LO2

My friend Ariele has an article on the companion website to the somewhat secular-friendly Christian magazine Relevant. Thought I'd give her some press.

This is where you find the intensity. And pictures!

The Production company's web site. More movies and stuff here.

I’m at a party of some sort. I’m out of cigarettes, so I buy a carton off this middle eastern vending cart guy. They’re odd cigarettes, the carton packaging reminiscent of both British and Indian culture, as if the maker came about in pre-Ghandi India, an investment of a Raj. I open the carton, and there are a multitude of different sized packs, exterior wrappers, etc. This carton is hard to navigate.

I keep digging through the carton, opening different packs. Some are empty aside from paper filler, some have normal looking smokes, one package is cylindrical with many very narrow cigarettes inside. I pull on box from the carton, and it is wrapped in what I originally think is plastic, but I now discover is actually plastic sandwich bags with no small amount of cash in them. I now have odd cigs and a happy amount of cash.

I don’t know if someone explained it to me or if I remembered some bit of trivia, but it comes to me that this is normal. This cigarette company randomly puts cash in its cartons as a thank you to its customers. I just get a really good carton.

I want to tell some of my friends, but they’re all heading towards the windows outside of one of the rooms at the party. I follow. There are big windows in this room, so the view from outside is unobstructed, aside from the outdoor crowd in front of me, clamoring to see. The room is filled with lesbians. The funny thing is, virtually every one of the women weren’t doing anything to indicate that, I just know. Two of the women, however, are indicating all over the place. In a somewhat cinematic array of moves, these two women (while fully clothed) are kissing, touching, and flinging themselves passionately around the room from surface to surface, while the indoor lesbians cheer them on and the outdoor heterosexuals do the same. This keeps everyone’s interest for a few minutes.

Afterwards, I start to walk around to the front of the house, as do many others, to investigate the commotion that is rising out front. There are literally thousands of lesbians in the street and parking lot in front of the house (once again, I just know.), having something akin to a lesbian pride parade in the middle of the night. This keeps our attention for a while.

Then the black men show up. A large group of African-Americans, numbering as many as the lesbians, begin to approach the house. This is not a happy group. Although first instinct would be to link the activity to a million man march type of ideal, this group does not have the look of peaceful, yet serious, demonstrators approaching Washington. This group has some anger. This group looks like a photonegative of a Klan march, without the robes.

Interestingly enough, the lesbians seemed to be expecting it. They quietly, if unhappily, leave the area, not dawdling, not running either, just leaving efficiently. It’s as if this is a frequent occurrence, and everyone’s doing what had long ago been set down as the best thing, considering the circumstances.

The group of men arrive, but by now the lesbians are all gone. The men look quite let down, and begin to disperse, very slowly and with angry and displeased expressions.

Time to call it a night, I think to myself. Oddly enough, it turns out that I’m not only part of the party, I’m a cop, and I’m here with several other cops to keep an eye on the evening’s trouble between the two groups. Once again, it feels like a frequent occurrence. The other officers and I take a moment to relax, then begin to head home.

I’m walking to my car, and I’m talking with two other cops on the way to their cars. The feeling is very mid 90’s cop show. I’m telling them about my good luck with the money in the cigarette cartons, and they are half happy with me, half pissed that it didn’t happen to them. We approach our cars, and I freak out a little. If I’m a cop that just got out of a near violent situation unharmed, just won some cash, bragged about it to my friends, and I’m in a cop show, I do NOT want to start my car. My car will blow up. There is a bomb in my car.

I do an about face and head back toward the building. I’m crossing a small grassy area in the parking lot when a large SUV type vehicle tears into the lot and drives up on the grassy area, multiple headlights blazing. I fall to the ground, stay still. It’s six or eight of the men from group earlier, and they all have big guns. They don’t seem to notice me, but are instead looking up and forward at something (I assumed one of the two other cops I was with before). They say something to each other that I don’t hear, but they seem exasperated, as if they missed their intended target. They rev up to drive away, but before they do, one of the men eyes me, unsurprised to see me there, pulls a pistol (a Colt .45 actually) and shoots me in the gut.

Things get a little hazy here. Time goes funny. I feel like people come to help me, but they apparently don’t, because I’m still there. My breathing is terribly shallow, but it seems to be working and I’m not in any pain. But I can’t seem to move. Time stays funny.

