FLOG

Not terribly adroit

So, Alito Alito Alito. Here's my non-take: I spent the morning reading through a PFAW brief about his drooling love for puppy drowning and baby dropping, which quoted approvingly this majority rebuke of his dissent in Riley v. Taylor, 277 F.3d 261 (3rd Cir. 2001), a case about race in jury selections:

[T]he Dissent's attempt to analogize the statistical evidence of the use of peremptory challenges to strike black jurors to the percent of left-handed presidents requires some comment. The dissent has overlooked the obvious fact that there is no provision in the Constitution that protects persons from discrimination based on whether they are right-handed or left handed.
277 F.3d at 292.

Which, with all due respect to Judge Sloviter, is wrong. The Constitution's guarantee of equal protection applies to discrimination based on handedness as much as it does to any other discrimination. Granted, we lefties aren't a suspect class*, so we aren't as protected a class as a racial minority. But given that handedness is as innate a characteristic as gender or sexual orientation, if the government started overtly discriminating against left-handed people, you can bet your right hand that would raise equal protection issues. I might be down at the courthouse with a Section 1983 suit my damn self.

So I'm gonna put together my own brief about how Judge Sloviter and PFAW want to enslave left-handed people. Maybe.

*Or are we? I could probably scrounge up a pretty good showing on the history of purposeful unequal treatment if I had to. But has it put us in such a position of political powerlessness as to command extraordinary protection from the majoritarian political process? There's the rub.

Dude flamingoes are fucked up

They're like a pink body with an intestine on top, and then at the end of the intestine is a head.

UPDATE: But turtles are pretty cool, says FLOGette.

Zuma's open thread

Natter away.

Zuma, Reprise Records, 1975

Do you know how insulting it is to be named Zuma? Have you heard that album? Such aimless coke-addled pap. They played it for me once, telling me very excitedly that this was my namesake. Unfortunately this was during a road trip. I tried to avoid the noisome thing by sticking my head out the window, but even at 75 mph the sound was inescapable.

Neil Young is able to convince thousands of people that he is a profound musical genius, simply by turning his guitar up loud, beating on it aimlessly, and muttering juvenile couplets about girls he can't get along with in the voice of a drowning cat.

I sought to ameliorate my discomfort by making small bets with myself. Such as: what will happen first, a coherent lyric or a full measure of well-executed 4/4 time? In the end, neither came to pass, but the album's saving virtue is its brevity.

Although sometimes they let it play twice.

Titillating fungus

I saw the darndest things today on a hike on Mount Pisgah, where, yes, I spend way too much time. I believe these are boob shrooms:

And no, I do not intend to "grow up" or "get a life," so just keep that jive where the angels of cleanliness fear to tread.

Hot trends in pumpkin style

So, aside from observing that this article has a severely irritating title, I'd just like to point out that Brandon was way out on the bleeding edge of Halloween fashion last year:

White Is the New Orange for Pumpkins

CHICAGO - These pumpkins look like something scared THEM. Eerie-looking white pumpkins — naturally white, not painted — are finding their way into more and more homes this Halloween season.

The albinos are called Ghost pumpkins, Snowballs, Luminas or Caspers — presumably a reference to the friendly ghost. And the ones about the size of a baseball? Baby Boos.

White pumpkins are a little bit more expensive than their orange cousins. But parents and party planners say they are more ghoulish and offer a better canvas for drawing or painting a jack-o'-lantern face.

Victoria Pericon, author of "Mommy Land: Entering the Insanity of Motherhood," spotted white pumpkins this year for the first time in New York City and thinks her crayon-wielding 2-year-old daughter "will be crawling all over this thing."

Yep, you read that right. They just now hit Chicago and New York. Brandon is a veritable conjurer of zeitgeists. Keep an eye on that one.

No letter today

I know I broke your heart.

I spent too much of the day writing volumes for others to muster anything interestingly pointless for FLOG. It's odd: FLOG suffers most when I have nothing else to do. It does best when I have a moderate to heavy amount of other work to do. And it does second best when I have so much real work to do that my store of writing energy is more or less depleted -- even then I feel motivated to check in and let you know I have nothing to say, something that never happens when I am in full-fledged lazy mode.

Expect a lot more of this, sadly. I'm feeling a nasty three-way time crunch on:

1. Heavy-duty evidence compilation in an Endangered Species Act case I'm working on in behalf of the Grizzly Bear.
2. An ass-crap load of research and writing as I draft model answers for the teacher's manual of a professor's forthcoming textbook.
3. Various job opportunities with fast-approaching deadlines.
4. Oh yeah, classes, which draw to a close in a month.

Yep, and to let you know I'm serious, that's actually a four-way crunch. I'ma do my best to keep things up at FLOG, but don't hate me if I slip. Whatever happens, I won't fully delegate the job to Zuma.

OH! One thing! I hope you've been watching the baseball playoffs and this excitimatating World Series. If so, you'll no doubt have noticed that "lady" in the teaser for Trading Spouses. The one who screams about "gargoyles!" and "psychics!" and "git out!" So, what is she? (A) The school bus driver from South Park or (B) What happens when you cram an industrial air-compressor hose up the ass of Helena Bonham-Carter?

Four wheels of funk, six cylinders of soiled

If my body is a wonderland temple, and my home is my castle, what does that make my truck?

A mire to be wallowed in, apparently.

I left my truck at Kendall Toyota -- yeah, I'm naming names -- over the weekend for its 30,000 mile checkup.

Went to pick it up this morning, and it was brought around to the lobby by some high school greasemonkey -- probably the guy who spelled my name "Danial" on the invoice. So I go to hop in and drive away, and the dude has farted in my truck. It wasn't an especially nasty toot, just sort of fusky (musky + funky). But the trouble with it was that this was not my fart. I am the person with the right to fart in my truck. Me. Not some Kendall flunky driving it across a parking lot for 6 damned seconds.

So I rolls down the window and drive good and fast for awhile, hoping to clear things out. But soon I have to merge onto Delta Highway, and roll up for the high speed. And this other man's fart is still in the truck with me.

Soon I get back on surface streets and roll down both windows to get a good cross-draft. I head over to school for a quick meeting. When I come back out to get in the truck, the strange man's fart is still inside, waiting to waft out and greet me.

All windows down, I speed home. Now I sit here, on my couch, and as I type this, I am steeling myself. For in a few minutes, I have to go to class. My truck sits in the driveway, waiting, mocking me. It used to be like a home to me. Now it is another man's ass chamber.

