once a year. period.

the truth

peep homie with one leg.
wurd.

girl is puttin it down

does she have down's syndrome or something?


http://view.break.com/457808 - Watch more free videos

dolemite

just wonder what might happen if someone asked him to rhyme with "orange"...

old folks

ghostride the whip!

yeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhh grandma.

golf = sex

um, yeah. you just gotta watch it.

i hate that this is an ad

but it appeals so perfectly to my scat-humor

close that thing

the governator's losing steam

drop it like it's hot

halkdf;lnblheiuw;nag brlurrrrrp gglurmshalnasghlnewol;knv ich.

and the oscar goes to

or maybe this guy?

mutherfucking hall and mutherfucking oats.

get some!

why can't this happen to me

seriously, watch this.
and then listen to everyone's names.

you got guys like "Gabaldon" - pronounced Gah Bahl Dohn
(there's definitely a pun in here some where)

and "Knuckles" - pronounced "Knuckles"

great stuff.

punch it. punch it real good.

you think if they don't have balls it still hurts?
after a while it's got to, right?

Coolest Thing Ever

praise him

what the fuck, volume 2

what the fuck

happy fucking valentines day

worst video ever

just watch it.



you won't thank me.

again thanks 'anonymous'

best video ever

just watch it.
you'll thank me.

chug a bottle of it...

...see what happens.

garbage pail kids

the movie!

why couldn't this have happened at my bar-mitzvah?

she knows what i like

mmmm mmm mmmm.

unforgiveable

straight awesome, no chaser

lo di dah blah di da licky dicky tick tick rrrrickity tick tickticktick
chop-a-broccoleeee-heeee

just go here

and watch the fucking intro clip.

fight for kisses

i don't know what to say.

gonna kick the HUCK out of you

game on, bitches.

go huck yourself

too bad the soundtrack sucks

macs even make dirty dirty sex look clean.

misconception

fat people ARE fast... when they only have to use their finger.

the national football league is proud to present...

...a giant penis







and in case this isn't enough, just take a look at the first 30 or seconds of this clip:



gotta love it.

blind = gay

who knew?



(thanks for the tip, 'anonymous' -- p.s. failblog is awesome! you seen shipment of fail?)

poop on me

this is a concept of an idea of a thought of a paradigm.

how i do

other than work all weekend, i spent the rest of my time on the street corner doing this to earn some extra cash.

simply the best

happy friday folks.

darwin awards, stripper style

it gets great at about 1 min into the clip.
damn, guhl. careful what you workin wit.

kinda cool

damn, grandma

i know i said that nobody fucks with the jesus, but shit, grandma be clappin' folks. straight ghostin' them fuckers ...in their toodles.

wrekanize.

get up in that asshole. fuck that asshole up.

my man

this is for real

i give you: SEXMAN
no joke.

wiener poopy

Jesus Quintana: Let me tell you something, pendejo. You pull any of your crazy shit with us, you flash a piece out on the lanes, I'll take it away from you, stick it up your ass and pull the fucking trigger 'til it goes "click."
The Dude: Jesus.
Jesus Quintana: You said it, man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus.

nobody fucks with the jesus... except these mutherfuckrs

more feline fun

i just think this is a funny idea.

every day, this woman lets her cat go and wander around the neighborhood while wearing a camera that takes shots every 15 seconds.



here's the gallery...

big pussy

that's a HUUUUUGE bitch!

funniest thing i've seen in a while

genius

say wurd

thank god i caught this one on my way to work.
pulled my pants up just in time. i don't think anyone else would've played me straight.

get off your butt and do it

tom vu will show you how!

stop staring at me

glumbert - THX for the Eyes

the truth is out there

my mother ...baked me this cookie.

fully flaired

it's getting a lot of play.
and, it's just a ton of fun to watch.

wonder if it's real. can't tell yet.

always burn your clothes

yikes!

moozic on the beeeeech

oh boy...



i don't know what to say.
but check out some other gems here.

