They're at it again.
Iranian Nukes: Powell's "Evidence" Still Unverified
Check this story out at:
http://www.airamericaradio.com/
Other News:
http://www.nytimes.com
http://www.buzzflash.com
http://www.talkingpointsmemo.com/
http://www.michaelmoore.com/
Monday, November 22, 2004
Friday, November 19, 2004
Observations in Miniature: Archaic Hairstyles
I saw the mother of all mullets last night; it stood out like a beacon to all things NASCAR. I would imagine smaller mullets would bow down to it’s alter and present it with offerings of hairspray. It was awe inspiring in its frosted length and the sheer volume of its split ends which gave the wearer the aura of a chieftain donning a magnificent headdress. Mesmerized by the sight of it I nearly drove into the gas pumps at the Seven Eleven as its owner, a forty something year old man in Nike high tops, red sweatpants, and a black Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt picked something from his teeth with a key.
For those of you unfamiliar with the mullet I will give a brief description of this archaic hairstyle. The mullet is characterized by its length in the back, which may vary from just above the shoulders to mid thigh. The sides are generally cut short, the sideburns sheered away and the top can be spiky to medium in length. Mullets can be the product of a hair dresser but often times are home jobs chopped away by an amateur Edward Scissorhands using a Flowbee Vacuum Haircut System or garden sheers. For a vivid visual picture Davy Crockett in a coonskin hat.
I realize that adults adorning mullets, women included, are generally lost causes and cannot be weaned from this misguided hairstyle. I will not however stand idly by and watch the redneck children of America, so full of life, so full of potential, be brought down by the mullet, all their hopes and dreams dashed by a reluctance of their parents to adapt to socially acceptable forms of hair styling. You wouldn’t think something as small as a mullet could change the course of a person’s life but a mullet can mean the difference between food stamps and Microsoft stock options, or living in a converted chicken coop apartment vs. a château on a lake in the south of France. Bill Clinton didn’t have a mullet but his brother Roger sported one well into the 90’s. Bill went to the White House, Roger went to jail. This is just one of many cases of siblings split by the mullet and the difference it made in their lives. I could go on…
Why is it some of us hang on to hair cuts or clothing styles of bygone eras? Ric Ocasek of the 1980’s band The Cars, one of the founding fathers of the mullet, gave up the hair style when New Wave gave way to Grunge. He knew when to “Shake it Up” and when to cut it off. I would emphatically ask the rest of America still holding onto to this distorted remnant of hair styling past to do the same because life isn’t about how long the back of your hair is compared to the front…no, really it is. I can’t pretend it isn’t, so please cut off your mullets America you’re already fifteen years late.
Check out the mullets at: http://www.hotmullets.com/
For those of you unfamiliar with the mullet I will give a brief description of this archaic hairstyle. The mullet is characterized by its length in the back, which may vary from just above the shoulders to mid thigh. The sides are generally cut short, the sideburns sheered away and the top can be spiky to medium in length. Mullets can be the product of a hair dresser but often times are home jobs chopped away by an amateur Edward Scissorhands using a Flowbee Vacuum Haircut System or garden sheers. For a vivid visual picture Davy Crockett in a coonskin hat.
I realize that adults adorning mullets, women included, are generally lost causes and cannot be weaned from this misguided hairstyle. I will not however stand idly by and watch the redneck children of America, so full of life, so full of potential, be brought down by the mullet, all their hopes and dreams dashed by a reluctance of their parents to adapt to socially acceptable forms of hair styling. You wouldn’t think something as small as a mullet could change the course of a person’s life but a mullet can mean the difference between food stamps and Microsoft stock options, or living in a converted chicken coop apartment vs. a château on a lake in the south of France. Bill Clinton didn’t have a mullet but his brother Roger sported one well into the 90’s. Bill went to the White House, Roger went to jail. This is just one of many cases of siblings split by the mullet and the difference it made in their lives. I could go on…
Why is it some of us hang on to hair cuts or clothing styles of bygone eras? Ric Ocasek of the 1980’s band The Cars, one of the founding fathers of the mullet, gave up the hair style when New Wave gave way to Grunge. He knew when to “Shake it Up” and when to cut it off. I would emphatically ask the rest of America still holding onto to this distorted remnant of hair styling past to do the same because life isn’t about how long the back of your hair is compared to the front…no, really it is. I can’t pretend it isn’t, so please cut off your mullets America you’re already fifteen years late.