UPDATE, 4:08 PM: The smell is all long gone, but the pain lingers on.

Why we still need NASA

Clicking about the interweb this afternoon, I learned something new. (As often happens; I credit my neutering for allowing me to devote my online time to productive pursuits.) NASA has set itself on a truly compelling, much-needed course of research. Read on:

NASA TUNNELS TEST TENNIS BALLS; EXPAND STUDENT MINDS

NASA aerodynamics technology may well help create more competitive tennis matches between the world’s top players while stimulating student interest in science and engineering.

. . .

"The concern is that today’s top pros can serve a tennis ball at almost 150 miles per hour. On faster surfaces, such as Wimbledon, that ensures an increasing number of shorter rallies and tie-breaker sets," said Mehta, a world authority on the aerodynamics of sports balls. "A larger ball will slow things down; the trick is to figure out how much. That was the objective of experimental testing conducted in England and at Ames," he said.

(Link here.)

This is most welcome news. I am not certain I desire a slower tennis ball -- if anything they ought to go faster, to my mind -- but that NASA is studying tennis ball aerodynamics at all, why that simply gladdens my heart.

In closing, the photographs are delectable:

O, sweet globe of green ecstacy
Fly to me! Fly to me!
Soft whistle, one bounce
And --

Home

by Zuma

I am a bad dog

This forenoon, Dan called me into the office and had me sit, turn around, sit again, lie down, and offer readers at least an open thread. He admonished me for my rudeness to you, and preached a stern lesson about the consequences of contempt for one's readers. I listened, as always, and now I feel simply awful.

So here: an open thread. Say of me what you will. Doubtless I deserve it. I am ever your faithful, humble, and shamed servant.

Love,
Zuma

An amicable reconciliation; an auspicious beginning

It seems that Dan and I have agreed to bury the hatchet. As per our settlement, I shall take over the upkeep of FLOG every Friday, beginning today.

Despite my plangent desire for an expressive outlet, I'll admit to some initial reticence about joining FLOG. I put it to Dan: mightn't the whole exercise be received as a tad derivative, particularly given his incipient yet well-cried enamorment with the Achewood blogs? (Link here, scroll down.) But he presented a persuasive counter-argument on the question, listing a number of factors distinguishing this from that. In all that he farts and grunts about the place, it's easy to forget that he can be somewhat articulate when necessity presents itself.

And, as it happens, I fear my misgivings have been moot from the beginning. Today I learnt that Pepper, of all dogs, has been on Live Journal for nigh on a week! (With entirely inevitable results, I might add. Link here. Sigh.) Oh, Pepper. What a piece of work is a Brittany. Truly, if ever there was a quintessence of dust, it lies between that fellow's ears. Today I smelt his leavings and I'm certain I caught strong notes of paraffin and lavender. I shall have to sit him down and explain how and why candles are not butter. Let's hope this time it takes.

You'll note that I have not opened this post to comments. This shall be my policy heretofore. Dan may enjoy the dullardly répartée that goes on in these shadowlands of the public discourse, but I for one have no time for it. If you, dear reader, have worthwhile comments or questions, I invite you to send such to cutapaidh [at] hotmail [dot] com. Only then, upon due and discerning review, will I, and not you, decide whether your scribbled thoughts are worthy of publication.

I bid you good weekend.

Jesus Jumped Up Christ, the Pixels!

Currently tempted to shelve the camera until I get one of these. Spend some time in the gallery. This camera sees better than its human masters. How long till it takes over?

What should I put on eBay? Round II

I've decided to put only one thing on eBay. Based on previous feedback, and my agreement with Zuma not to sell him (although he was neutral on selling Pepper), these are the top two choices:

Cross section of dinosaur bone

Slipper (unmatched)

One of them will go on eBay on Monday. YOU decide which one. Choose wisely.

Dating a rapper

On the way to class today I was, er, rollin' to a good set of the hip-hop music on the student radio station, when one rapper mentioned that it was 1989. Until he said that, the track sounded almost contemporary -- if not from now, certainly 1999.

Why do rappers do this? People listening to this track in 1989 probably knew it was 1989. We know, generally, what year we're in. We don't need reminders from our favorite recording artists. Especially once they become wrong. As time goes by, hearing someone shout out things like --

'Cause it's '93, or should I say '94? For my style is much more!

-- goes stale in a hurry. It becomes the aural equivalent of the born-on date on a bottle of Zima Gold. It's like the 1986 date stamp on that picture of you in parachute pants, holding up Optimus Prime. Rappers calling out date stamps will be a godsend for some future Alan Lomax, but for now they just accelerate the aging process on perfectly viable music.

Think about it. Would we still be hearing so much of "For What it's Worth" if Steven Stills had filled it with shout-outs to 1966? I don't think anyone in popular music has ever tried to be timeless, but even the punks gave themselves a fighting chance at immortality by leaving out the date stamp.

Without a date stamp, music can only sound dated if it deserves to -- I'm thinking Donovan or "Crimson and Clover" here -- not because it tells us it is. What I'm trying to say is, if milk didn't have a date on it, I wouldn't throw it out until I had tasted it and knew it to be sour.

Now some of the hip-hoppers, I suspect, are trying to get around this problem by post-dating themselves. But the bell will one day toll for the likes of Andre 3000 and Deltron 3030, and they, like 1984, Prince, and 2001 before them, will be standin' there lookin' silly.

So, to those prominent rappers who read FLOG: stop mentioning the year we're in, for you will be wrong before your tour's half-over. Remember the milk. Remember the Zima. Remember the parachute pants and the Optimus Prime. Do you really want to go out like that?

UPDATE 5:15PM:

Coming soon from FLOG Press:

The FLOG Family

With her previous blog ventures still warm in the ground, FLOGette just can't keep herself away. She's back, I think, and she's usin' F-words: please welcome foudroyant flummery.

200th post

This is the 200th post on New FLOG. Oh, I declare a wank!

Fun Facts about the number 200:

200 is preceded by 199 and followed by 201.

200 is the smallest unprimeable number, and is also something of a Harshad number. Ask someone else.

200 ISO is a pretty decent film speed for daylight photography.

There are 200 members of the US House of Representatives. Give or take.

You can read 200 facts about some dude here.

If Antarctica melted entirely, say by way of an evil plot by Ernst Blofeld or Baron von Greenback, the worldwide sea level would rise by about 200 feet.