mluughuuaawwhhh

delish!

think of all the attachments!

wonder if that chick comes with a cuisinart or a vacuum or something.

crazy cat lady

remember that crazy cat lady chick from the simpsons?



well this one puts her to shame.
don't forget to eat your cat food.

play with your food. PLAY WITH IT!

makes you think twice about playing with some melons... doesn't it?

verbotten.

nice cigar, fella.



like they say, it ain't the size of the boat; it's the motion of the ocean.
in this guy's case... he moves around A LOT.

do you rearize

this is an amazing spoof on a video that broke on youtube a while back.



here's the original.

owned

some of cheapest, easiest fun on the interwebs:



1. go to youtube.com
2. search 'owned'

alternatively



1. go to youtube.com
2. search 'get owned'

or C

1. go to youtube.com
2. search 'gets owned'

i swear it's comedy every single time.

hi yah!

maawwwwwwwwwuuuuugggghhhh

pussy on the mat

just watch it.
i really can't say anything else.

my new best friend

this thing--the "hip office"--is meant to make you more productive in the workplace. it holds your laptop, your clipboard. whatever.



they forgot one use though: tray holder at mickey D's.



muthafucka, i roll up and order like three value meals, and i don't even have to sit down. just put that shit on my productivity device and i'm walking AND eating.

"hip office"? more like "hip-py meal". yeah, i said it.

fat kids, start getting jealous.
i'm creeping up on you.... all heavy-breathing-like.

maybe this kid should go to a dutch university

i bet the girls go crazy when he pulls out his radio controlled flying device.

this dude gets ALL the bitzes.

take back everything i said about robots

this guy got a PhD from a Dutch university for studying sex.... with robots.

i'm in the wrong field.

huh?

because it's friday

that's right, play with your food

so it's a day late, but i couldn't resist.
this dude wails on some broccoli.

chop-a-broc-a-leeee-heeee!!!!

let's end on a high note

everybody loves poop. just accept it.

just plain weird

watch dem bitches

the internets be cuuuuuuurrrraayzy, yo. wurd.

hungary for war

2pac, much respek!

today is music day

that's all there is to it.

all the crap you see here today is an inspirational scrape of the beautiful music of the interwebs.
these are the songs that sing "Thursday" quietly in my ear, like a little retarded baby.

i wear my sunglasses all the fucking time

it's from australia.
'nuff said.

my wife's gonna kick your ass

this guy is a champ. can't you just let him take a leak?
also, great form on the can-toss.

kudos. all around.

i wear my sunglasses at night

where's my fuckin protein mom!

it's an oldie but a goodie folks. thanks for the tip, 'anonymous'.

supa man dat kapowski

best yet. no doubt about that.

snug it out

well-said

this genius courtesy of defective yeti

what the fuck?!

i want a massage!

my new bluetooth headset

i'm gonna look like a huge basass with my new hi-tech bluetooth
headset. so pumped to use this thing while walking down the street.

power-brokers: go fuck yourself.

politics: so RAVEn

killin it like a gay robot

killin it

one month later

skulking about streets in a dark, wet, and sloppy new york, i've begun to think that the romance of things is only an illusion. the happy folks drunk off of wunderlust and cab rides are merely that: drunk. when the daylight breaks, they're forced to look at things for what they are. the gasoline puddle ceases to glisten and simply smells. heel clicks on the pavement lose their echo, and the rhythm gets mottled. it's all timed out to something less complicated and more deterministic than any of us would like to admit. like it or not, there is a science to this. love and hope... they're hiding somewhere else, maybe under a rock or beneath the caving sidewalks.

this is a machine. let's not kid ourselves. everything is manufactured.

We live in an age where music no longer moves people. It just talks to them.

Saw a band play recently. Took a look away from the stage and observed
the crowd: just a ton of people standing there. It inspired me to
write this--

We live in an age where music no longer moves people. It just talks to
them.