Check out the mullets at: http://www.hotmullets.com/
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Observations in Miniature
The little man/ big car complex is not a new phenomena but I feel I need to mention it since I was almost run off the road last night by a 15 foot high Toyota truck driven by what can only be described as a Hobbit. The origins of this complex can be traced as far back as the Stone Age with the discovery of the Blue Caves of Mongolia where a tiny stick figure caveman is depicted puffing out his chest next to a giant wheel. This doesn’t say much for our evolution but it does speak volumes about our primitive inclination to compensate for our inadequacies by directing attention away from them by creating oversized forms of personal transportation.
A good rule of thumb for a shorter guy looking to buy a car is not to buy any vehicle with wheels that come up to your neck. Sure, if you buy the monster truck you’ll look big as you tool down the highway running over pint sized compact and hybrid cars but when you get out everyone will be disappointed, especially the women. It’s the equivalent of stuffing a suck in your underwear or toilet tissue in your bra. I’ve seen several vertically challenged men use rope ladders to climb in and out of their Hummers and it’s just down right degrading. My modest proposal would be to invest in a pair of boots with enormous heels and tease your hair (if you have any) into a very high afro if you need to feel big. Sixty inch tires and a lift kit aren’t going to elevate your social status or your height so stick with a Mini or fuel efficient Hybrid Insight, then you can brag to environmentally conscious chicks that you care about the earth’s atmosphere. You have a better chance of getting somewhere with this angle than driving a vehicle that gets snagged in power lines.
A good rule of thumb for a shorter guy looking to buy a car is not to buy any vehicle with wheels that come up to your neck. Sure, if you buy the monster truck you’ll look big as you tool down the highway running over pint sized compact and hybrid cars but when you get out everyone will be disappointed, especially the women. It’s the equivalent of stuffing a suck in your underwear or toilet tissue in your bra. I’ve seen several vertically challenged men use rope ladders to climb in and out of their Hummers and it’s just down right degrading. My modest proposal would be to invest in a pair of boots with enormous heels and tease your hair (if you have any) into a very high afro if you need to feel big. Sixty inch tires and a lift kit aren’t going to elevate your social status or your height so stick with a Mini or fuel efficient Hybrid Insight, then you can brag to environmentally conscious chicks that you care about the earth’s atmosphere. You have a better chance of getting somewhere with this angle than driving a vehicle that gets snagged in power lines.
Friday, November 12, 2004
What does this dream mean?
I was looking for a reason to believe when I slipped and hit my head on a dream.
I grabbed the corners of the night sky like a bed sheet and tried to straighten it, rolling it in waves. The stars came unhinged and shot upward. Sparks cascaded down and singed my beard; some of the sparks fell into the black holes that are the centers of my eyes. I suspect these sparks have collected like a swarm of fire flies and are floating somewhere in the outer space of my mind.
I lost interest in the night sky when I looked at my hands and noticed they were stained with the blackness of it. So, I continued on my journey. Halfway across a river I felt something digging into my ankle and upon removing my boot I discovered that Saturn had fallen in there and its rings had been digging into my flesh. I removed Saturn and upon further inspection noticed that it was cracked and that a yolk like substance was leaking from it. Curious, I peeled off the rings and cracked the planet the rest of the way open. What fell out, embedded in yolk, was not what I expected. At first it looked like a pale featherless chicken but when it spread its legs and craned its neck I realized it was human and wasn’t just any human. It was Mahatma Gandhi. Yes, the father of Civil Disobedience and right before my eyes he grew to the proportions of normal human being.
Hi there, I said, not being able to think of anything more charming to say. Hi there, he said. Do you have a towel? I didn’t have a towel but I had my polyester disco shirt so I took it off and wiped him down, making sure to clean him thoroughly for fear of some strange outer space infection taking hold in the folds of his skin. Thank you earthling, he said. I bowed and then did a split, which is no easy feet in one boot, standing on water. Very nice, he said, but I had something different in mind. Really? I said. Yes, really, he said. Now listen to me carefully. You must be the change you wish to see in the world.
Right, I said. Gandhi wrapped my disco shirt around his waist and beckoned me closer. I have a plan, he said. I thought the plan Gandhi laid out was at the very best whacky but who was I to question him? So I gathered seven thousand of my closest friends and we hiked to Washington DC in one continuous line, hands on each others waists. Once there we enjoyed the sites and dined on hot dogs from the street vendors and then it was time to do what we’d come to do.
As the sun set we surrounded the white house holding hands in a giant circle and then we handcuffed ourselves the person on either side of us. I still didn’t understand what exactly we were doing, Gandhi’s plan wasn’t all that clear.