200 mg/dL is the threshold level of cholesterol between "desirable" and "borderline high." Don't worry about this.

Over 200 million pounds of blueberries are grown every year in North America. Half of these are probably in the back of someone's freezer. [Ooh, move over, Erma Bombeck!]

One cow can give 200 thousand glasses of milk in a lifetime. I want to vomit.

200!, or "200 factorial," is such a large number that it contains 376 zeroes. This fact apparently casts doubt on the theory of evolution.

Fun Facts about FLOG

With 200 posts in 601 days, FLOG has averaged roughly one post every three days. This isn't bad.

Over those 601 days, the following single-word titles have appeared atop FLOG posts:

Bitchin'
Categories!
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Beatallica
Toilet!
Cooked?
Hefewiatus!
Germany
Autobahn
Olympiad [Unfortunate juxtaposition.]
'Tinued
sex
Update!
ANNOUNCEMENT!
ANNOUNCEMENT!!
Sweet!

I'll hyperlink those later. Maybe.

Posted by FLOG at 2:56 PM | Comments (0)

I pity the poor songwriter

Among other excellent observations, Vague grouses:

Driving a passel of girls to the bar one night, I was called upon to "play something funky." To this day, I remain convinced the girl in question just didn't know what "funky" meant. Upon choosing "Higher Ground," I was met, incredibly, with "Oh! I didn't know there was a jazz version of that Red Hot Chili Peppers song!"

I remember being as appalled then as I had been in college when I read in the University paper that U2 had covered "that Hendrix song," in reference to "All Along the Watchtower."

Agreed, of course, this is all a tad appalling. It's worth noting, too, that the Chili Peppers have given the same treatment to the Ohio Players' "Love Roller Coaster."

But isn't there some difference in degree between a Chili Peppers/Stevie mistake, which reflects ignorance of your musical roots, and a Hendrix/Dylan mistake, which might reflect who has the definitive version of the song? No one is faulted for calling "The Lady is a Tramp" a Sinatra song. Likewise, "Me & Bobby McGee" will always be associated with Janis Joplin first, Kris Kristofferson second; "Cocaine" with Eric Clapton before J.J. Cale. This doesn't always happen -- Clapton got "Cocaine" but Bob Marley held onto "I shot the Sheriff," and Carl Perkins still has "Blue Suede Shoes" even after Elvis took a stab at it. But I think Dylan lost "Watchtower" to Hendrix, although in consolation he still has the definitive "Mr. Tambourine Man."

Ooh, I love the musical nitpicking.

This all got me going in another direction: songs of the same name that are completely different. Example: There are three original songs called "Stupid Girl," by the Stones, Neil Young, and (cough) Garbage. AC/DC and Led Zeppelin have songs with slightly different titles, but both working off of the central premise of being shook all night long. (And yes, Zeppelin's was lifted from Willie Dixon.) I've been wanting to compile a mix tape of such musical oddities but I can't think of any other examples. Anybody got any?

Spooky night

Dude, Monday night was a spooky night. It got me in the mood for Halloween with a quickness. It had all the key elements:

1. Full moon. If you're a night, and you want to get spooky, you have two options: full moon or new moon. Everything else is just funny (gibbous) or romantic (crescent). And overcast nights, at least in the city, are too bright to be spooky.

a. Supplemental wispy clouds. A full moon in a clear sky runs the risk of bringing the brightness of midday to objects below -- not spooky. If partially veiled by wispy clouds, though, it's going places.

2. Strangely localized low-lying fog. I went out for nacho fixins last night, and when I got back I found my entire backyard was covered in a four-foot deep white mist. The front yard, and all surrounding environs, were not covered in mist. This was, you guessed it, spooky.

3. Cat acting freaky. In the kitchen, as FLOGette was doing dishes, our cat Bonzi came out of nowhere and charged into her leg, and then the garbage can, at full speed. She then sat under a dining room chair staring agitatedly at a point just above my head for 3 to 5 minutes. After that she settled into a pattern of trotting around the house and staring fixedly at various things only she could see. Spooky!

4. Dogs getting riled and making odd noises in the wee hours before dawn. Running around the bedroom sniffing madly, being put outside to sit and growl on the deck, occasionally sprinting to the backyard, barking. Repeat. This, too, is spooky. (I suppose it comes to seem spookier still when you find that your dog has learned how to access your blog.)

5. Also I met the devil.

Okay, what should I put on eBay?

I cannot believe this. Dan has no end of fun at my expense, and I am sporting about it, often repaying him in kind. But this time he has deeply transgressed the lines of decency.

I have no fear of being put on eBay, mind. If Dan, or those of you out there howling to "call his bluff," would just put in the due diligence on this question, you'd find such an offering to be contrary to eBay's stated policies. (Link here.)

But regardless of whether I can be sold, I find the mere suggestion to be tasteless to the point of callousness.

Ah, but as I said I am a sporting fellow, and I know how to repay in kind. So, to the game, forthwith. What should I put on eBay?

I believe this is called a "microwave." It heats food expediently.

Dan utilizes this to shorten the grass in the back yard. He refers to this as "mow the lawn," and goes without a shirt and drinks beer. Would this be of value to others?

This is a "television." People devote copious amounts of time to staring at it. From time to time it barks at me.

Dan's precious laptop computer terminal. He would truly be crestfallen if I put this on eBay.

This is a "truck." (In background.) It would pain my heart to see it go, because it conveys me to pleasurable places at high speeds. But I know that this would really hit Dan where it hurts.

So, do please let me know what you think. I am truly quite disappointed in Dan, and desire to teach him a lesson in proper decorum. I am just utterly astounded at his lack of decency in this matter. Truly, though revenge is best served cold, I am of a mind to give him a stout bite on the ankle when he gets home, just to settle my roiled pride. Ooh, I think he's here now! Yes! Yes! Yes! That's him! Oh man, am i glad to see him i wonder if he brought us anything or maybe if hes gonna take us out to the country to run around and go after mice oh hes so sweet yip yip yip yip yip yi

That's haribo!

It is my suspicion that not enough people are aware of this:

CLICK!
(SFW? I honestly can't say.)

In fact, until everyone in the world is aware, it is not enough.

Sweet!

Please give a good read to my new favorite blog: Stayton Moose!

What should I put on eBay?

Tryin' to incentivize the house cleaning. Let me know in comments.

