Scraping Two-Week-Old Meat Off the Floor

A scrap of meat, after it's been on a well traveled floor for a week, is barely noticeable.  It becomes the same dirty gray as the painted concrete floor and any of its former meatiness is stamped out of it. I seem to take sweeping more seriously than the proprietor of the butcher shop where I help out. So when I set to sweeping and saw that many of the bits that would not be swept into my pan were in fact very old pieces of meat caked onto the floor, I knew I was in for a treat.  Seriously, this is a treat.  The satisfaction of using a scraper to pop one of those filthy flesh cakes off the floor is unparalleled.  

Scraping two-week-old meat off the floor: Grade A fun.

Arturo

My roommate's cat Arturo is allegedly twelve years old, but I would pin him at 18 or so if I had to guess. He is quite possibly one of the most repulsive and endearing creatures I've known. Bless his heart. He hovers skinny and balding outside my bedroom, wailing a wail that chills the bones. Sometimes I let him in but I am always sorry. He suffers from chronic sinus issues. Wherever he sits, I find his mark, a slug shaped gob of snot. To be fair, it is not an Oregon sized slug of snot, but rather a smaller east coast sized slug of snot, about an inch long, greenish brown and glistening. I have wiped this snot from all sorts of surfaces. Some of his choice targets include my computer, my pillow, my coffee, my soul. Still, sometimes I am feeling charitable, or needy, or drunk (see charitable) and I let him sleep with me. When I kick him out of bed, he will sit on the landing and wait for me to pass, hissing and swiping. And you know what, I am fairly certain that this is why I love him. I probably wouldn't tolerate this behavior from something that sprang from my very own womb but I am allowed to gently kick him aside if need be. That goes a long way.

I can't recommend him to everybody but I will say that if you have a black and white tiled floor, he matches nicely.

Hallmark Cards

Hallmark cards are humankind’s most heinous artifact. They are worse than guns; worse than trans fats; worse than Ernest Goes to Camp. They are ignominious reminders of our most despicable moral regression: ceasing to genuinely attempt intimate, personal expression of affection. “This card says what I never could.” That is, of course, bullshit—we can all say it if we really want to, and it would be better than a stranger-written card because it would be true. Don’t let the dead-eyed, obese, fluorescent light tanned, drug addict corporate card writers* pretend they can say it for you. We all have to learn how to express ourselves—no one else can say it for us, and we all can say it.

*Ok, maybe that’s not how they look, but I’m sure they’re hollow on the inside.

The Paper Clip

I know Daniel has already reviewed it, but I feel the need to reveal my own feelings about the paperclip—feelings of profound love and everlasting devotion. I feel certain that whenever in my life I have seen on the floor its quick silver glint, I have bowed to pick it up. I love its refined coil shape; the way it gently hugs of a stack of paper; its willingness to be plied and contorted while it rides in my pocket; the cheerful clicking laughter of its delicate voice as it bounces on my desk. I consider the paperclip the meekest of all office supplies—the meekest, thus the noblest, for who but the quiet giving are the masters among us and the true keepers of order? None, I say.

So hail to you, most august paper clip: at my desk you are the most virtuous.

Two New Favrorite Movies: Tornado and Alien vs. Predator

My new favorite movie is TORNADO. It’s German, it’s three hours long (averaging one tornado per hour), it ends with a great slow-mo father-son goodbye scene, and there’s a moral to the story: nothing brings people together like tornadoes. The entire movie was in German with no subtitles; I don’t know German, but the story was so well told that it didn’t matter.

My second new favorite movie is Alien vs. Predator. The moral? Nothing brings humans and murderous aliens together like a common acid-blooded alien enemy (with a tiny head that shoots out of a giant head). And the best part is you don’t have to know what they’re saying to get the message: I watched it in German with Japanese subtitles. 

The moral of this review is if you are truly lonely, all movies are great. 

The Expression "Now You're on the Trolley"

In case you’re not on the trolley, this idiom can be exclaimed after someone else gets it. For example:

“Well, Jimmy, last week you were having trouble with long division. Did you study?”
“Yes.”
“What’s 120 divided by 6?”
“20.”
“Good job. How about 8534 divided by 7?”
“1219 point 142857 repeating.”
“Hey! Now you’re on the trolley!”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Watch your mouth.”

See how fun and useful this turn of phrase is? It’s a wonder it fell out of fashion. Perhaps it’s because the term trolley is no longer prevalent in the modern American word stock. It might be that I like the ring of it precisely because the term is old-fashioned and brings to mind a romantic, bygone scene of some burgeoning, early-20th century burg. My special gal and I are headed to the dance, I hear hep new sounds jumpin’ and jivin’ from down the street, and then the jing-a-ling of a trolley coming our way. We both hop on, excited to be in love and on board such a marvelously modern mode of transport. We know what’s going on, and we’re going on with it—we’re on the trolley.