• sent from my iphone •

Seasons Change

on the cusp of another break in seasons, i feel a tension everywhere. it's like electricity, sizzling all around as currents fork and shoot to make an infinity of connections with all of the other charged objects that surge and whir in this seasonal transience. it's the energy that comes from forcing opposing poles into close proximity and then keeping them there. the power in a Contradiction's stubbornness to avoid looking at itself in the mirror, i guess. it comes with every footfall on the concrete sidewalk, baked warm by the daylight and cooked cool in the evenings. your body starts to sweat at illogical moments because the hot and cold air mixes together to create a burning sensation that can't be justified. it's in the flowers and the trees and the vines whose blossoms are coaxed outside by a mischievous and deceitful sun only to be stung by nightfall and rendered cowering and frightened beneath the moonlight.

this pushing and pulling so close to one another infuses the air with such a reaction potential that it seeps out, supersaturates. it touches us all. the effect isn't immediately palpable, no. but, it's there. it's there in the smiles and the laughter and the hellos that come calling through the breezes. you hear it between all the honking and over the sewer steam, hissing from the manhole covers. it's the time of year when you start to notice people living. and that seems to drown everything else out.

this is the last gasp of a season that doesn't want to die.

and, perhaps it is that our very living eggs it on. so, we walk livelier and farther in the face of the long frost, in spite of it, in the hopes that we may in fact scare it away with laughter--with life.



...or, maybe it's just Denial, manifesting itself because everyone knows that we can't stop the seasons from changing. we can only hope to.

you be the judge.

Woof Woof

i think it's funny to see owners who look just like their dogs. i think they take cues from one another, and their behaviors become amalgums of each others', whether they know it or not. ultimately, i can't separate dog from master or vice versa. i end up seeing them as one and the same.

In One Place

i've bought things. i've worked at stuff.

i own a television. i have a modest dvd collection. i like my stereo. my bike is nice. i've filled my time and my life with small goals and seemingly smaller, emptier possessions. i went to college. that was indulgent. i have a job. i've had two. and a few internships at cool places. the cumulative effect of all of those things has led me to fill my relatively small apartment with a relatively unnecessary amount of useless things, the worth of which i find hard to pinpoint. better yet, the worth of which i find it impossible to derive satisfaction from. sure, they might satisfy an urge or an impulse. a wish to be instantly distracted. a need to be immediately pleased. but the half-lives of these things are uncannily volatile; their purpose expires quickly, and their existence is soul-less.

nonetheless i trudge forward. although, i'll stop myself and admit that 'forward' might be an audacious claim. there isn't a direction to the movement. no momentum, no intertia. let's say that i'm walking in place rather well, at a hearty pace ...knees high, good form. it's curious that only rarely do i take the care to notice where i've gone. and even then the observations are superficial at best. their notation in the great Book of my self-logging is simply an act. as if my remarking of them would be anything more than just that.

well, secretly i hope they are more, but i know better. what's the harm in a little self-deceit?

normally, during a journey, one would expect the scenery to whisk by. maybe a bug might hit the windshield or something. a speeding ticket perhaps. yet not only have i managed to neglect these passings (or rather a lack thereof), i've downright ignored their absence. and, instead of leaving things behind, i've collected things, piled them high to fill the void. and, among them i continue marching in place. maybe it's because of them that i can't go forward.

i wonder if i'll actually ever take the odd step out and look at the heap i've created: the mausoleum to a lack of achievement. maybe that will scare the shit out of me enough to make me get going somehwere.

because really, what prompted all of this was the simple, self-posed question of "what have i done?"

all i could come up with was that i haven't done a whole lot, but i've got a ton of stuff.