Birkenstock sandal (unmatched)

Brick

Cat toy (I would get a better photo)

Cross section of dinosaur bone

Hamm's can (used)

Rawhide chew (used)

Slipper (unmatched)

Dogs

Like I said, let me know in comments.

UPDATE: I realize I put a lot of choices out there. So list your top three choices. The top three items go on eBay. Just like that. No hesitation, not even for the dinosaur bone.

BTW, the dogs are both young, male, housebroken, neutered. Well-mannered.

47 55 new pics on Flickr

And, on accounta I've upgraded to Flickr Pro this very evening, they's all in sets now.

Clicky!

Just to entice, here's one of them:

Hey, it's 34 minutes to Friday. I'm just early. And don't worry, they aren't all of my cats. Beaches, bugs, beautiful scenery, deBauchery -- all kinds of things to be found.

FLOG & FLOGette: we're okay

So I just removed the two blogs maintained by my wife, the FLOGette, from my links over there on the right.

This is not because we are fighting. It's because she rather capriciously killed them both last night.

No, really, look for yourself: Porntato est mort; Bibliolatrist aussi.

I don't know, but I suspect that this means "porntato.blogspot.com" is now an available domain. Run, don't walk.

Naked things afoot in my beloved Alvord Desert

So this evening I absently clicked on a Suicide Girls ad at Boing Boing -- this is just how techy-hip I was feeling today -- and, as per the tendency of one thing to lead to another, I soon found myself examining the free samples area. Whereupon I found this, which I have made moderately SFW; depends on whether big silly blue stars render an erotic image innocuous -- a question whose answer probably varies by workplace:

Now, I feel very safe in saying that this photo was taken on Oregon's Alvord Desert. The way the mountains in the background are arranged is what gives it away. The desert's proximity to Portland, a city increasingly known for its odd piercings, wallet chains, and shoe-polish hair -- the bread and butter of the Suicide Girls -- is circumstantial evidence.

Whenever I see this kind of thing going on at the Alvord Desert, be it in a SG spread or a cable-access music video for some local band, I find myself imagining the crew's journey out there. For a young, pierced hipster, driving to the Alvord Desert from Portland is 8 or 10 hours of traversing a hostile foreign country. Sure, out there they also like Pabst and mesh hats, but this is a commonality of the same form as the shared affection for the AK-47 among American hobby shooters and the Taliban. (Okay, that's an extreme analogy, but apt.)

In Harney County, I get dirty looks for wearing hiking boots and driving a Japanese pickup truck. On one trip out there, I was accompanied by a vegan, who left the lady at the Burns Safeway sandwich counter speechless by asking if the tapenade had any meat or dairy in it. The very air in Burns has meat and dairy in it. I can only imagine the reception our Suicide Girl here recieved.

Anyway, here are some other pics from the Alvord and vicinity. (These are safe for work.)

Welcome to Blog's rave review of the place is here. And, a true blast from the past: his re-enactment of the Book of Exodus, featuring a cast of beer bottles and set in and about the Alvord Desert and Steens Mountain, can be found here.

Burns' own Kellen Clemens' banner season is documented here.

Neutralizing the zookeeper

A great article about New Orleans, bursting with absurd events, lives here. Here's one of many good bits:

They had just landed Russian assault helicopters in Audubon Park. Not one, but two groups of Uptown New Orleanians had rented these old Soviet choppers, along with four-to-six-man Israeli commando units (platoons? squads?), and swooped down onto the soccer field beside the Audubon Zoo. Down, down, down they had come, then jumped out to, as they put it, "secure the perimeter." Guns aimed, eyes darting, no point on the compass uncovered. As a young man in this new militia later told me: "Hell, yes, I was scared. We didn't know what to expect. We thought Zulu nation might be coming out of the woods." But the only resistance they met was a zookeeper, who came out with his hands up.

All of this happened just moments before. Right here, in my hometown. All four men were still a little hopped up. The commandos went inside to "clear the house." A nice little yellow house just one block from my childhood home. Not a human being - apart from Ms. Perrier and me - for a mile in each direction. And yet they raised their guns, opened the door, entered and rattled around. A few minutes later they emerged, looking grim.

"You got some mold on the upstairs ceiling," one commando said gravely.

I am not scintillating

Echopraxia says that I am "scintillating."

I don't know what the deal is with the English and the shiny things. Back in old '87, in Form 4 at Hereward House in Swiss Cottage, this cheeky monkey name of Alistair kept saying every drawring I made was "brilliant," even though to me they seemed to have more of a matte finish, if anything.

Now I've moved up to scintillating. I cannot go along with this. I would say that if anything I give off a sort of cool green glow, like a pine forest during a rain.

Even so, I can't just not return a compliment. Olly, you are truly, in every respect, much like a strobe light or even a pulsar.

Commercial advertisements I have seen & dislike

1. The school of ads that bothers me.

So there's this particular school of advertising where the use of the advertised product yields bad results for the consumer. I don't understand how this form of advertisement is intended to work.

A current example is the Taco Bell ad making the rounds this week, wherein a young man brings home some grilled meat product to entertain his special lady, and the smell of the grilled meat entices everyone in a three-block radius to invite themselves over. I don't know about you, but here's what I take from this: do not buy this grilled meat product from Taco Bell. I do not want my neighbors walking in the front door when I am trying to entertain my special lady; ergo, no Taco Bell grilled meat product.

There is also the Grape Nuts ad where, for one guy out camping, the sound of the chewing of his Grape Nuts drowns out the sound of his wife being mauled by a bear. Again, I'm not seeing the advantage.

2. A more subtle variation

There is the AOL ad where the dorky guy is walking around AOL headquarters telling some AOL flunky how great AOL is to him, so effusively that it seems he's playing for the flunky's pants, and meanwhile all hell is breaking loose like AOL doesn't even consider doing basic building maintenance. This is also bad.

I had another one coming, but it has just escaped me.

UPDATE 10/13: I remembered what had escaped me. Just what in the crap does Campbell's Soup mean with that "possibilities" song? What possibilities? It's SOUP!

Soup presents no possibilities.

Notes from a deposition

So I put this together one evening last week. Inspired by Echo "My Name's Not Olly" Praxia, who nearly (very nearly) went apeshit in my truck from listening to Dylan's Love And Theft the week before he went to Australia, it's a thorough compilation of everything Dylan alleged that anyone had done on that album. As such it reads like a summary of a very bizarre deposition, and reveals Dylan to be an unreliable witness, particularly about his father.