I also can’t think of a colorful phrase in use today meaning the same thing. "Now you get it" is really all we’ve got. I see a strong need for a friendly, upbeat, affirmative way to acknowledge and praise a peer for understanding something or for being headed in the right direction. In short, I think it’s high time we hop on the trolley and bring this expression back.

Humor

When alone for an evening, I love to get high, prepare an exotic meal, and dine while watching an art film. By layering my loves, I intensify the overall release of serotonin and dopamine, thus my pleasure. The effect is usually a sense of fullness and fulfillment, as if the energy of my aliveness is coursing through all the infrastructure of my self, lighting every room and thoroughfare. Last night, however, my sense of peace and wellness nearly collapsed soon after adding the third layer: the film. 

The evening began well. I ate a brownie—powerful but not overwhelming—then I prepared an Indian-themed meal: naan, a stew of vegetables in a coconut sauce, and an Amy’s Aloo Matar wrap, an approximation of a samosa. It was all delicious and highly rewarding. 

The discomfort occurred a few minutes into my viewing of Hiroshima, Mon Amour, a film that commences with actual footage of the aftereffects of the nuclear bomb attack on Hiroshima. As you can probably imagine, and as I have no desire to relay, the footage is patently gruesome and utterly inappropriate for mealtime or being high. However, somehow, when the terrifying scenes of biological disfigurement were beginning to ignite my deepest pathos, I was able to laugh. I laughed out loud to myself. I absorbed the shock with humor.

I soon turned off the film, but for a moment after I was transfixed by the images and their significance, as well as the replaying memories of my two trips to beautiful Hiroshima and the Peace Park and my one visit to the museum that preserves the memory of the horror. I was momentarily overwelmed by the brilliance of human destructiveness, by the fervency of our will to conquer, and by the paradox of our methods of survival—by our multilayered selfish nature. 

Selfishness is the willful paining of others. Selfishness is a plastic-wrapped microwavable pseudo-samosa. Selfishness is laughter when the grimness of reality threatens to darken our life. Last night, selfishness was watching the ingeniously hilarious fourth episode of the third season of Louie. Apparently: Being High on Pot Brownie + Eating Delicious Indian Food + Devastating Footage of Nuclear Carnage = Louis CK. 

What thoroughly strange creatures we are.

And thank you, Louis CK.

Orlando (the film)

Orlando is a 1992 film adaptation of Virginia Woolf's Orlando: A Biography. In his youth, Orlando is told never to grow old, so he never does. Many years later, he inexplicably becomes a woman. The film covers several centuries of Orlando's eventful life.

For the first half of the movie I was in love with it; Tilda Swinton is incredible as the mercurial title role, the rest of the cast maintained a fascinating androgyny, the costumes were beautiful, the camera work elegant. The script was strange and clever, and the plot moved with its own bizarre rhythms. I was entranced. 

Then Billy Zane showed up. 

Wow.

Billy Zane looks like he's spending all of his screen time working his ass off to maintain a sleazy half-smile. Each and every scene with him in it looks like it's taken from the cover of a paperback romance novel, right down to the leopard pelts and long locks of curly hair blowing in the wind. Tilda Swinton, who is otherwise excellent in the movie, seems to be barely containing her rage at having to share a scene with Billy Zane. He's clearly not giving her anything to work with, and she's supposed to be in love with the guy. No amount of acting on her part can convince the audience that this love is real. 

"No! Don't do it! Don't have sex with Billy Zane!" I shouted at the screen. My friends cringed and looked away whenever he spoke or showed his face. It was unbearable. 

When Billy Zane finally left, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

Then things got back to normal for about five minutes before an unexplained, horribly costumed angel sang a bad song and the movie was over. 

Final verdict: this movie goes so far off the rails that it's practically unrecognizable as the same film. Which is too bad, because I really liked it before Billy Zane showed up.

Working at the Bosch Tossimo Recall Hotline

*A guest post by Sara M.*

In the midst of a third-life crisis, I packed my car and moved myself from Washington, DC to Portland, OR. I knew that finding work would be tough, but I decided that it was a fair price to pay for a chance to make it in the land of easy living and flannel. So far, I’m scraping by on temp work. My latest temp assignment has me working at a call center from 5am to noon; I consider it my penance for being another transplant muddying up the job market here. However, as far as call centers go, it’s probably not the worst deal. We’re taking calls regarding a huge product recall on a single serving Bosch Tassimo coffee brewer. It seems that millions of these brewers have a defective piece that can cause scalding. Mostly though, it just causes dissatisfaction:

Me: Bosch Tossimo recall hotline, this is Sara, what can I do for you today?