Industry

i've long had a bit of an obsession with the products of industry that sit as skeletons across our countrysides and cityscapes. something about these rotting places with iron and glass and stone all withering slowly make for a beautiful sight ...oddly.

anyway, i'd been thinking about it a lot. and then i went to the MET today to see a presentation of modernists and abstract expressionists. that's when i read this:

every age manifests itself by some external evidence. in a period such as ours when only a comparatively few individuals seem to be given to religion, some form other than the Gothic cathedral must be found. industry concerns the greatest numbers--it may be true, as has been said, that our factories are our substitute for religious expression.

it's from an artist, charles sheeler, who's passion was precionist paintings of factories and the like.

now he may have painted them in their glory, but i still find something epic in their abandonment and degredation. that's just my way of saying that i think even in the death of these factories, his statement still holds true.

some of his paintings are on the left.

oh happy flashback (part II)

in the gentle drizzle, i wandered and soaked. i had never really dried off from the shower, so the rain just extended my sogginess. i rather liked it though; it kept me cool in the dusk on the roof. the pitter patter of the rain on the tar-top sounded like soft fingertips gently worrying themselves across the kitchen table. it was a comforting din that worked its way through the thick july air. it acted like insulation for the rest of the rooftop goings-on. for a while, that tap-tap-tapping was all i heard. but then, subtle sounds started to sneak their way in.

the clicks and snaps of a loosely rigged tarp in the wind poked through like thumbtacks; shelter from the raindrops. i was near the makeshift stairway when i became aware of these new sounds. hearing them, my ears perked up a bit. i was curious to see what or who else might be up here with me. and, as i listened harder, i crept up closer--through the awkward passageway between exhaust vents and steampipes, over the moldy planks. i heard the baritone of a man's voice, the soft soprano of his companion, and then suddenly the sharp alto of Elayna.

her voice was familiar to me for, as is usually the case, the walls of our stacked apartments are quite thin. and, in the mornings as i worked through my *régime*, i would wind up moving to the soundtrack of Elayna's laughter ...or her tears. brushing my teeth, i was privvy to her good days and her bad ones. and, a parent's frustration of not being able to predict which day it would be this morning or the next. it's a difficult way to become acquainted since you never really meet but nevertheless remain an observer to what are thought to be intimate moments.

it's like sound or light. humans are limited in their ability to appreciate the full spectrum of things that exist in the world. to wit: a dog can hear more frequencies of sound than both you or i. still other animals are able to register frequencies of light that are elseways imperceptible to us. normally, we operate within the most basic range of frequencies. and these are the parts of ourselves we put forth: the average of all frequencies, satisfactorily harmonious. however, in private, we can become beasts of lust or anger or sorrow. in these throes, we become something else. and so, we employ frequencies otherwise reserved for more primal creatures. these are sides of ourselves we never intend to let out of their cages; we keep them locked up for good reason. when they do escape, it's not for others' enjoyment. to witness these moments--be it first hand or through a paper thin wall--is an uncomfortable experience. you'd simply rather not have been around for it.

however it is the silent witness who is burdened most. for not only must he know the beast, he must also come to know the imposter, the deceiver, the Charlatan. this character is ignorant to another's knowledge of his darker side and so behaves as if there was no awareness to begin with. meeting on the street, the Charlatan greets you warmly, with a kind voice and a generous smile. but, as you become familiar with his more sinister side--creeping through the walls during countless evenings and quiet, early dawns--you begin to notice the canines in his grin, the shrill tone in his,"hello." you come to understand that the average of all frequencies is nothing more than a façade. a harmony whose parts are rough and mottled, designed with the intent to cover up the most unpleasant tones rather than reveal a beautifully complex agreement. no matter. in the end, the worst notes ring truest, and you get a glimpse of the full spectrum whether you wanted it or not.

and then, you start to think about yourself.

oh happy flashback (Part I)

for the most part, it wasn't much different than any other hot, muggy day in new york. the trash on the sidewalk wasn't any less putrid. my clothes still greedily lapped up the sweat that made me sticky all over. and, everyone was still moving slowly through the air's thickness. always in the summer you begin to get a great appreciation for the physical fluidity of air. it seems ridiculous, i understand. however, air is technically a fluid. and in the summer, you learn it.