I offer it as a belated parting gift. The rest of you might like it, too.

Summary of the Deposition of Bob Dylan, 2001

A judge:

-tells his sheriff to capture Charles Darwin dead or alive.

All of the girls:

-inform Bob Dylan that he is a worn out star.

An unnamed mule:

-is in an unnamed stall.

Bertha Mason

-shook it.
-broke it.
-hung it on a wall.
-said: "You're dancin' with whom they tell you to or you don't dance at all."

Big Joe Turner:

-is looking around from the dark room of his mind.
-made it to the intersection of Twelfth Street and Vine in Kansas City.

Bob Dylan:

-loves you in vain.
-has numbered days.
-struggles.
-scrapes.
-is all boxed in with nowhere to escape.
-was raised in the country.
-has been working in an unnamed town.
-has been in trouble ever since he set his suitcase down.
-has nothing for you, nor does he have anything for himself at this time.
-will, nevertheless, see you around.
-avers to have done only one thing wrong, that being to stay in Mississippi one day too long.
-has heard it all.
-once slept in Rosie's bed.
-still thinks about things Rosie said.
-is sorry.
-knows that you are sorry.
-knew you last night; now not so sure.
-needs something strong.
-intends to look at you until he becomes blind.
-got here by navigating by the southern star.
-crossed unnamed river, attributes actions to a desire to be where you are.
-is drowning in poison.
-lacks future.
-lacks past.
-has nothing but affection for fellow sailors.
-has painted himself into a corner tighter than his wet clothes.
-knows a place where there's still something happening.
-has a house on a hill.
-has hogs out in the mud.
-has a long-haired woman.
-is standing on a table.
-is proposing a toast to a king.
-is driving on "the flats" in a Cadillac.
-has a lot of money and spends it.
-believes strongly that one is able to repeat the past.
-has had his back to the wall for a prolonged time, and suspects it is stuck there.
-possesses eight carburetors; uses all of them.
-is short on gas.
-has his hammer ringing, but futilely.
-is counting on you for a break.
-is leaving in the morning as soon as the dark clouds lift.
-intends to break the roof of his current house and set it afire. He calls this a "parting gift."
-is breathing a lover's sigh.
-is sitting on his watch in order to be on time.
-is singing love's praises with sugar-coated rhyme.
-is casting his eye on you.
-is painting the town
-is swinging his partner around
-knows who he can depend on and trust.
-watches roads, studies dust.
-is making his last go-round.
-is scuffling, shuffling, and walking on briars.
-professes no awareness of his own desires.
-rolls slowly.
-does everything he is capable of.
-deludes himself about his current emotional state.
-is going to a place where wild roses are endemic.
-intends to immolate you as a measure against your own sin.
-intends to sieze power by instigating civil war.
-sits and thinks.
-left his long-time darling.
-did not sleep with Samantha Brown.
-is forty miles from a mill.
-is dropping it into overdrive.
-is presetting the stations on his car radio.
-wishes his mother was alive.
-sees your lover-man coming across a field.
-has spent time trying to decipher the wind.
-from time to time tells himself that something is coming.
-will spare the defeated.
-will speak to a crowd.
-will teach peace to those he has conquered.
-will tame the proud.
-is in love with his second cousin.
-deludes himself that he could be happy forever with his second cousin.
-spends a lot of time listening for footsteps, but hears none.
-fishes for bullheads in a boat.
-is quite an adept fisherman, at times exceeding his limit.
-will just have to see how it goes.
-has never witnessed his parents fight.
-is not quite as cool or forgiving as hd sounds.
-has seen enough heartaches and strife.
-once had dreams or goals; left them buried under tobacco leaves.
-has a craving love for blazing speed.
-has a hopped up Mustang Ford.
-can write you poems.
-can make a strong man lose his mind.
-is no pig without a wig.
-is at a loss for what to do in the event of a flood.
-preaches the word of God.
-puts out your eyes.
-asked Fat Nancy for something to eat.
-does not really care that he will never be greater than himself.
-plans on getting up in the morning to dust his broom.
-is keeping away from the women.
-is unable to be happy unless you are also happy.
-knows when to strike.
-will take you across the river.
-knows the kinds of things you like.
-continues to cry, presumably near a sea.
-is stranded in a city that never sleeps.
-is avoiding the Southside to the best of his ability.
-came ashore in the dead of night.
-is unrepentant.
-is proud of fighting, but regrets not winning.
-would rather die than return home.
-has crashed his car trunk first into some boards.
-is willing to sell his facial features at a deep discount.
-is willing to stop visiting you if you are bothered by his presence.
-is having trouble believing some people ever lived.
-is stark naked.
-is unconcerned about his own nudity.
-is going into the woods and will hunt bare.
-is ready to do whatever circumstances require in the pursuit of creating a new imperial empire.
-has his parents' advice oozing out of his ears.
-has or is a poor boy who goes door to door and haggles by paying persons more than the asked price for goods.
-has been working like the devil on the mainline.
-has been branded by the claws of both time and love.
-was forced to go to Florida.
-dodged laws in Georgia.
-never met his father.
-thanks his uncle for what he has done for Bob Dylan; won't forget it.
-knows one thing: he is thrilled by your kiss.
-strictly for you, went down to see a nasty, dirty, double-crossin', back-stabbin' phony named Mr. Goldsmith, whom he didn't want to deal with.
-cried for you at length; finds it to be on you now to do the crying.
-does not carry dead weight.
-is no flash in the pan.
-will set you straight; is a union man.
-is letting the cat out of the cage.
-is keeping a low profile.
-feels like a fighting rooster -- a highly positive feeling.
-went to an unnamed church house.
-goes an extra mile every day.
-is on the fringes of the night.
-is fighting back tears that he can't control.
-is crying to the Lord and attempting to be meek and mild.
-is longing for rib fat.
-intends to buy a barrel of whiskey.
-intends to die before senility.
-always said you'd be sorry.
-might need a good lawyer, either for your funeral and/or his trial.
-has his back to the sun because the light is too intense.
-can see what everybody in the world is up against.
-stays with Aunt Sally.

Bob Dylan's Aunt Sally:

-is not really Bob Dylan's aunt.

Bob Dylan's brother:

-was killed in the war.

Bob Dylan's captain:

-is decorated.
-is well educated and trained.
-is unsentimental.
-is not at all put off by the number of his friends who have been killed.

Bob Dylan's dogs:

-are barking.