An old man starts his list of grievances about this whole recall. I tell him I can help him, but the conversation goes like this:

Me: Sir, I can take care of this for you, please tell me your first name.

Caller: Dr. Bronner.

Me: What is your first name. I need your first name.

Caller: It’s Dr. Bronner.

Me: I’m sorry, sir, I thought I asked for your first name, not your profession.

Caller: Well, I’m a doctor.

Me: It doesn’t matter that you’re a doctor, sir, I’m going to treat you like everyone else. (That’s right, everyone gets the same crappy service on my line.)

Caller: Richard.

And sometimes calls get off topic. I’m supposed to stick to the script, but that doesn’t seem to limit what my customers bring to the call. Midway through a call from a saucy older woman in Las Vegas, a small pack of dogs started yapping excitedly. Then I heard her scream, “Cut it out! Are you on my antique table? Don’t make me get the strap!”

It’s a laugh a minute down at the call center.  

The wonderful thing about the Bosch Tassimo brewer is that it makes everyone feel like they’ve got a little bit of fancy right on their counter. It’s a pseudo-luxury good purchased by new money and no money alike. Much like premium cable packages, it’s enjoyed by everyone from businessmen in Vancouver, to housewives in New Jersey, to yokels in Saskatchewan. Now everyone can relish the modern luxury of mid-grade coffee, tea, espresso, or hot chocolate, one cup at a time, at the touch of a button. It’s so easy to use that just about everybody went out and bought one for their cranky old mother-in-law this Christmas. The machine takes the guess work out of gadgetry: it reads a barcode off of every plastic disc of coffee and spits out the appropriate amount of piping hot water. 

But perfection is an elusive ghoul; it seems this little gem of a machine has a dark side. Thus far, millions of poor, unsuspecting consumers have had piping hot water, grounds, and even tea leaves spewed at them. Only 137 have been hospitalized. Those seem like winning odds to me. 

It’s ok though, we have a solution! Take back the whole machine? Don’t be silly. We’re just going to send you a new piece that you, the consumer who purchased this machine specifically marketed to your technical ineptitude, can install yourself in less than 60 seconds.

Phase 2 of my stint at the recall hotline is helping people install the replacement part. The first two weeks of phase 2 were a dream. Due to a faulty web form, most Canadians were unable to register online to receive the part, so they called me and we chatted and they thought I was solving all of their problems. It was grand. However, things are getting dicey now that people are receiving their replacement parts:

Caller: I installed that plastic thing that you sent me and now my machine won’t turn on/spews even more water/is speaking in tongues.

Of course I have no choice but to feign surprise, as though this is the first time anyone has had trouble with this: “Oh, that’s strange, I’m sorry to hear that.”

The helplessness of the dissatisfied consumer produces varying reactions and it’s always fun to see how it will next manifest. Last week, one fellow in Quebec told me, “It looks like I am going to have to call my lawyer to get any of this resolved. This is bullshit. I know it’s not your fault, thanks for your help, you have a very lucky boyfriend.” Oh, thanks, pal. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to giggle girlishly, but we don’t work for tips at the call center.

FINAL ASSESSMENT:

40 Rings out of 50!

That’s right! This experience has given me some insight into the inner workings of modern consumer courting. If that’s not enough of a treat, I get to read all day. I’m getting paid to sit and read book upon book. It’s like being in college, but nobody is wearing those ghastly sweatpants that have things emblazoned on the ass. 

Food Soap

What’s with all the food in soap these days? I can understand walnut shell or coffee grounds to help “exfoliate,” but we've gone way beyond that. Last night I was looking around my friend’s bathroom and saw liquid soap with pomegranate, a bar of soap with watercress and chai tea, face wash with melon, body wash with goat's milk, and shampoo with fried chicken. Last week I saw a bar of soap with an entire piece of toast in it.

Sure, I'm opposed to putting harsh chemicals on or in my body, but avocado is not soap—it's food. Are we so obsessed with the idea of getting back to nature that we won't buy anything unless it has essence of extract of all-natural fruity froo-frooy goodness? At the rate we're going, soon we'll all be washing ourselves with smoothies. Come on.

Christmas Eve Service, 2011, at Portland Mennonite Church

I'm not a Christian or a church-going man. However, I am fascinated by the myriad religious beliefs in the world and find myself compelled to observe and occasionally participate in the various rituals. A few doors down from my house is a Mennonite church; having not been in a church in three or four years—and never in a Mennonite church—I decided to go to the service tonight. Also, it's Christmas Eve.

As I walked in the brisk night air and the ringing of a tower bell, I envisioned the event: I would hear the story of baby Jesus in the manger, a few carols, and witness or partake in symbolic Christmas liturgy. For some reason, I didn't imagine a large turnout. I also predicted after-service snacks (I kinda had the munchies).