My sister calls. I guess I answer my cell phone, but I’m still on the grass, not moving, as far as I can tell. By now it’s morning. She says hi, wants to talk about nothing in particular. “I’ve been shot,” I say, but not really, because my mouth isn’t moving. It’s dry, the tongue is still and pressed forward and out a bit so the sides are poking out a bit between my teeth (like I would bite my tongue a little on both sides if I pressed down), and my jaw is locked open, my front teeth about a half inch opening in the front. You could feed me a grape in the space.

“I’ve been shot.” My sister doesn’t listen, she just talks as if I’m being a little unreasonable and silly. “I’ve been shot,” I say for the third time. She gets tired of the conversation, hangs up. With the click of the phone, everything goes black, hard black, like a TV going off, but for five senses. There’s nothing, and I hear myself say “Where Did Weather Go?” I’m genuinely upset.

I hear a voice say “Hey Lee Hey Lee Hey Lee.”

At this point, I woke the hell up, genuinely terrified. I have never heard anything like that voice in my life. The closest thing I can equate it to is that it’s what it would sound like if the Devil spoke to you through one of those voice box synthesizers that they give to people who’ve had their voice boxes removed.

I was awake at this point, but still in that terror haze that comes after a nightmare. I was genuinely concerned that I was dead. I wanted a cigarette very badly, but I was out, so I had to go to my car to get another pack, but I was scared to open the door and see nothing outside. I opened it nonetheless. The outside was still there, but everything was that funny pre-dawn color, so that didn’t help all that much. I got my cigarettes and went the hell back inside.

I lit up, took a drag, and realized that I hadn’t seen any people of moving cars outside. I decided that turning on the TV would help. It started on a channel that was blank, so that freaked me out a little, but I got to C-Span (I needed something that was live, tapes programming wasn’t gonna do it) and calmed down a little.

At this point, I’ve been up and writing for about a half an hour. The waning terror and the fact that I didn’t get enough sleep are urging me back toward the bed, but I might leave C-Span on for the comforting noise. The only concern at this point is that I haven’t seen another flesh and blood person yet, but I’ll go get some breakfast after I get back up and take care of that problem.

I honestly never want to hear that voice again, either in real life or in my dreams.

MARIA F., Zebulon, GA
When I started dating, boys always expected me to have intercourse with them. I knew I couldn't resist the peer pressure alone, so now I double-date with my pal Shelly. Now when boys pressure us for sex, we say "no" together – then satisfy them by putting on a hot girl-girl show in the back seat.

MARK G., Atomic City, ID
When I started my junior year of high school, I was already the captain of the football team and the baseball team, I was a straight-A honors student, and girls were offering themselves to me. I just couldn't say no to easy sex and free booze, but I knew I was risking my future. So I prayed on it, drove to Boise, and got this butt-ugly haircut. I haven't been laid since, praise Jesus!

REBECCA K., Great Falls, MT
I know what you're thinking: "Anal sex?! Gross! No way!" But it's so cool! My boyfriends get totally turned on by watching me lube up, and I don't worry anymore about getting pregnant. And anal is definitely the fast track to the "in" crowd: Ever since I started taking it anal, I've been way popular at school!

Many more touching testimonials at Techincal Virgin.

Banlieue 13. Ooo. Gotta see this.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
I thought "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" was the worst movie I've ever seen. "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" sinks lower. Glorification of the self-indulgence of any kind is frivolous at best and when this self-indulgence is recreational drug use, it's simply evil. Moral relativism is the underlying justification that recreational druggies use, and the self-centered morass that this movie portrays disgusts me. Moral relativism is Satan's arguement against the moral standard that the Lord gives us, and the resulting anarchy, even when appearing as harmless fun or benign, draws us further away from God's Truth. Some would tell me not to push morality at them, but I wish that popular culture would stop pushing amoratliy and immorality at me.
Claude Kutaka

Fight Club
The best movie I can't recommend... Wow. David Fincher once more brings to the fore a cinematic cataclysm. This may be the best movie of 1999 that I can't recommend. Why not? Not because I think that the sex is particularly raunchy. Nor because of the attitude and worldview espoused. It's the violence. Not that the violence is gratuitous, mindless, or any of the other buzz-words so often associated with such films. Rather, the violence is realistic (I would suppose...) and is sometimes difficult to stomach. Bare-fisted pugilism is by necessity a brutal activity and so this film in documenting such fisticuffs becomes via transposition, brutal. My caution would be: Do not see this movie. That being said, Fight Club was probably the best movie I've seen this year.
Seth T. Hahne

And my favorite...

