Reap what you sow

March 31, 2005

Calling all right wingers and war-supporters! There’s a war going on and you’re not fighting in it. Why is that? There’s so many of you out there who wanted nothing but to “Free Iraq,” and yet the men and women in our armed forces are expected to extend their tours because there’s no one to fill their shoes. [Link]

WASHINGTON – If American forces aren’t pulling out of Iraq in a year, a draft will be needed to meet manpower requirements, military analysts warned Wednesday.

Where are all of the people who wanted this war? They aren’t in Iraq, fighting for what they believe in.

I have an idea. Start by taking all of the anchors from Fox News and sending them to bootcamp. They could form a platoon, enough to search a house somewhere in Baghdad and get torn apart by roadside bombs. Sounds good to me.

I’m not worried about the draft, nor do I believe we’ll actually have one. I am worried about the 50% of this country that applauded this war and our president for what he did. I’m worried for the people serving in Iraq right now. So…where are you, America?

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Mexico vs Iraq

March 30, 2005

Someone sent me this link today.

“There was no evidence that the detained Iraqis had ties to any terrorist groups, Mexican officials said. Still, the arrests spotlighted fears that terrorists might try to enter the United States from Mexico.”

Really? Think so?

Gimme a break. Any person with even subpar intelligence (they are religious zealots, after all) that wants to get into this country has quite a few options to choose from. Our southern border has obvious issues, we certainly don’t put too much effort into defending against a Canadian invasion, and then there’s the west coast.

So, maybe we should worry about keeping the Mexicans who can’t speak English from jumping the border into California and securing drivers licenses before we worry about stopping the conniving and oh-so-deadly terrorists in their tracks…?

Ah, well. I’m sure it will all work out. It’s America, after all.

You are a drop in an incomprehensibly large bucket and nothing is worth taking seriously.

This is a NASA Hubble photo of over 10,000 galaxies, sure to make you feel completely and utterly inconsequential. I took the huge 60meg version and cut it down to fit as a wallpaper for my pc. Nothing like the expanse of space and time to put you in your place.

DON’T PANIC

A Joy Division movie is apparently being made

I suppose it’s nice to see them get some recognition… at least more than “Hey, these guys sound like Interpol!” Which is a great observation, I might add. Shitbags.

Ya know, you would think there would be a documentary or something already produced, but I haven’t heard of one yet. I wasn’t aware they were that obscure of a band, though. Is it just the whole indie-emo flavor of the month thing that is getting people riled up over them?

Don’t they deserve more than that? I mean, I’m not sure what I would have done in those rocky teenage years if I didn’t have Joy Division to lean on. They’re every self-pitying recluse’s dream band. I take that back—I know what I would have done in those teen years. I probably would have found something more productive to do than drink vodka in the dark and roll around on the floor with “Disorder,” repeating in the CD player. But still, they helped. Thanks, Ian Curtis.

Hopefully the movie will be decent and on the factual side. I don’t know of any video footage ever taken of the band, so I’ll bet the movie is as good as it’s going to get.

Let’s make mediocrity

March 21, 2005

IMDB has a trailer up for Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I can’t wait to see how they fuck this one up, especially since Adams died before it was created. Then again, the original hhg2g movie sucked and was made while he was alive, so I don’t know. What I do know is that the book was great, the radio series was cool, and I fail to see how Adams would have wanted his book, which appealed to so many people from so many places, summed up into an abbreviated 2 hour story filled with horrible computer generation.

The Office. I saw a commercial for our bastardized American version a few days ago and laughed. I’ve already made a post about this sort of thing, but I don’t mind bitching some more.

I wish I was laughing because it looked hilarious, but that’s not the case. I laughed because it looked horrible and because they’re taking a classic TV show and they’re converting it into another cheap, watered down moneymaker. They appear to be replicating the entire thing—joke for joke—but making it “American,” i.e., bad.

The Office is a show that can’t be duplicated and it’s a show that definitely cannot be converted into another American sitcom without the humor being completely torn from its chest. What could possibly be the point? They’re using different accents and different actors who are probably incapable of recreating those awkward moments from the original Office, the awkward moments that made it one of the greatest shows ever made. Who could live up to Ricky Gervais when it comes to making you shift in your seat in embarrassment? Steve Carell isn’t made for that kind of comedy. He’s made for Daily Show comedy. I suppose what I’m saying is, god forbid we air something from another culture on our very own networks.