the *météo* is certainly comparable in other parts of this country, i understand that too. washington d.c. is particularly painful in the summer months. it used to be a swamp with water in it. then it got drained. now it's a swamp with hot air floating about. frankly, i find this situation to be worse than if the swamp water was still around. where one could have pointed at the object of his ire, now the soppiness taunts him as the invisible, yet somehow ever-palpable Spectre. st. louis is pretty damp as well. and let's not forget new orleans.

well, to make matters worse on this particular day, i hadn't showered ...yet. it all really started the night before. impromptu plans led to new introductions, which led to new friends, which led to new adventures. it was one of those nights where everything just kept falling into place. i met a dog named Tiger. I saw stag-horn ferns. I played on a playground at four in the morning (highly recommended). next thing i know, i'm emerging from the murky L-train stairway on 14th street at around 3pm, a bit beaten down from a long night.

dressed in yesterday's clothes, i'm having trouble climbing the stairs because my jeans are clinging so tightly to my sweaty legs that mobility is becoming an issue. my t-shirt isn't doing me any favors either. i run my fingers through my hair at the end of a half-hearted "everything-still-there?" full-body pat-down. my coif remains standing. it would be kind to say that i was mildly disheveled. but then to say that, you'd have to be blind. and even then, you'd be a pretty dumb blind person because i smelled like shit.

these details all augmented awkwardly when met with the saturated air. it was like one of those little sponge dinosaurs that they cram into a plastic pill case. and, when you see it, you're thinking to yourself, "There can't be a dinosaur in there! Nuh uh!" but, then, you drop it into the bathroom sink after you plugged the drain; and, low-and-behold, five minutes later: a proper sponge dinosaur. and, he's purple no less! ...of course, you're six years old at this point.

at any rate, i was a mess. time to stumble home. and stumble i did, through the heat and steam of the new york city summer. and now, thunder clouds began to mingle and gather like lumpish lambs in the skies overhead. this was july fourth, 2007.

i emerged from the shower... cleaner ...but, still sweating. the heat and the humidity were pretty much inescapable. however, those storm clouds promised to bring some release to our supersaturated situation. in the grey duldrums that were forming, i managed to climb the stairs of my new apartment in my new neighborhood to the roof. i was told the fireworks would begin soon and that i was in a prime spot to see them. i'd been living in new york for four years, and, to be honest, had never actually seen those bright lights in the sky.

there is, however, the great sensation of hearing the ballistics. the city's so incredibly dense and built-up that it has the tendency to act as an echo chamber. and, as the ordnances blast and bellow, they send waves of cacauphony rumbling through the streets, down the avenues, bouncing off glass and steel and stone as if they were trampolines. this, i've heard ...but never seen.

so, i had climbed to the roof. and sat--waiting. apparently i had arrived a bit early. no matter. this afforded me some time to observe my new surroundings from a heightened vantage point. i started to wander somewhat scatterbraindedly about my roof, examing the intricacies and odd craftsmanship that, over the decades, had amassed in the form of mismatched brick, tar-to-mortar-and-back-again patches, jury-rigged butresses, the odd seedling, and all the countless abandoned buckets and lumber left rotting and withering in far corners and nooks. there were passageways and walkthroughs. steam pipes and sky lights. and, there were makeshift stairs to the adjacent roof. all of these details were eerily exagerated by the dim grey smoke-light slowly pouring through the clouds this particular evening. everything was made darker.

and then all was made wetter. the clouds gently gave way, breaking under the weight of their burden, and sprinkling a cool, consistent haze upon us all that night.

hmmmm

with some sort of predictability, i get touched by a distant anxiousness that rises and bubbles until, with the inevitable passage of time, it manifests itself as a bilious dyspepsia that causes me numerous palpitations and a general feeling of physical uneasiness. it happens as words and pictures and anecdotes pile upon one another so carelessly that, in their self-involved, wonderfully oblivious way, they manage to form the foci of profound events in the imaginary life i would like to lead.