As the full moon rose above the White House I noticed a figure on the roof he was hunkered down behind a massive machine gun. Suddenly he began to fire. The machine gun lit up the sky and I saw the man at the trigger was none other than W. and he was cackling madly as he squeezed the trigger. As those around me were blown to bits I saw Gandhi approaching W. from behind. Evidently he’d scaled the side of the White House, using the ivy covered lattice as a ladder.
Stretched between Gandhi’s hands was a length of piano wire. I felt several fifty caliber bullets rip through my body as the woman to my left fell dead but I wouldn’t die, I refused to. Die! I cried. Yes, die, Gandhi cried and then he cinched the wire around the commander in chief’s neck. I watched as his face turned from red to purple to blue and then his life was over. Gandhi stepped up to the machine gun and loaded it with cans of Diet Coke and fired them at us. The cans magically hit the same spots as our wounds and plugged the hole in my heart and I stopped bleeding as did all the others. He shot another Diet Coke at me and I caught it, cracked it open and held it up in the air. I toast you, I said and he nodded and spread his arms, clapped his hands and we all disappeared.
What the Hell does this dream mean? I have no idea but it might have something to do with drinking one too many Troegs Hopbacks last night.
I grabbed the corners of the night sky like a bed sheet and tried to straighten it, rolling it in waves. The stars came unhinged and shot upward. Sparks cascaded down and singed my beard; some of the sparks fell into the black holes that are the centers of my eyes. I suspect these sparks have collected like a swarm of fire flies and are floating somewhere in the outer space of my mind.
I lost interest in the night sky when I looked at my hands and noticed they were stained with the blackness of it. So, I continued on my journey. Halfway across a river I felt something digging into my ankle and upon removing my boot I discovered that Saturn had fallen in there and its rings had been digging into my flesh. I removed Saturn and upon further inspection noticed that it was cracked and that a yolk like substance was leaking from it. Curious, I peeled off the rings and cracked the planet the rest of the way open. What fell out, embedded in yolk, was not what I expected. At first it looked like a pale featherless chicken but when it spread its legs and craned its neck I realized it was human and wasn’t just any human. It was Mahatma Gandhi. Yes, the father of Civil Disobedience and right before my eyes he grew to the proportions of normal human being.
Hi there, I said, not being able to think of anything more charming to say. Hi there, he said. Do you have a towel? I didn’t have a towel but I had my polyester disco shirt so I took it off and wiped him down, making sure to clean him thoroughly for fear of some strange outer space infection taking hold in the folds of his skin. Thank you earthling, he said. I bowed and then did a split, which is no easy feet in one boot, standing on water. Very nice, he said, but I had something different in mind. Really? I said. Yes, really, he said. Now listen to me carefully. You must be the change you wish to see in the world.
Right, I said. Gandhi wrapped my disco shirt around his waist and beckoned me closer. I have a plan, he said. I thought the plan Gandhi laid out was at the very best whacky but who was I to question him? So I gathered seven thousand of my closest friends and we hiked to Washington DC in one continuous line, hands on each others waists. Once there we enjoyed the sites and dined on hot dogs from the street vendors and then it was time to do what we’d come to do.
As the sun set we surrounded the white house holding hands in a giant circle and then we handcuffed ourselves the person on either side of us. I still didn’t understand what exactly we were doing, Gandhi’s plan wasn’t all that clear.
As the full moon rose above the White House I noticed a figure on the roof he was hunkered down behind a massive machine gun. Suddenly he began to fire. The machine gun lit up the sky and I saw the man at the trigger was none other than W. and he was cackling madly as he squeezed the trigger. As those around me were blown to bits I saw Gandhi approaching W. from behind. Evidently he’d scaled the side of the White House, using the ivy covered lattice as a ladder.
Stretched between Gandhi’s hands was a length of piano wire. I felt several fifty caliber bullets rip through my body as the woman to my left fell dead but I wouldn’t die, I refused to. Die! I cried. Yes, die, Gandhi cried and then he cinched the wire around the commander in chief’s neck. I watched as his face turned from red to purple to blue and then his life was over. Gandhi stepped up to the machine gun and loaded it with cans of Diet Coke and fired them at us. The cans magically hit the same spots as our wounds and plugged the hole in my heart and I stopped bleeding as did all the others. He shot another Diet Coke at me and I caught it, cracked it open and held it up in the air. I toast you, I said and he nodded and spread his arms, clapped his hands and we all disappeared.