Maybe it’s all for the best, though. You can’t honestly expect the average citizen of xenophobic America to enjoy the UK version of The Office when they probably can’t find the UK on a fucking map.

It seems like the more I experience, the more I’d like to sit in my room with my movies and music and booze and just pretend my little chunk of the world is the only thing that really exists. I guess it wears me down knowing that some places and some people are indeed out there. I can’t really say that experiencing new things broadens my mindset or views…unless you want to include the broadening of my bitterness and cynicism. Seems like socializing is almost exhausting to me some times.

I spent most of yesterday in Destin with Michael and Hannah, which was great. Hannah shopped, Michael and I drank beer. After that we met up with friends of theirs and some how ended up half drunk, in some rich couple’s minivan, equipped with DVD player and automatic sliding door, being transported to some strange gated community called Sandestin. I think my eyes might have glazed over at some point. I really had no idea what the hell was going on.

We entered through the gates and after some driving, ended up in a section of this “community” called Baytowne or the Village or something (I was looking for the poison-laced Kool-Aid or the applications for cult membership, but found none), which was designed to look something akin to Bourbon Street, complete with clubs and restaurants and shops, the one major separation between them being that Sandestin was created for middle-aged, rich, white people and “trust fund babies,” as Michael put it. On this Bourbon Street, you don’t have to brush arms with the filthy commoners.

I don’t think I am capable of describing the gyrations and dances the 50-somethings were executing in front of the sub par classic rock band that was playing, as the only “dance” that could truly be recognized was some form of a drunken Hand Jive. I don’t think I can justly communicate to you the vicious air guitar brought down upon us by a gray haired city council member or mayor; I would only fail you. And I don’t think I can describe accurately to you how all of the youth present looked like they were snatched out of the OC or 90210 set and were forced to walk around, looking shallow and intoxicated. So I won’t even try.

I was certain we’d be detected and the secret police, clad in tight white shorts and striped polo shirts, would be sent forth from a patio deck somewhere to find us and whisk us away in their golf cart. We would be tortured and interrogated to great lengths. “Who brought you here?” they’d shout in our faces, demanding to know exactly how we penetrated their complex. After a thorough going-over and a swift kick to the ribs our cell doors would slam shut on us and we would be enveloped in darkness. “Our leader has plans for you, scum,” they’d bark.

That didn’t happen, so Michael and I bought two $4.50 cups of Killians from an incredibly bitter waitress and the girls got some margaritas. We watched the freak show from a table.

We didn’t have a camera handy, but what a thing that would have been if we had. I doubt I’ll ever really see anything like that again…and I’m not entirely sure I would like to. That, and going from Crestview where I work almost every day with people who live in trailers, people who are scraping by, and then going to an orgy of the shameless and wealthy with beachfront condos was almost too much to handle. But hey, it was an experience.

Aside from that, there’s not much else that is noteworthy. I bought a pink shirt, some sheep and pig boxer shorts, and I got my shoes wet and sandy while on a trip to the beach, which angered me greatly. I bent over to fold up my ever-so-trendy faded jeans so that they wouldn’t get wet, when a rogue wave shot up around my legs and soaked my shoes and socks which were placed next to me. I cursed at the sea god and Michael and Hannah mocked me. I moved down the beach to fix my pants again, and again it happened. At least I had a witness to back up the claim that I am not a complete and total god damn idiot, because I wasn’t really standing that close to the water.

The lord of the sea was forgiven later after I had found a pair of socks to buy, but I’m still a little sour over the whole incident. We will meet again, Poseidon, and should I happen upon your Sauconys lying on a beach some day, let it be known that I’m going to fuck your shit up. Watch yourself.

Kiss me, I’m shitfaced

March 17, 2005

Happy Saint Patrick’s day, friends.

Now to get something off of my chest. You people seem to think that just because you have a shamrock pin on your t-shirt or a green ribbon in your hair that you are doing the Irish justice on this fair day. You are wrong. I am no full blooded Irishman or anything, (although I’ve enough in me to get by like any good American mutt) but I do know that what separates you from the rest on St. Patties is getting absolutely plastered and shitfaced. This is one day of the year dedicated to drinking and Irish stereotypes, so you have absolutely no excuse if you don’t get fucked on green beer, or any beer for that matter. Old, young, no excuse. You can manage one day with a hangover, unless you’re some sort of god awful pansy, like Michael. Do me proud, America.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to listen to the Pogues, Clancy’s, Dubliners and to continue the dipsomania.