busy with "work" this morning to blog. And perhaps our shared penchant for bourbon might seem to indicate...well, we won't go into it. But don't worry, I'm certain we will both recrudesce like the human chancres we are shortly.

Oh, before I forget. Last night was my final class. You know you've made an impression on folks when your classmates' parting words to you are "Be nice to retards."

Bret Easton Ellis and I were just discussing this very topic as we snorted coke off the same stripper's tits

Do artists need narcotics even more than ordinary people?

The Paris hashish users resembled the Californian potheads of the 1960s in their idealism, poses and self-indulgence. "We were troubadours, rebels," said Flaubert, "above all we were artists." He and his contemporaries used hashish as part of their rebellion against middle-class conventions and industrial capitalism - what he castigated as "the shrivelled runt of human aspirations" typified by "railways, enema pumps, cream cakes and the guillotine". Parisian hashish smokers and eaters remained subversive types. As late as the 1870s, Arthur Rimbaud smoked hashish during the defiant phase of his adolescence when he was contemplating becoming an urban terrorist.

Slow news day here

Ludacris to star in new cartoon 'pimp' show:

The movie will feature the voices of Ludacris, who will hold down the main character: a foul-mouthed gerbil called 'Weathers' who meets a female hip-hop club goer by the name of 'Sweet Chiffon' (Lil’ Kim).

Sweet Chiffon, according to the script, takes Weathers around and hooks him up with a pimp character by the name of Fruit Juice (Bernie Mac - that's gonna be jokes!).

The film will also feature the voices of Mystikal, William Shatner (Star Trek), Carmen Electra and a list of others.

I gotcher stately pleasuredome right here

TMFTML brings us The Rime of the Ancient Editor:

He readeth best, who careth best
About things great and small ;
But never wants to hear about,
Who’s fucking Jerry Hall

Or Paris Hilton’s porno tapes
Or Liza’s new divorce.
Although when Pecker buys us up,
That’s all you’ll get, of course.

Snack lunch in the hall

But who knows what moistness hides within those doughy folds? (via Cruel.com)

More Despatches from the shithouse

Mugabe Envisages Alternative World Order Headed by China

The current world order is "unjust and unsustainable" and needs an alternative headed by communist China, according to Zimbabwe President Robert Mugabe.

Beware the matrix and keep a warm heart inside

Or, Who's the guy not wearing pants? And why?*

I sense that I am a disappointment to Canadian rock journalists worldwide, so herewith is the true account of my high school reunion, when people stopped being nice and started being real.

6:30
I pull up to the local bar blaring Born to Roll, a nod to a friend who insists (rightly so) that it is the ultimate driving song. Yeah, cruising down Main Street in the Subaru Wagon, taking the first of many twists off the flask of Bushmills in my purse. This is how we roll upstate, yo.

I am warmly greeted by M (one of my girlfriends from high school) and her husband D, and we stand outside the bar and smoke the first of approximately 100 cigarettes, cursing that douche Pataki. We go in and order the first of many drinks.

7:30
The bartender won't answer my repeated query as to whether there's a leak in the ceiling directly above the bourbon bottles. Thank god I've got back up in the purse, I think.

I return to the booth and find that we've been joined by one of my (many) stoner buddies. "Wow, remember when we used to get high, like, every day?" we reminisced, and then looked silently into our drinks for about 15 minutes.

Another classmate stops by our table. He's not going tonight. "Wow, Dave, you're still really fuckin' short!" He leaves with his parents. M and D start smiling nervously.

Then two of the Popular Girls stop by our table. They're still visually perfect, and I note (apparently not inwardly, as it turns out) that they look even better now that they've abandoned their Utah claws and discovered straightening irons. As they don their matching wool car coats I helpfully remind them to "clean them rusty pipes" before they get to the VFW. M and D try to sneak out without me.

8:30
I accidentally smear deviled egg on the baby photos foisted on me by a classmate. I attempt to wipe them down with a napkin dipped in beer. "You know, my mother told me that there's no such thing as an ugly baby," I say, daubing and shaking my head, "But I think she's wrong about that."

9:30
I have snapped a number of inadvertent mini-movies on my Elph. I am attempting to take photos but somehow my finger slips. I've managed to record an interesting bit of me and the classmate with the Genny Screamers.

Me: Wait. Wait. Wait wait wait. Wait. Wait.
Him: Aw, you fucked it up.

10:30
Somehow I find myself on the front porch with former members of our football team, smoking the 50th of the evening's 100 cigarettes, and toasting the memory of a dead classmate I hated. Miraculously, my self-preservation kicks in and I do not announce my true feelings. I offer a few select classmates sips of Bushmills.

11:30
My self-preservation has all but evaporated and I find myself doing the Tootsie Roll with my biology lab partner. "Remember when we experimented with oral sex in the storage closet?" I shout into his ear. "Oh, nevermind, that was your brother."

12:30
There is no more beer left. I search frantically through my purse for my flask. "What's with that big purse? You a superhero or somethin'?" I am asked by one of my classmates. "Remember that time you wet your pants at Field Day?" I sneer back. Classmate reminds me that it was I who wet my pants at Field Day, not him. I realize that my skirt is on backward.

1:30
There is now officially no booze left, except in my stomach. I am sitting in my car in the parking lot of the VFW, watching people woozily meander out. My friend N sits next to me, and we silently watch our classmates.