Stepping inside just as the last chime of the bell was fading away, I was immediately greeted with a perfunctory "Merry Christmas" from a young women and handed a folded piece of paper, like a Christmas card; a little girl handed me an unlit candle. Moving towards murmurs in the near distance, I trotted up a few stairs and around a corner to the main hall.

Who knew there were so many Mennonites in the neighborhood? Or perhaps all the Mennonites in Portland were there. Or perhaps many of the folks were like me: curious, but not committed in any way. The room was full and more chairs were being added behind the pews. I decided I wanted a good view, so I ventured down the center aisle.

I found a little space at the end of one pew (after the man there moved his coat). Upon sitting, I promptly rose with the congregation to sing a hymn. I didn't have a hymnal near me, but there was one in a box on the back of the forward pew, and a few inches from the crotch of the man next to me; I almost reached for it, but then thought it better not to.

I took the opportunity to scan the room and get a sense of the crowd: mostly elderly people and new families with young children. There were a few teenagers and young adults, though curiously all in the first few pews. A very old man was across the aisle from me, and he was having a coughing attack; he clutched at his throat as his face turned poinsettia red. Somewhere else in the room, a baby was crying and was eventually removed.

When the hymn was over, I sat back down—and promptly rose again because I realized that everyone else was still standing. Obviously, they had a greater ability to predict the course of things. We listened to the pastor greet us and casually rejoice the special occasion. He then gave us permission to sit.

A moment later, a man stepped in front of me and motioned that he intended to sit next to me—or rather, next to his apparent family member. I guess the coat that had been on the bench was meant to save the seat for him (and perhaps Christmas or being in church prevented anyone from making that clear to me). The man squished himself between me and the other man, scooted over to leave a half-inch gap between us, and opened his program.

It actually didn't register to me until then that the paper in my hands, with a festive Christmas tree image on the front, was our guide to the happenings of the evening. I opened it and gave it a cursory glance, but then returned my attention to the pastor.

The first story was from Genesis, and was about God's response to Adam, Eve, and the serpent after the apple from the Tree of Knowledge had been eaten. It ended dourly. I was expecting something warm and cheerful about shining stars and exotic presents and perfect babies. This is when I began to doubt my ability to enjoy the situation.

My new neighbor was a much more confident singer than most of the people there. We rose again to sing a carol and he sang the bass line robustly, and with nearly correct pitch. He held the hymnal close enough to me that I wondered if I was expected to hold it with him, or for him. I didn't. In fact, I didn't even sing much—rather, I analyzed the music (being a student of composition) and listened to the performance of it. This, too, proved uninspiring, and I was slightly more convinced that I wanted to leave.

After we finished singing the carol and sat again, someone else was at the pulpit telling another story. I missed every word of it, mainly because it began and ended so abruptly, before the shuffles of the parishioners returning to a seated position had completely ceased, and because it was read in such a low-key manner.

The story concluded, and again we rose to sing.

And I started imagining my escape. I looked at the program and realized that this pattern would last for quite a while: standing for a song, then sitting, then listening to someone colorlessly tell a lifeless story, then standing for a song, etc., for ten carols and ten stories.

I gave it one more round of story and carol, but when a slightly mournful version of "O Come Emmanuel" had ended, during the shuffle of everyone returning to a seated position, I set my program and candle on the pew bench (so that it wouldn't be immediately apparent that I was bailing), and I quickly walked out.


Why was the service so rigid and dull? Why were the stories told without energy, and why did they start on such a down note? Why was the music only a cappella, and sung like a dirge? I didn't get the impression that anyone really wanted to be there, so why were they?

I won't belabor the obvious: Christmas Eve service at Portland Mennonite Church was lame. Maybe I just didn't get it. And maybe that's just how Mennonites like to do it. Regardless, it wasn't for me, and it didn't compare favorably to other religious services I've attended. Therefore, out of a possibility of ten lit candles, I give it two unlit candles.

Next year, how about an organ and gospel choir? Or frankincense and a candlelit sanctuary? Or silent meditation on what Jesus symbolizes? Or hot cocoa, cookies, and a viewing of "A Claymation Christmas"? Anyway, that's what I'm doing now.

Hipster Tires

*A guest post by Craig L.*

oh snap this a hella good deal we got hipster tires off the chain they red and yellow as f*** front ones look like new but back ones has a few skids in them because we don't has no breaks because we so raw but you can use them for like a jillion thousand miles use these rubbahs for anything you need besides birth control they so raw oh snap I be holding them right now you need this s*** it says they are 700cm but that doesn't make any g** d*** sense because they aren't 23 feet in diameter so some b**** is lying to us but they are 25 mm wide so they roll faster than all yo b**** a***** on ecstasy brand is innova and they so fresh because they so colorful they hurt your eyes to look at 15 dolla or best offer for a pair, we got one pair in red and one in yellow hot d*** get em while they in season.