The Big Lebowski
I wish I had read your review before I went to see this movie. I love to bowl with my youth group and consider bowling to be a healthy pasttime. I was so disapointed that this movie would take a clean Christian sport like bowling and pervert with the drugs and sex and profanity. I would urge other Christian bowlers to stay away from "The Big Lebowski".
Heather

Now, to be fair, there were plenty of reasonable and well thought out reviews. These are the wierd ones.

The review site's home page, or you can go right to the Extremely Offensive page (the title is written in such delicate text. Kinda comforting, really.). If you use FireFox, I suggest the home page, as there's a neat glitch in the Current Better Choices window when you highlight the titles within it (See how wide you can make your browser window!).

Smile.

Sure You Can.

Where Men Go In Dreams.

Found at Use My Computer.

Check the LO2unes link on the right. I'm starting to post all my remixes, mashups, original tracks and FunkaFeltaFish stuff there. Updates will be slow, but check in from time to time if you want some free music.

As a friend of mine said, it takes a half a second for a baby to throw up all over your sweater. It takes hours to get it clean.
Patricia Princehouse, on the addition of Intelligent Design (Creationism) lessons in Ohio schools

The only thing that will redeem mankind is cooperation.
Bertrand Russell

Found at Boing Boing.

The Wired CD: Rip. Sample. Mash. Share.

Sorry, I'm booked up in November.

Cute chicks in ugly cars are cool.
Joe Hernandez-Kolski

I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.
Isaac Asimov

A woman told me she went to visit an old bullfighter who now raises bulls. She had told him about Sketches of Spain. He said he didn't believe that an American - especially a black American - could make a record that demonstrated such a deep understanding in Spanish culture. She played it for him. When it was finished, he put on his bullfighting outfit and went out and fought a bull for the first time since he had retired. When she asked why, he said he had been so moved by the music that he simply had to.
Miles Davis

Technique. Pleasure-giving. Knowing what your partner desires and doesn't expect. If all else fails, throw a drink in her face and go for it.
Dave Grohl, on being a good lover

Page 26:

NORAD: We have a report the dogs got out. Can you confirm?
ASPCA: Repeat, please.
NORAD: CENTCOM is telling us the dogs got out. Can you confirm?
ASPCA: Dogs?
NORAD: Yes.
ASPCA: Let me check. [8 second silence] Yes, they got out.
NORAD: Who let the dogs out?
ASPCA: Who?
NORAD: Who.

The Baha Men Commission Report

5 September 1999, Jerusalem:

In most parts of the world, the switch away from Daylight Saving Time proceeds smoothly. But the time change raised havoc with Palestinian terrorists this year.

Israel insisted on a premature switch from Daylight Savings Time to Standard Time to accommodate a week of pre-sunrise prayers. Palestinians refused to live on "Zionist Time." Two weeks of scheduling havoc ensued. Nobody knew the "correct" time.

At precisely 5:30pm on Sunday, two coordinated car bombs exploded in different cities, killing three terrorists who were transporting the bombs. It was initially believed that the devices had been detonated prematurely by klutzy amateurs. A closer look revealed the truth behind the explosions.

The bombs had been prepared in a Palestine-controlled area, and set to detonate on Daylight Saving Time. But the confused drivers had already switched to Standard Time. When they picked up the bombs, they neglected to ask whose watch was used to set the timing mechanism. As a result, the cars were still en-route when the explosives detonated, delivering the terrorists to their untimely demises.

A Darwin Award.

4.82% carton sex
1.20% 'i am turning japanese'
1.20% blanks underdog
1.20% celebrity cyborgs
1.20% ex girlfriends pics
1.20% god diva bittorrent
1.20% henry alford new orleans hair
1.20% kuusumum profeeta
1.20% leg extensions for tallness
1.20% nuns with guns
1.20% orgasmic origami
1.20% skeet
1.20% trump young and beautiful piece of ass
1.20% wilson's house of leather in l.a.com

Interesting stuff if you've never really seen a hurricane. At EnergyRadio.

Hahhahhaaaahahahaha!!!