"Whatever happened to whatshisface?" I ask, my lolling head being held aloft only by my seatbelt, which I have already buckled in case I fall off the planet.

"I don't know," he replies philosophically.

We smoke the 99th and 100th cigarettes of the evening and go our separate ways.

I realize that I have wet my pants.

6:30
I find myself on the bathroom floor, sucking on a washcloth and moaning "Death is not an option."

The End.

*A direct quote from C, one-third of our nerdgirl troika in high school, upon gazing at aforementioned photos from the reunion. It should be noted that C was in Mexico for thanxgiving, and was thus not keepin' it real at the Ghent VFW, y'all.

And the Nazis want to kill everybody

I'm sort of relieved that the liminal liberal and I share similarly insane families:

Last night he managed to talk about how The Jews are to blame for everything, The West Indians are to blame for traffic problems in the city, The Mexicans are to blame for job losses throughout the country, and The Native Americans are such a spiritual people that not one of them bears ill-will towards white people. Homeboy was drunk. But even if he wasn't he would say this stupid shit. One of my favorites was in 1994, when he was convinced that the world would end in 1999. Because 999 is 666 upside down (and possibly, backwards. We have no way of knowing). I asked him what about 1666. Or 1969. Or 1669. Shit, why not 1333? Or just plain 666? He told me that he thought maybe he should sprinkle some holy water on me.

Encyclopedia Bush and the Case of the 54 Mysteriously Invisible Insurgents

This is fairly sickening:

At the morgue, Adnan Sahib Dafar, 52, an ambulance driver, pointed to a dead woman on a steel tray. The woman, Mr. Dafar said, had worked at the city's big pharmaceutical factory and had walked into the crossfire between American forces and Iraqi guerrillas that began with an attempted ambush of an American military convoy."Is this woman shooting a rocket-propelled grenade?" he demanded, standing over the body. "Is she fighting?" There was only one other body, that of a gray-bearded old man, in the morgue.

This is only adding to the eerie queasiness I've felt all morning, which started when I popped my freezing cold earphones into my ears and felt it all the way down my spine. Sometimes I wake up with that feeling. It started when I was a wee tyke. Maybe I should call my father and ask him if he diddled me or something when I was little. I find that it's always good to confront one's father with such things around the holidays, as it ensures bigger and better presents.

Your third drink will lead you astray

Here's the talking points memo from this weekend. Notice what actionable items have bubbled up so we're on the same page at the meeting.
Pre-reunion:

• Drinking beforehand lessens the trauma, however


• If you choose to drink beforehand in a public establishment, chances are good that you will run into several classmates who have the same idea,


• Some of whom will be the Popular Girls, who still look totally fucking incredible and will charitably stop by your table in order to rub it in your face.

• Chances are the first person you see when you walk in will be the last person you *want* to see


• And the one person you really wanted to see will not show up at all


• Though you will see a number of people that you forgot you wanted to see,


• And some of them will tell you that you look great, and


• They will dance with you to "Bust A Move"


• And you'll see a girl that you barely spoke to in school but thought was really nice and she will be beautiful and your faith in humanity will somehow be rekindled


• Even after you see the cutest boy in your class and he is balding and chubby


• And you chow down on chicken fingers and deviled eggs while boy after boy tells you "We should have dated in high school," and you think, Yeah, right


• Because you're more concerned with weaseling a beer out of a classmate who brought a case of Genny Screamers with him and the keg is kicked


• And you take lots of photos that turn out all blurry and are unpublishable because you can't remember if you remembered to ask them if they mind appearing on the intarweb


• And meanwhile you witness one of your classmates licking another classmate's earlobe


• While you're dancing with your junior high crush to ABBA


• And you realize it's probably time to go but you're so wasted you probably shouldn't drive


• So you end up piling into your car after trying to unlock the door for about five minutes with your friend from art class and you sit there and listen to hip hop and watch the people streaming out of the VFW and getting into their respective F150s and driving away and realizing, This wasn't so bad, now was it?


• Until you wake up the next morning feeling like death's asshole with a 2 hour drive ahead of you and a sore head


• And you realize, hours later, that you have nothing really awful or funny to say about the whole event.

So that you want to be conspicuous for manly virtue, noticing her breeches/Have been deeply stuffed with buttock?

A musical interlude, via Monk.

I feel your tsuris

There goes the neighborhood.

About 300 Hasidic Jews rallied yesterday outside luxury real estate developments in Williamsburg against the high rents and the "immoral" lifestyle the future residents will bring into the area.

"The main reason that we are upset is that we need affordable housing," said lifelong resident Joel Klein, 21. "The regular price is $200 per square foot, and now they're selling for $500 to $600."

Insert "spankings" joke here

A belated happy birthday to Evan Daze.

World AIDS Day

I have to admit that I am totally unprepared for World AIDS Day this year, and frankly, I'm not of the impression that I'm going to offer any of the twelve people who read this blog regularly information that they don't already know. But, here's some links of possible interest:

Stop Prisoner Rape offers advice on avoiding contracting AIDS in prison. The Guardian has an intimate account of what it's like being an AIDS orphan. The ACLU details a disturbing trend in AIDS- and HIV-related civil rights abuses.

And tonight at 7:30, if you're so inclined, you can go to St. John's Church of the Divine and hear Kofi Annan, and others, speak on AIDS.

(Don't worry, snarkiness and vitriol to follow shortly.)