TUBOE

*This review was written on August 9th, 2016.*

I didn't think it could be done, but done it has been: TUBOE is #1! That's right, the new album by the indie post-neo-classical-pop-minimal super band TUBOE, "Shadow Brilliant," has reach the top spot on Billboard's Hot 100.

TUBOE, a tuba and oboe-led rock dectet, is remarkable for many reasons, but mostly for managing to integrate the bloated brass tone of the tuba with the constipated reed tone of the oboe to create the ultra-minimal ionic sonosphere scape-rock sound they're known for.

But what's even more astonishing is that they're number one. I mean, really? Who's listening?? It's a tuba and an oboe making alternately breathy and honky sounds in a plane hangar to the backdrop of a gentle breeze and the occasional hum of a jet engine. For 53 minutes.

Something like this was bound to happen. It's the way of things these days: the trends that should never die barely reach maturity, and the trends that should never have been conceived live on until they're utterly senile.

Oh, I nearly forgot!: TUBOE blows.

Cockroaches

Cockroaches aren't so bad. They're just bugs, after all. Some people even keep them as pets. Have you ever heard of that guy "Franz" Kafka? People say he turned into a cockroach. And I think you'll find this really fascinating: some folks think that cockroaches can live for up to one million years.

So next time you step on a roach, just think: you might be squashing one of the world's greatest writers.

Cool!

Koss PortaPro Headphones

This is a review for PortaPro Headphones, manufactured by Koss. I bought these headphones for home recording and travel purposes, as well as travel recording purposes. I am an amateur recorder, and not technology savvy, but I am a musician and know how well-produced music should sound. After doing much research in order to find the world's finest, cheapest headphones, I settled upon purchasing Koss's PortaPro headphones. I like these headphones and I'm pleased with my purchase.

I'll first comment on the PortaPro's appearance. The design of these headphones hasn't been altered much since they were first put on the market decades ago. It doesn't look sleek or areo-dynamic, but it does look practical. Also, though it is a subtle effect, the black plastic/silver metal/aquamarine highlights combination give the PortaPro a cultured, almost suave look. It is both retro and space-age, like something off the first Star Trek series. On appearance, these headphones score high points.

Now, on to durability. The headband is made of metal, and is just bendable enough to allow for different head sizes while still maintaining its strength. The length of the headband is adjustable because, rather than being one immobile strip, it is comprised of two different metal bands--one connected to each earphone and each with a plastic part on the end that allows the other band to slide through it. This serves to connect the metal pieces thereby making the band twice as strong and potentially twice as long, and allow for adjustments. My head is small, and the headphones fit fine. I have a Finnish friend who borrowed them and managed to adjust the band to comfortably fit his gigantic, dread-covered head.

Concerning comfort, these headphones also fit the bill. As stated above, the headband adjusts easily and effectively to make different sizes. Due to their unique design, the PortaPro phones can also be adjusted to three different clamping intensities. Using something called the "comfort zone," the headphones part of the headphones can be set to light, medium, or firm--light being the most gentle fit, and firm being the tightest fit. For anyone who needs to move when they have headphones on (such as bob their head to the beat), the firm fit is great. To anyone who needs to wear headphones for many hours, the light setting will prevent their ears from getting sore. Furthermore, there are additional foam pads on either side of the headphones that help the headphones hug the head just above the ears and behind the temples. This feels wonderful, and really convinces me that the headphones are secure and in place.

Next on the check list is sound quality. I can honestly say that for their price, compared to other sub-$100 headphones I've used, the Koss PortaPros are incredible. They obviously have better than average cheap speakers in them, because they allow one to hear a much broader range of frequencies, with intensity distributed along that spectrum in an even, natural-sounding way. I really feel that, to a great extent, I hear music as the creators of it intended for it to be heard. This is a hugely important aspect of the PortaPro. However, it's best not to listen to music at too high a volume. In addition to possibly damaging your years and causing tinnitus, the higher volume might damage the delicate speakers.

And finally, as I said, the PortaPro headphones aren't at all expensive. I got mine for about $32. They are cool looking, durable, comfortable, and they allow music to be heard close to as it should be heard. Plus, they are portable. They fold up and fit into a little bag. Hence the name: PortaPro.