Bob Dylan's father:

-has gone mad.
-died and left Bob Dylan.
-is like some feudal lord.
-has more lives than a cat.
-was a traveling salesman.
-never met Bob Dylan.

Bob Dylan's grandfather:

-was a duck trapper capable of trapping ducks with no more than dragnets and booms.

Bob Dylan's grandmother:

-could sew new dresses out of old cloth.

Bob Dylan's long-time darling:

-was left standing in a door.

Bob Dylans's mother:

-is feeling sad.
-was a daughter of a wealthy farmer.
-is dead.

Bob Dylan's parents, collectively:

-warned Bob Dylan not to waste his years.

Bob Dylan's pretty baby:

-is looking around.
-is wearing a rather expensive gown.

Bob Dylan's sister:

-ran off and got married.

Bob Dylan's uncle:

-ran a funeral parlor.
-took in Bob Dylan after his mother's death.
-did a lot of nice things for Bob Dylan.

Bob Dylan's unnamed woman:

-has royal Indian blood.
-has a face like a teddy bear.
-is tossing a baseball around.

Don Pasquale:

-may well have made a 2 AM booty call, across the alley from Bob Dylan.

Everybody:

-ought to get ready.
-ought to lift up their glasses and sing.

George Lewis:

-informs an Englishman, an Italian and Jew that one cannot be open to every possible perspective.

Honeybees:

-are buzzing.

Samantha Brown:

-lived in Bob Dylan's house for four or five months.
-did not sleep with Bob Dylan.

Satan:

-is in the alley.

She:

-is looking into Bob Dylan's eyes.
-is holding Bob Dylan's hand.
-says to Bob Dylan, "You can't repeat the past."

Some of these bootleggers:

-make pretty good stuff.

Some people:

-are not human.
-have no heart or soul.

Some portion of the world's women:

-just give Bob Dylan the creeps.

Something:

-never comes.

Sugar Baby:

-should get on down the road.
-has no brains.
-went years without Bob Dylan.
-may as well keep going without Bob Dylan.

The ladies in Darktown:

-do the Darktown strut.

The old men in the vicinity of Bob Dylan's domicile:

-sometimes get on bad terms with the younger men in the vicinity of Bob Dylan's domicile.

They:

-are doing the double shuffle.
-are throwing sand on a floor.
-say the times are hard.
-all got out of here any way they could, following the course of such rivers as the Ohio, the Cumberland, and the Tennessee.
-are gathering around in anticipation of some Siamese twins.

Tweedle-dee Dee:

-is not going to turn and run.
-is on his hands and his knees.
-is a lowdown, sorry old man.
-tells Tweedle-dee Dum, "Throw me somethin', Mister, please."

Tweedle-dee Dum:

-is not going to turn and run.
-will stab you where you stand.
-tells Tweedle-dee Dee a number of things, including: "His Master's voice is calling me;" "Your presence is obnoxious to me;" "What's good for you is good for me;" and "I've had too much of your company."

Tweedle-dee Dum and Tweedle-dee Dee, collectively:

-are throwing knives into a tree.
-have their noses to the grindstones.
-are trusting their fate to the hands of God.
-pass by quite silently
-intend to go to the country and retire. They will do so via a streetcar named Desire.
-Look into at least one window at a pecan pie.
-Would like to have a lot of things, but would never buy them.
-are making a voyage to the sun.
-walk among the stately trees.
-know the secrets of the breeze.
-are like babies sittin' on a woman's knee.
-are living in happy harmony.
-are one day older and a dollar short.
-have a parade permit and a police escort.
-lie low.
-make hay.
-appear to be determined to go all the way.
-run a brick and tile company.

You:

-have numbered days.
-struggle. (In concert with Bob Dylan.)
-scrape. (In concert with Bob Dylan.)
-are all boxed in with nowhere to escape. (In concert with Bob Dylan.)
-are sorry.
-can always come back, but not fully.
-can't spy the land, on account of thick fog.
-are of no value if you can't stand up to some old businessman.
-ought to speak now or hold your peace, if you have something to say.
-ought to go to the police if you desire information.
-have been rolling your eyes
-have been teasing Bob Dylan.
-were Bob Dylan's first love
-will be Bob Dylan's last love.
-will need Bob Dylan's help.
-are incapable of autoerotic activity.
-may follow your nose if you are skeptical about the fact that times are hard.
-will just have to see how it goes. (In concert with Bob Dylan.)
-can smell pine wood burning.
-can hear a school bell ring.
-interfere with or cross paths with Bob Dylan at the peril of your life.
-have no need to linger here.
-don't understand Bob Dylan's feelings for you.
-would be honest with Bob Dylan if you knew his feelings.
-aver that Bob Dylan's eyes are pretty and that his smile is nice.
-have a particular style of which breaking Bob Dylan's heart is one aspect.
-bet on a horse that ran the wrong way.
-are unable to turn back or come back.
-will one day open your eyes and apprise youself of your surroundings.
-are able to live with some of your memories.
-are unable to live with some of your memories.
-always have to be prepared for the unknown.
-just end up making it a thousand times worse.
-possess charms which have broken numerous hearts, including Bob Dylan's.
-possess a method for tearing a world apart, and ought to look at your results.

Your lover-man:

-is not anything of a gentleman.
-is rotten to the core.
-is a coward.
-steals.

More Gas Bag

I should let this go, but I can't.

Turns out the previously alluded-to treatise on Oregon petroleum economics has attracted the attention of preening ponce Will Baude, whose blog I read whenever I find my forehead has lost its rosy glow.

Baude wastes no time proving his powerful intellect is as scintillatingly useless as a Ferrari in space. In comments he notes:

I had always thought that [laws such as Oregon's gas law] were kept around by those who owned large numbers of gas stations because the increased costs of having the attendants was supposed to be some sort of barrier to entry.

I'm no business owner, but I've met a few. I wonder if Baude has. Successful business owners do not sit around thinking things like: "It would be nice to slim down the payroll, after the licking I took last quarter, but on the other hand I appreciate having this law around as a barrier to entry." This is how economists at universities think. Business owners think: "How can I minimize my costs?"

At his own blog, Baude continues to trip over all those terms he picked up in college by drawing an analogy between gas station operators and, wait for it, lawyers:

[If] the bar exam might be good because it gives lawyers a "quasi-property right" in their profession, why not suppose that this sort of guild-protection legislation gives gas station owners a "quasi-property right" in the business of gas stations, encouraging them to, I don't know, participate in the development of the gas station industry or something.