Jessica Alba, from the new Fantastic Four movie. Apparently, there are three other characters as well.

Driving home with my girlfriend earlier behind one of those 18 wheelers that hauls gas and chemicals and such. There was a warning sticker on the back that read "WARNING! VIM VI!"

What the hell is a Vim Vi? Is this thing hauling gas in Latin? Gasum? Cogito Gas'em Up? What?

Wal-Mart is responsible for the sale of 10% of the music in this country (and climbing). One out of every five major label sales occurs at Wal-Mart. Now read this:

"Getting Wal-Mart excited about carrying a record is at the top of every label's to-do list, but it's harder than it sounds. There is an immense cultural chasm between slick industry executives and Severson's team of three music buyers at Wal-Mart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas. Only one of the three had ever worked in music retailing -- until that person moved to a new division in August and was replaced by someone who previously bought Wal-Mart's salty snacks."

Read the rest here.

My favorite lyric from Bowling For Soup's new album, A Hangover You Don't Deserve.

Decided to take my desktop PC apart and reinstall Windows, as it has been running slower than any PC ever. Got a close look at the processor, and got this:

Now, the lighting was bad, and my digital camera sucks, so for clarification...it's dirt. About two ounces of dust and dirt and smoke and crap, all from between the vanes in the processor.

I get the feeling it might have affected performance.

Make your own here.

Looking something like Amélie gone slutty, Alizée isn't really that good a singer, and her lyrics suck. Still, she's sold over 4 million albums.

Find out why here.

Or download the same reason here. The guys will probably want to go with this option.

Somebody fucking shoot me.

Mental Note: Take vacation time next year.

I dug the hell out of the trailer for this, but I never went to see it in the theatre because of all the really bad reviews. Watched it today, and thought it was a lot of fun. Don't see where all the hate came from. It's not gonna win any oscars or anything, but I'm glad I saw it.

Short form: I was on Talk of the Nation today.

Long Form: I was listening to Talk of the Nation today, and the guest was Gerard Jones, and he was talking about his book Men Of Tomorrow: Geeks, Gangsters, and the Birth of the Comic Book. As tends to be the case with most comic book discussions in a large forum, it was getting overrun with both the ill informed and fanboys.

Then Chris Claremont came on as a guest.

That's it. I had to call. The fanboy in me wanted to give the nod to Chris, and the rest of me wanted to let the nation know that not all comic book readers are morons. I got to callin'. Being a national/global talk show, it takes some time to get through, but I did. Right after the segment ended. I was just about to hang up when they started the next part. With the editor of Wired. Talking about sampling, copyright violation, and the subculture of illegal remixes.

This show was made for me.

Anyway, I stayed on the line, and got through (first caller! woo!), and managed to get my two cents in (not to mention my pseudonym, go web traffic, it's your birthday!), but I was surprised to hear how nervous I sounded. You have to understand that I'm on the redio every day, I'm in one of the stupidest bands in the history of the world, yet when I have to talk to Neal Conan, I'm a fricking schoolgirl. At least I got to plug myself.

Anyway, my part is here. Or you can listen to to whole show here.

You know the crazy old lady character Cheri Oteri plays on SNL? I found her. She works at the Shell station at Imperial and Highway 6 in Waco, TX. Awesome.

Also, don't forget to try one of her delicious "Grillquitos!" (I did not.)

Note: This is not an actual picture of the crazy old lady character, but when I was online attempting to find a suitable photo, I was getting links like "Cheri oteri nude chicks with huge children nude chi-chi nude." I'm not kidding.

Feel free to enlarge. No gore or anything. Actually, they probably got really really lucky in this case.

Just Kidding. Nellie McKay's Get Away From Me is still my favorite record of the year so far, but this one's in the top ten. Produced and arranged by Ben Folds (who worked with Shatner on Fear of Pop), this record really turned out to be a joy, and a far cry from The Transformed Man, Shatner's ridiculous (yet oddly compelling) previous album. Simply put, this is a solid record, and I listened straight through from beginning to end (an increasing rarity for me in the age of MP3).

I keep seeing this picture, and the more I do, the more I think "Who the hell is that guy in the middle? Gary Oldman? Who the hell is that?"

Anyway, just waiting for Tuesday so I can negate my friend Michael's vote.

I grabbed your boobs on Sunset.