Ratings (out of 10 with 10 being highest and absolutely ideal):

Appearance: 8
Durability: 7
Comfort: 7
Sound quality: 7
Value: 10

Overall rating: 7.8

Picking Up Dog Poop

*A guest post by Anonymous (not pictured above)*

Dog poop is gross because it stinks and sort of looks like human poop. It's not fun to see it, and it's not fun to step in it. I certainly understand why people expect a dog-walker to bend down and put those fresh, steaming globs of fecal matter into a little baggy and continue strolling along. But I'm sorry, all other dog poop related annoyances pale in comparison to having a near vomit experience due to putting your face within arm's length of it and catching a whiff. Seriously, I come EXTREMELY close to retching EVERY SINGLE TIME I have to pick up fresh dog turds. So you know what? Sometimes I just don't. If no one is looking, and it's not in a high-traffic area, I just walk away. If you hate that there's dog crap on your grass, just scoop it up yourself and consider it "nice lawn tax." I think that's fair, considering how ugly I think lawns are.

Furthermore, to anyone who huffs and puffs over seeing dog droppings on their grass: get over it, and consider yourself lucky--you aren't starving to death, you live in a nice house, and you're privileged enough to have the time and mental space to huff and puff about trivialities. And besides, nothing on earth would grow without shit! Have you eaten a hamburger recently? You can thank cow shit for that--it's the fertilizer that helps the grass grow. How about tomatoes? Couldn't have happened without shit. All plants need organic matter to grow. In fact, if you love mother earth, you should get angry about people wasting good fecal matter by bagging it and throwing it in a trash can. That's not natural.

I'll also add that it is embarrassing to have to walk down the street holding poop in a baggy. Everyone who sees it knows what it is. And guess what: it forces them to imagine picking up dog poop. That's unfair. And think of the dog! It's already insulting enough to be shackled by the neck to a human and have to drop a deuce in front of one, but to have them pick up your freshly pinched loaf and walk around with it??

Ugh, I can smell it right now. Can't you? And that's just the imaginary stuff.

I'll end by revealing that I'm not a dog owner and never have been. This is a major reason why. I have walked other people's dogs as a favor. Please don't judge me too harshly for not always doing my civic duty. I just don't want to barf all over myself, that's all. It's going to happen one of these days.

I give the experience of picking up dog poop a groan and very frowny face.

Vitamin B12

In the dead of winter, I stumbled through the cold like a man possessed; the wind cut at my skin and the world was hollow and without meaning. I couldn't motivate myself to work on the projects that inspired me. I felt alone even with my good friends. There was a hole at the core of my being and nothing could fill it.

And then my doctor gave me a shot of B12. WOW! The next day, the sun was shining, I was surrounded by beautiful people, and I knew that I could make great art.

Vitamin B12 deficiency can lead to fatigue, memory problems, depression, mania and psychosis! Getting too much vitamin B12 turns your urine a crazy color!
Totally worth it! 

Dodecahedron

“Dodeca” means 12, and “hedron” means face.

In conclusion, Dodecahedron is a neat shape. Take a look:

                                          

Dodecahedron: 12 thumbs up.

Toxicodendron Dermatitis

Poison Ivy

Toxicodendron dermatitis is a urushiol-induced contact dermatitis, i.e. a rash caused by the urushiol compound. Urushiol is an oily organic allergen produced by poison ivy, poison oak, and other plants in the Anacardiaceae family. The following is a list of pros and cons of having toxicodendron dermatitis and an overall rating of the rash experience.

Pros:

—It offers one the chance to practice self-control by not scratching the extremely itchy rash.
—If two people have the rash or have had the experience in the past, they can bond over their shared understanding of the agony it causes.
—It's kind of fascinating how one measly little chemical compound can cause so much itching and misery.

Cons:

—Unrelenting itchiness.
—The rash is unattractive: it causes red boils and blisters from which a yellowish oil oozes.
—Instead of sleeping at night: writhing and groaning while waiting in vain for the itchiness to subside.
—Though it may start out concentrated in a small area, the rash often expands and appears at other places on the body.
—Whimpering quietly doesn't help. Nothing helps. It just gets worse and worse and worse.
—Anyone suffering from the rash must wonder if God is still in heaven.


Overall score for toxicodendron dermatitis: 0.4 points out of 1000.

July 4th at the Rappahannock County Fireworks Show

America! America the beautiful! America the proud and strong and brave! America: a masterpiece of social theater! America: the greatest experiment of the modern age!

Wow, I am still really amped-up about my country and the love I have for it and its people. And no wonder! It's Independence Day, and I just partook in festively recalling, with hundreds of my compatriots, why our grand nation is so worth revering.

But I'll get around to reviewing America and its glory at a later date. For now, I'll stick with the Everytown, USA family fireworks and music revelry I just attended.

Let me set the scene for you: The Appalachian mountains are in the near distance at all sides, in all their azure, lumpy magnificence. The landscape along the single-lane highway is mostly green and golden pasture, with barns and farm homes sprinkled atop the hills, and star-spangled banners occasionally waving. Stately cows are dutifully munching the grass and being all cowy, like they do—like every good, American cow does.