I find unpersuasive the quasi-property right defense of guild legislation, but if one finds it persuasive for lawyers, why not for gas stations?

He later fleshes this out SAT-style:

Lawyers : their state's law :: gas station owners : the sale of gasoline in their state.

Er, so gas station owners maintain their control over the sale of gasoline in their state by requiring themselves to pay more employees? And this is analogous to what lawyers do -- requiring 3 years of professional school and 3 months of preparation for a 3 day test, as well as extensive background investigation of applicants and countless formal and informal rituals of admission large and small?

Hmm. Whose way is better?

Sorry about this. I will not rest until every tweedy East Coast* blogger involved in this discussion comes in for a little ad hominem. Why? Because.

UPDATE!!!! For the uninitiated who may be a tad flummoxed or befuckered by my strong and unhesitant antipathy for this Will Baude fellow, who I have of course never met and certainly dislike less than others, may I invite you to look at this:

It's not that I have anything against ketchup per se, it's just that I like having a few foods that I dislike. I don't have any really good reason for wanting to have a few hold-out foods, although I suppose it makes me feel a little more discerning, gives me something funny to talk about when chatting with food-lovers, and means people will take my "I like almost all real foodstuffs" declaration more seriously if I can say something like "except ketchup" or "except hard-boiled eggs". [A certain co-blogger of mine, for example, has never read Hamlet, and continues to not do so merely because of the meta-utility of being able to not-have-read it. I don't think Hamlet's worth the sacrifice, but ketchup would have been.]

Now, I'll admit that I am given occasionally to fits of too-cleverness; this very sentence that I am typing was included.** But things like the preceding are the reasons I wish at times that we had never come up with language. Flinging feces? Yep, better than this.

Another reason that I am suddenly so hostile to this Baude fellow is that it has been stewing for a while, and this weekend was rather whiskey-intensive. Camels, straws, etc.
_________________________
*Yes, Illinois in on the East Coast. You heard me.

**See, what happened was, during my typing of the sentence it turned 3 AM and by my own rules I had to begin referring to the sentence in the past tense and insert a semi-colon to maintain integrity. It makes sense if you look at it with your peripheral vision.

Damn, I didn't realize Viggo Mortensen was in Young Guns II

Damn, I didn't realize Viggo Mortensen was in Young Guns II.

Bad puns I can't keep to myself

-On the drive today, FLOGette pointed out a surprising number of roadside signs for "You Pick Kiwis." My first thought, regrettably, was that this had to do with some New Zealand dating show.

-I realized today that my dog has a gamboling problem.

I now apologize profusely.

Willamette Valley gambled with a fart and lost

So I've lived in Eugene long enough, and made that drive to or from Portland enough times, to tire completely of both the high-speed burn of I-5 and the bucolic shuffle of 99W. Today I led FLOGette and the FLOGDOGs on a blind but mostly successful attempt to drive between I-5 and 99W but not on either of them. This did result in us briefly getting waylaid in Salem, the liquid fart of Willamette Valley exploratory driving, but we made it to Corvallis before being forced onto 99W. Not bad.

Only took about 4 hours, too.

Yeah, that's all I got today. Aside from: DUCKS! WHOOOOOOOO! WHOOOOOOOO! DUCKS!

Gas Bag

So some law professor in Illinois has recently been "traveling along the beautiful Oregon coast," and in the process has gained a full and authoritative understanding of the economics of gasoline retail in our fair state.

His post on the topic makes three points:

1. A law requiring gas stations to pay employees to pump gas acts as a barrier to entry for large retailers such as Walmart, protecting the market for, um, gas stations.

I can only presume Ribstein jumped to this particular conclusion because he saw no Walmarts selling gas on the Oregon coast. The law preventing consumers from pumping their own gas has certainly not restrained Costco, Albertson's and Fred Meyer from venturing into the gasoline business in Oregon. I'm honestly at a loss for how a law that effectively mandates a larger payroll would serve to benefit small franchise gas station owners at the expense of large supermarkets where an additional employee or two would add only a marginal burden.

2. The law causes consumers to have fewer places to buy gasoline.

I've driven all around this fair country of ours, and have yet to discern any difference in the number of gas stations in Oregon and in other states. There always seems to be just the right number, except when you really need one, and then there aren't any. The only exception is in very rural areas where federal penalties for tank leakage have put many small operators out of business. This has nothing to do with Oregon's pumping law.

In addition, the past ten years have seen a number of gasoline companies establish a presence and expand in Oregon -- Leathers and Tesoro, for instance, had no presence here a few years ago. A little more in the past, BP carved out its niche in Oregon concurrently with the broader British invasion. Small or even single-station operators abound in rural parts of the state. This is all anecdotal, I know, but would any of it exist if the pumping law presented a genuine barrier to entry?

3. Oregon consumers "surely" pay higher prices for gasoline.

The word "surely" here indicates the author's lack of inquiry into the point.

I have never been able to discern a difference in price between Oregon as a whole and surrounding states as a whole. I do often see marked differences, within states, along the following lines:

-between well-connected urban areas and isolated rural areas

-between stations on major routes of commerce and supply and stations off the beaten path

-between stations in areas with concentrated competition and stations with little local competition

If our friend noticed higher prices on the Oregon coast, I'd chalk it up to one of these factors before blaming the minimum wage flunky who put up with his attitude. I infallibly find prices higher on the coast than they are inland. I also find higher prices in Yachats than in Florence. I chalk these price disparities up to higher costs of distribution and lessened competition. They certainly aren't paying the station attendants any more out there.

I have yet to find an authoritative source comparing prices in Oregon to other western states, but the mean WA and CA prices I've found -- $2.87 for WA and $2.94 for CA -- present no difference from the $2.93/gallon I paid for a tank (of Plus) today in Eugene, OR. The notion that some small number of minimum wage employees could sufficiently affect a gas station's daily operating budget as to require a significant price adjustment strikes me as a smelly canard. Even self-service stations have at least one person on duty at all times; many Oregon stations have no more than that -- it's just that the employee has more to do than sit around collecting money.

And our professor closes with this:

Anyway, I would appreciate it if someone would get this law repealed in the next day or so before I have to buy gas in Oregon again.

Okay, we'll get right on that, visiting jack ass.

World's largest human, or world's tiniest slug?