this happens every so often, after an in-law climbs mt. everest and dines with sherpas, after a sister's friend single-handedly saves an indonesian village from illogically carnivorous gerbils (said village is now named after said friend), and after i manage to drop my toothbrush in the toilet, left with a measly digit to scrape and scrub my maw.

it is while manually retrieving (tried: flushing, baiting, hooking) aforementioned toothbrush from its infamously unhygienic reflecting pool that i realize i would rather not be elbow deep in toilet water for the lottery of the remainder of my years there is to be. rather, i would most undoubtedly be desiring to rescue a small bolivian town from a plague of bole weevils, while aiding the president (post 2008; this, after all, occurs in the future) in his quest to transplant mt. rushmore onto the moon, an admittedly larger canvas.

and, although rants and mental meanderings such as these really provide no solace or catharsis, they at least allow me to punctuate what would otherwise be a rather moribund habitation of this planet with the musings of the happenings of a life i may one day lead. Now, after that toothbrush once more.....

what the fuck?!

Greetings, dirtling, originally uploaded by valleywagprime.

yup, i'm a dirtling.
but i'm not from san fran.

my pic popped up on valleywag.com the other day after my arrival from Virgin America flight VX001; the very first flight flown by the airline.

this is my arrival in the blogosphere. mark it. learn it. forget it just as quickly.

sincerely,
"the dirty hippie"

Fate

i was digging for inspiration, looking for something to push me forward and make me spit out some more words.

in my digging, i opened up an old file on my computer and found some fragments and musings that i figured would be interesting to share. here is the first:

...the trick then isn't to remain changeless and rigid, to let the things around you change with your awareness but without your reaction. let us also not confuse this amateurish stoicism for the ignorance of denial, for one is a pity and one is a plague. the idea would be to apply some temperance to the fate of man, for fate alone moves without conscience; but, the fate of man, That imbues itself with a sense of his own unknown capability and thust isn't without some humanity; it cannot be stopped, but it can be moved.

more to come...

Dull and Boring

it may be that a constant shroud of grey dew and mist has parked itself conveniently above our island. or, it could be that the windows from which i must always peer are in a constant state of never-clean; limescale, grit, and other unknown sludge compounds -- whose origins are from the city's maw and the foul rear-ends of its cars no doubt -- tirelessly fling themselves at even the faintest hint of clarity.

it might have only just struck me last night, as i rode the clickety clacking subway car home from a long sunday's worth of work. and, there, across from me and about 20 paces to my right stood a man, sucking and puckering and feeling for the memory of his teeth with his chapped lips and sallow cheeks. cheekbones like isosceles triangles and wide-set, pinhole eyes that glinted in the sterile lamplight. he was talking. above the din and growl of the six train he shouted in lisps and light whistles at his reflection in the dark glass. it was murky, like the rest of the bespeckled panels throughout our town.

at least he could see what he was shouting at, despite its distortion.

around me there seems to be a general 'dull and boring' permeating my surroundings, with only low points as accents to the otherwise sloth-like monotony. each one trying to creep lower than the previous--toothless men plagued by dementia, blind beggers, disfigured families...

and i just keep wandering through it. so do most of us, i think. it comes out best in the mornings, when the zombies march to their train stations and sit or stand in silence, complacently -- vacantly -- staring. i always wonder if they're looking for something, even a murky reflection.

i'm looking for something, just can't figure out what it is. and, while i keep looking, i keep wandering. and the filth and the mire and the sludge keeps piling up. i get the feeling that if i wait too long i'll find myself in quicksand.

maybe i'll just go eat some thai food. that usually makes things better.