A few miles outside the closest town, most of the 2,000 or so members of this bountiful, rural Virginian mountain county gathered this evening in a small, grassy valley to consume home-brewed libations and home-cooked succulency—to celebrate our freedom by freely choosing to eat and drink freely. God bless this country. God bless liberty!

It cost $20 per car to get into the festival. That might sound steep to you, but hey: fireworks ain't free. Also, the proceeds went to the local fire department, which is a good thing considering how dry it can get around these parts. One of these years a fireworks show will ignite a massive field and forest inferno that will devastate the entire county, so we had better start saving up.

There was a blues band on a small stage, complete with electrified guitars and bass, drums, a sax, and a well-intoxicated singer belting out and slurring our favorite anthems: "Ride, Sally, Ride"; that one that goes "Nah, Nah-Nah-Nah-Naaaah, Nah-Nah-Nah-Naaah Nah-Nah-Naaah Nah-Nah-Naaah, Nah-Nah-Nah-Naaaaah"; and others.

The music really made me think: too many people are too disconnected from the true meaning of our holidays. Thanksgiving isn't about football, it's about food. Halloween isn't about ghosts and black magic, it's about candy. Valentine's Day isn't about love or St. Valentine, it's about the colors red, pink, and magenta. And Independence Day isn't about the day America finally secured its independence, or the document stating our inalienable right to it, it's about being American. So what trait makes us American more than anything else? Being LOUD. And believe me, the event planners of Rappahannock County know that. Their PA goes up to 12, at least.

And so, once night fell and the crowd was about to explode with anticipation of the main act, the rockets blazed and bursted in air with a glare of reds, greens, purples, and golds, dazzling all who beheld it with its grandiosity, power, and all-American volume.

Many are too quick to judge Americans for being overly dramatic and overly simplistic. That may be true in some settings, but when it comes to a fireworks show, we're simply shooting for the stars; we have high standards, we take it seriously, and it shows. There was a rhythm and flow to the launching and explosions; there were adeptly layered and blended hues; the more spectacular fireworks were interspersed throughout the show so that they always took the audience by surprise; and there wasn't just one false finale, but TWO. When we put on a fireworks show, it's a work of art. An explosive work of art. A firework of art.

Ah, Americans. What mysteriously beautiful creatures. We sailed across the ocean to a strange new land, created a strange new identity, and constructed a new kind of society: one in which all people, strange and beautiful, are believed equally made, and are thus equally entitled to be free. And loud. And hungry and sparkling and drunk and creative and dorky and dramatic and...whatever! We’re a young country yet, and still working out the kinks. We’re still experimenting. Sometimes we falter and fail, sometimes we’re crude and cruel—and yes, once in a while, maybe a little too loud—but sometimes…we are positively dazzling.

A Musician Receiving a New Instrument

Shakuhachi Flute

For a musician, receiving a new instrument often marks the beginning of a new way of being. It is like receiving a new voice. It can also be like receiving a long-lost piece of self, thus providing a greater sense of completion and wholeness. Receiving a new instrument can be a rite of passage for a musician.

The event requires a special state of mind, and some degree of ceremony. The musician has to be able to look at the new instrument and say, truthfully and reverently, “I will listen to you, I will understand you, and I will meld with you. Together we will create music.” The musician has to take care not to think of it as an everyday object, or a mere sonic implement. The musician has to treat it with respect and reverence from the beginning, and must properly acknowledge the beauty of the instrument if it is to become an extension and expression of self, as any musician would hope.

Part of properly receiving a new instrument is accepting the flaws. Again, this requires a special state of mind. Not all newly acquired instruments are pleasing to the eye, and it is often difficult to make a pleasing sound at first. It takes time to understand and fully bond, and therefore a certain amount of trust in one’s musical abilities and the instrument’s construction. Any instrument can be sonorous if you learn how to actually play the one you hold, not just the idea of it.

As a musician, and one who received a new instrument today, I can honestly say there is no experience quite like it. It is truly a momentous occasion.

Dandy Blend

Yes, it is the official drink of Dandy Reviews Everything. Created by Dr. Gail, a botanist from Rutgers University, Dandy Blend is an instant herbal beverage made of water-soluble extracts of roasted roots of dandelion, chicory and beets, and the grains of barley and ryes. It was created as a substitute for coffee, the caffeine of which Dr. Gail claims causes "accelerated aging, weakening of the immune system, impaired digestion, and blood sugar fluctuations, which contribute to weight gain and mood disorders." Not only is Dandy Blend caffeine free, it provides a panoply of trace minerals that most people lack in their diet. Furthermore, if you suffer from stomach ulcers, or are otherwise peptically challenged, Dandy Blend won't upset you like coffee will.