You be the judge:

This creature lives in our shower. Last night we fed it some lettuce, for it must grow or die.

On that note, FLOG will be away from the internets until probably Monday, so this consecutive-posting streak must snap at 11 days.

It's as good at photographs as my camera is at voice mail

Yes, I am now just as cool as you. Behold:

Yeah, that's your classic "Somewhere-Between-Salem-and-Albany-on-I-5 Sunset" right there. They're among the few redeeming features of the drive.

I can't think of another one, either.

Another thought occurs to me

It would be odd to look exactly like the Mona Lisa. You'd get that a lot, I imagine.

Round 1

There's something very anticlimactic about getting up early, picking up your suit from the dry-cleaner, heading to school, hammering out a cover letter, retouching a writing sample, perfecting and printing out your resume, picking up a letter of recommendation from a professor, calling the registrar's office, hearing them tell you your transcript is ready to pick up, going to get it, having the guy who actually hands out transcripts tell you it will be ready tomorrow, going home and eating some soup, shaving, showering, putting on your suit, driving down to the courthouse to get another letter of recommendation, being told it won't be ready till 5, leaving a number they can fax it to, getting on the freeway and driving to Portland, sitting and waiting for an hour with several other nervous and well-dressed people, being called in for a 20 minute interview during which you hardly get to talk, being told they'll let you know in two weeks, getting back in the car and driving back to Eugene, taking your suit off, and sitting down to a gimlet and a bit of catatonia.

What did I just do, and couldn't it have been done over the phone?

Of course, colleagues of mine have flown cross country for similar purposes, and FLOGette went along for the ride and didn't actually get interviewed by anyone, so I suppose I can't complain.

Yes, this was about

.

Should know in two weeks whether it'll be

or something completely different.

How was your day?

Something to consider

Discuss.

Continued remodeling

On the right, we now have, in order:

1. The nifty little Flickr teaser feature
2. The FLOGgings calendar
3. The 10 most recent FLOGbacks from you or your more blowhardly compatriots
4. The 10 most recent FLOGgings from yours truly
5. The archives
6. The other me
7. The you that I know and love to read
8. The you that I don't know, much of whom doesn't know me either
9. The stuffed animals
10. The cookbook
11. The how to look at this site
12. The search of this site
13. The end

3 X 5 cards from the edge

My mom writes:

I received this 3x5 card from Mike today via Jacksonville, FL. ... Please forward it to anyone else who might want to hear from Mike.

"Hey ma, my buddy offered to piggy-back this card in his letter to his wife, since I have no staionary or stamps. I'm writing this at 00:14 9/26 under my red lense flashlite in my team tent. I have survived the 1st week here, and what a week it was. We were in the woods from Tuesday morning 'til Saturday afternoon, doing exhausting training. I got an average of 1.5-2 hrs of sleep a night, and it was a chore just to stay hydrated. I was soaked through with sweat the entire time, running hard and carrying my huge rucksack everywhere. My uniform smelled like someone had poured pure ammonia on it. My team's Captain, a Westpoint Grad, explained that ammonia is the by-product of your body cannibalizing itself. How lovely.

Oh yeah, hands, arms, knees and thighs are all torn up from crawling around in brush, on the sandy ground. Sounds pretty miserable, but I can't complain, it hasn't rained yet. I've learned more in the 1st week here than in my entire time in Baumholder [Germany]. It's been noisy, what with all the machine gun fire, and whatnot, but its all very therapeutic. I feel like I'm becoming a real soldier finally. My team is really cool. I totally lucked out--our instructor is cool as Hell, the best here. He's not about being an ass**le and yelling, he's all about teaching. Has some good stories from secret missions in un-named South American countries. The leaders on my team are awesome: there's the Westpointer, and a staff Sergeant (E6) from the Rangers and a staff Sergeant from the 82nd Airborne. They are both experienced veterans and cool dudes. So are the rest of us. We are clicking really well and are way ahead of our class.

Gotta go, email this to others for me. Love, Mike"

For those of you who don't know, Mike is my brother and is in the midst of Phase II of Army Special Forces training. He's also credited with the first use in human history of the word combination "oom-pah-pah oom-pah-pah KAH-BOOM."

It's weird, because he's only in North Carolina, yet he's also in some nether world far away from, for lack of a better term, the Square Community of North Carolina. You tell yourself, "at least he's not in Iraq right now." But he is in North Carolina, doing very dangerous things in very dangerous circumstances. The training's so real, what's the difference? It's like that one M. Night Shmyalamayyyalanyaman movie where Adrien Brody plays himself.

Even so, it sounds like he's having fun. Definitely in his element.

My career prospects, potentially, look like this:

Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks.

Stone cold Blackstone

Just came across this again: the steely, heartless heart of property law. It's best if you imagine the speaker getting louder and more exercised as you go:

"...That sole and despotic dominion which one man claims and exercises over the external things of the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other individual in the universe."

-- Sir William Blackstone foreswears masturbation, inadvertently defines the word "property."

It's a beautifully heavy-handed definition. My property professor liked to recite it at full volume and then jump on top of a desk, Dead Poets-style, and scream "MOO HAH HAH!" While pumping his fists. This fellow. Good man. Seriously, Blackstone -- the dude liked his property. Imagine him and Chief Seattle fighting over a joint, and you can see exactly how things went wrong.*

*I was going to write just such a hypothetical dialogue, kind of the whole goal of this post, and believe me it would have been gangbusters. But I looked into it and -- now who woulda thunk it? -- apparently hippies put a whole bunch of pinko words into Chief Seattle's mouth back in the 1960's. True, like Jeebus, he's got no verbatim quotes, so he may well have spewed that pap about Man belonging to the Earth, knowing in a century or so it would look great on the bumpers of grubby little Hondas. But the contemporaneous account of his speech makes him sound a lot more like Blackstone:

"We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children."

At the very least, he seems to be holding out for an access easement.

Oh, you gotta love the legal humor.

The big event

UPDATE!

UPDATE!

Fucking baseball

So this morning I turn on the telly and BOOM, baseball has me by the balls. For Christ's sake, man, it's Sox and Yankees head-to-head, tied for first in the AL East. This is high stakes! Eeeeh!

This happens every year. Like Thanksgiving, it's never on the same date, but it always happens: One day, I wake up and find myself compelled to watch baseball.

This year it happened on October 1. Well, how neat is that?

BTW: "fucking baseball" yields this rather agitated post. I don't know or care what it's about, that's drama.