Can We Still Rally?

the other night, over dinner with a friend, i believe an important question reared its head:
where has our fervor gone?

why does it appear that the american public is only mildly concerned with the current state of affairs in this country? why is this mild concern meagerly supported by a dearth of examples, further hindering our awareness and leaving efforts hamstrung? and why do these efforts seem sporadic at best?

initially, my friend and i, we gravitated toward the 'media.' between its fragmentation and various vehicles, we simply concluded that its coverage of this war is equally fragmented and varied. and, well, it fills the gaps with things that amount to news-journalism "rubbernecking." we hear about porn revenues, people getting beat up, tv hosts dropping the F Bomb, spats amongst celebrities. and, as interesting and pleasing as these things are to read--they satisfy some cerebral sweet tooth--they take up space in our newspapers, websites, radio shows, magazines, and newscasts. they fill up time that might be better spent examining more necessary issues. moreover, they distract us.

for instance:
there were over 100 people killed in iraq on tuesday. yet, the only thing i really heard about was how hot brangelina looked at the golden globes.

now, i understand that if i really wanted to find some coverage on this disturbing wartime fact, i could dig around for a few minutes and find it. but my worry isn't about a situation like this. there are people who care deeply, and they find the facts; and they do talk about them. but, on the whole, these folks appear (at least to me) to be a vast minority. the issues they try to bring to the forefront can be given cursory coverage in major news sources and compete for ratings on tv newscasts where people naturally gravitate towards less taxing issues, like red carpet fashions.

even still, i think many might agree that there is sufficient coverage of some of the more pressing matters concerning our involvement in this war, and that one need only take a step in any direction to land on it. i admit that it would be difficult for me to argue against this position for an extended period of time.

and so, this situation, this 'mild concern' that i'm discussing, is a cause for even greater perplexity (again, perhaps just for me)...

...if i acquiesce and concede that there may in fact be satisfactory coverage of our involvement in this war and the issues involved in it, how is it that americans still appear to be, on the whole, rather apathetic about the whole thing?

my friend and i, we continued our debate on this point of contention, trying to lay blame. in doing so, we found our focus tightening. it no longer settled on 'media' as a whole. our aim now trained on what i'll call the 'curators'--the newscasters, editors, producers. for if, out there in the media ether, there exists sufficient wartime analysis to counter my previous assertion, and yet we still remain lethargic in response to the facts, then it must be concluded that one cannot necessarily depend on the american people to actively seek out the truth and debate it. therefore, it takes someone to direct us, to literally make us look at what is most important. this job lies in the hands of these 'curators,' as they control the distribution, the lineup, the commentary; they are the sources of dissemination.

there was a time when curators dealt the truth whether we wanted to hear it or not. and because those views rang true, we had no choice but to hear. they forced us to pay attention. during his coverage of the vietnam war, walter cronkite was brave enough to make us stop and listen. during his newscast on february 19, 1968 he opined that the war had become a "stalemate" that had to be ended, and so we must "negotiate."

ultimately, his comments helped lead our country out of that war, perhaps contributing to president johnson's decision to end our commitment in vietnam.

meanwhile, today, we have nbc newscasters labeling the situation in iraq as "civil war."

i find this to be a sad, stark contrast. and, unfortunately, most people are suffering for it--iraqis and americans alike. it's a "civil war" mentality that allows the importance of our wartime status to sneak past the american conscience and become a demoted, second-tier issue, effecting everything related to it.

in the end, however, i think it's difficult to place onus on any one group or person or thing. but then, this isn't the sort of issue that is bettered as result of allocating blame. rather than try to figure out where the problem started, it's better for us to decide how to fix it.

and so, i want to test the waters. i'm posting this article on digg.com. i urge you to help make this post stand out from the rest. i want to use it as a starting point. if enough support can be rallied, i hope to use it as a means of organizing a march in washington d.c.. something large enough to get everyone's attention. i've never done anything like this before, that's why i hope you'll take me seriously and help show that people still do care.

let's see what happens.