What the Hell does this dream mean? I have no idea but it might have something to do with drinking one too many Troegs Hopbacks last night.
Friday, November 05, 2004
Global Warming
According to AOL News Vladimir Putin signed the Kyoto Protocol, which would bring the pact into action in the beginning of the new year. 55 industrialized nations were needed to ratify this pact. The United States and Australia rejected the protocol. The pact aims at reducing global warming by cutting down on green-house gas emissions.
A new report mentioned on Air America radio reports that global warming is accelerating at twice the rate previously thought. During the election the Bush administration worked to quash this report.
W time to get off your mechanical bull, be careful not to spill your non-alcoholic beer, and take a look at this protocol. You can't spend money in an atmosphere that doesn't exist.
Read more about global warming at :http://www.commondreams.org/headlines04/0328-08.htm
A new report mentioned on Air America radio reports that global warming is accelerating at twice the rate previously thought. During the election the Bush administration worked to quash this report.
W time to get off your mechanical bull, be careful not to spill your non-alcoholic beer, and take a look at this protocol. You can't spend money in an atmosphere that doesn't exist.
Read more about global warming at :http://www.commondreams.org/headlines04/0328-08.htm
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Observations in Miniature
What’s up with the girlfriends of guys in sports bars wearing bulky football jerseys? Is this just a Pennsyltucky thing? Its not exactly the most attractive get up I’ve ever seen. I don’t know anyone that harbors fantasies about women in Raiders jerseys and stone washed jeans seductively eating hot wings off the counter top of a bar. Yes, I’m sure somewhere there is a website dedicated to such a fetish but it can’t be considered universally appealing like lingerie or mini skirts. It’s just weird.
Ever check out the personal ads on those dating sites? Dancing and horse riding seem to be the two leisure activities most favored by women in these profiles and I can’t think of any two activities I would like to do less. If I dated a woman that listed dancing and horse riding as her primary leisure activities I might suggest killing two birds with one stone and buying a dancing horse so that she could go out in the woods on the weekends with her galloping friend, ride the trails and then dance in the clearings. Don’t laugh; I’ve seen dancing horses at the circus. They can move. A boom box could be tied around the animal’s neck to provide the desired tunes. Of course I would be off golfing while this went on...
Speaking of circuses…. I’m watching my brother’s two French Bulldogs for a year until he buys a house. He lives in an apartment that won’t allow pets. Coupled with my two Chihuahuas my home has been transformed into a dog circus; Dogs hopping over dogs, dogs leaping from chair to chair, dogs sliding across the wood floors and crashing into more dogs. In the center of this raucous canine mix I try to read Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut, the words not sticking with me so I have to read and reread. I pause. Somewhere in the distance I think I hear circus music. The big male bulldog leaps off the top of the couch legs sticking straight out so he looks like a mutated Superman (minus the cape). He lands on my crotch. My book flies up into the air and lands on the ground with a thud, which starts the other dogs barking. “By God you fool,” I cry jumping to my feet, my hands cupping my testicles. All the dogs are barking now and nothing I do will stop the show so I sink back down into the couch, realizing it’s just another day in the dog circus.
Ever check out the personal ads on those dating sites? Dancing and horse riding seem to be the two leisure activities most favored by women in these profiles and I can’t think of any two activities I would like to do less. If I dated a woman that listed dancing and horse riding as her primary leisure activities I might suggest killing two birds with one stone and buying a dancing horse so that she could go out in the woods on the weekends with her galloping friend, ride the trails and then dance in the clearings. Don’t laugh; I’ve seen dancing horses at the circus. They can move. A boom box could be tied around the animal’s neck to provide the desired tunes. Of course I would be off golfing while this went on...
Speaking of circuses…. I’m watching my brother’s two French Bulldogs for a year until he buys a house. He lives in an apartment that won’t allow pets. Coupled with my two Chihuahuas my home has been transformed into a dog circus; Dogs hopping over dogs, dogs leaping from chair to chair, dogs sliding across the wood floors and crashing into more dogs. In the center of this raucous canine mix I try to read Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut, the words not sticking with me so I have to read and reread. I pause. Somewhere in the distance I think I hear circus music. The big male bulldog leaps off the top of the couch legs sticking straight out so he looks like a mutated Superman (minus the cape). He lands on my crotch. My book flies up into the air and lands on the ground with a thud, which starts the other dogs barking. “By God you fool,” I cry jumping to my feet, my hands cupping my testicles. All the dogs are barking now and nothing I do will stop the show so I sink back down into the couch, realizing it’s just another day in the dog circus.
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