You Pay For What You (Don't) Get

it would appear that many of my musings are inspired or occur whilst in coffee shops.

this deep thought is brought to you by starbucks.

let us walk through a scenario which i believe we can all relate to.

step 1: enter starbucks
step 2: queue in line
step 3: approach 'barista'
step 4: order
step 5: pay
step 6: get coffee

in a perfect world, this scenario unfolds from step 1 in a rather prompt and sequential manner. after all, it make sense that after step 1 comes step 2 and then step 3 and so on. until, in a reasonable amount of time, you're holding the multi-syllabic caffeinated beverage of your choice.

however, in a perfect world, we live not.

and so, our scenario's impenetrable logic suddenly begins to breakdown. everything still unfolds from step 1, but the fluidity and promptness of the process begins to deteriorate at step 5. here, there is a sort of barista brain fart, a hiccup.

the bone of contention for me is trying to understand what in god's name happens between steps 5 and 6. and, more importantly, why this mystery event--let's call it step 5.5--is acceptable.

after the barista has taken my money at step 5 thus ensues The Long Wait (aka step 5.5). it is at this particular juncture that i have taken value i own--i.e. cash--and transferred that value to the barista with the expectation of receiving a perishable good of commensurate value to the cash i just dispensed.

however, in return, i receive nothing. in fact, not only do i receive nothing, but worse, i am made to wait whilst still receiving nothing for an undetermined, protracted period of time ...the duration of which i have no control over.

this when i find myself asking:
"what did i just pay for?"

to anticipate a critique of this rationale:
yes, inevitably and ultimately i do receive my caffeine fix for the day. but my gripe is not with the end--i paid for that; i expect my coffee. my gripe is with the means--i didn't pay for that; why am i paying a price just to stand there?

so, in this limbo where i have paid for something and not yet received it, i'm waiting in a space where i've in fact paid for nothing.

the next question is:
"why are these 15 other people standing here? and why is this an acceptable paradigm for them?"

other holes people might try to punch in this conundrum involve examples.

for instance: plane tickets.
we buy those in advance. why don't you make the same claim about waiting for a flight to board when there's a delay or bad weather?

my answer:
i'm complaining about coffee. COFFEE.
it requires a process of grinding beans and then pouring hot water through them to produce a drink.

the counter-example involves airplanes.
airplanes are highly sophisticated machines with innumerable pieces, parts, nuances etc. furthermore, to fly one requires coordination on an advanced level. there's the FAA, flight control, other planes, radar, flight paths, etc. finally, weather can't be controlled, nor can it be well-predicted. simply put, flying on an airplane contains a sufficient amount of variables as to require a passenger to not only be un-phased by delays but to actually expect/anticipate them.

coffee on the other hand does not satisfy this 'numerous variable' requirement.

what do you think?

2 + 1 + 2 Things You Don't Know About Me

got a tag from Jack Cheng to participate in a nice little project: five things you don't know about me. here comes the weirdness...

1. i'm incredibly OCD. i'm obsessed with the number thirteen. i view it as an auspicious sign when i look at a digital clock and it reads X hour and 13 minutes. if i want something good to happen, i will ask myself if it is going to happen and then look at the clock. if it is at the 13th minute, i will then count to thirteen in my head; and, if the minute doesn't change then i'm somewhat more hopeful of the prospect of this wish being fulfilled. likewise, i won't turn off the shower until i count backwards from 10 to -3.

2. conversely, i hate the number 14. i believe it to be the unluckiest of all numbers. if, when going through the above exercise of asking for a wish to fulfilled, i see the 14th minute on the clock, i'm pretty much certain that whatever it is i hoped for is now marked for death.

3. i love legos. i still build them with my nephews whenever i visit them. when i was little, i built an entire lego world based around the then magical monorail. it filled my whole room, and regular sized adults would have to sort of bob and weave to make their way through it.

4. i speak french

5. i have a 125mph serve. (i used to play a lot of tennis)

sadly, i know not who else to tag as all of my blogosphere contacts have been used up between my friends Jack and Ryan. they would've been Concha, Piers, Bryan, and then Ryan and Jack.

alas, i know no other bloggers. maybe i'll try aziz. he doesn't know me, but i bet his list would be interesting.

(early) New Year's Resolution

not that anyone is actually reading...
but, my first ever New Year's Resolution will be to post something, anything, one single thing...

at least once per week.

(fingers crossed)