If that's not enough to pique your interest, consider this: coffee is not grown in the US. It comes from far off lands, and the scruples of the coffee dealers are usually highly dubious; most coffee farmers are not paid a fair price for their crop. Thankfully, you need not worry about the social ramifications of buying Dandy Blend. "Dandy Blend is the patriot's coffee. All the ingredients come from America's agricultural bounty," says Dandy drinker Sara Montrone, an expert in sustainable agriculture and fair trade, and a red-blooded American.

Dandy Blend is a safer, more nutritious, and more responsible alternative to coffee. That's why I'm happy to say my mug is half full.

Kick-Ass (Hardcover Collection)

Many factors caused me to resist reading the Kick-Ass comic books as they were released: I had heard that they were overly violent, there were long expanses of downtime between issues, and now they're making the comics into a movie that looks fairly cheesy. I'd heard a lot of exciting things as well, though, about how the comics create a realistic, modern story of a superhero, so when the collected version came out in hardcover, I decided to give it a chance.

Some of my concerns were justified, some of them not at all. The story itself is nothing short of incredible. ((Spoilers ahoy)) Some comic book nerd decides to put on a costume, more or less on a lark, and train to be a superhero. He doesn't have some dark origin story, he just loves comic books. So he goes out to try to protect his neighborhood, threatens some thugs, and then the brutal violence of the comic rears its head: he is beaten, stabbed in the gut, and then hit by a car. He spends the next several months in the hospital and in physical therapy. ((End spoilers))

The images are gruesome, and definitely not for those who can't stand to see violence, but I respect the artistic choice to show what would really happen to someone foolish enough to fight crime with no super powers or advanced military training. Beyond the realism of the violence, the book does a great job of showing how a real-life superhero might become famous through popular websites like YouTube and MySpace, and through coverage on the news and late night television. The characters also all have real-life origin stories which make sense in a world that, up until that point, only had superheroes in comic books.

Overall, I was incredibly impressed by the book, and the quality of the writing and plotting was such that I felt the graphic violence was justified by the content. I was dismayed to find, however, that in the back of the book was a compilation of the "Greatest Hits" from the stories, which was essentially all the most disgusting, violent images of the book all in one place. Why would someone add that to their comic? It undermines the intelligence of the rest of the book to cater to the violence-porn audience.

I give the book and story 9/10 asses kicked, but I give the decision to include the "Greatest Hits" pages at the end 0/10 asses kicked. Any comic book reader who can get past the extreme violence will find a lot to love about this story. Anyone who cannot should give it a wide berth.

American Science & Surplus

Maybe this sounds familiar: You’re at home making a shopping list. On your list you have written the following items:

127 Slime Slingers
2 Giant Horse Heads (fake)
15 Geodes (real)
4 Semi-Automatic Bug Bots
1 Radiation meter
1 African Pterosaur skull
2 Home Shrimp Growing Kits
Switches
Brake lights for head
500 pencils printed with “Louisiana Rural Water Assoc.”

Then you sit back and wonder where to purchase all of these disparate items. You think, “Well, Target and Walmart certainly try to have everything I would ever want to buy. However, they are on the other side of town, thereby requiring that a great deal of time and fossil fuel be expended. Furthermore, my chances of having a fender-bender in the parking lot are, like, 20 times higher than anywhere else, and everyone who shops in those stores is completely insane, and the customer service is crappy because the employees are paid peanuts and treated like lowly, vassal creatures, which makes me feel terrible, and I want to die every time I shop there, and the products suck and aren't made to last, and stores like that drive out family-owned businesses, and....” But alas, you go anyway. After four hours of exhausting scanning through towering, mind-boggling labyrinths of shelves, under blinding artificial light, you come up completely…without what you went in to buy.

Well, my friends, fret no longer! And look no further than the internet! No, not Amazon.com. Not Ebay.com, either. Everything on your list, plus thousands of other things you never knew you wanted, can all be found at one amazing online store: American Science & Surplus. This site is AMAZING. Not only can you get a brass sextant for $29.95, 100 mini cotters for $1.75, and a life-sized translucent green frog with colorful, anatomically correct organs for a mere $1.50, you also get a photo and a slightly humorous drawing and description of each item! Wow!

Rock-bottom prices, hassle-free shopping, a sense of humor, and wacky, high-quality stuff you never knew you could buy. Need I say more? No, I needn't. This amazing web store speaks for itself. Check it out at www.sciplus.com

Being Angry

*A guest post by Sara Montrone (not pictured above)*

People say that being angry is a waste of energy. I say being angry is the necessary obverse of being satisfied. Anger, as joy and sorrow and made-up feelings like love, is what propels us. Take inventions. Necessity the mother of invention? Try anger.

“Golly, I sure do wish my shoelaces would stop coming untied.” Does that seem like the type of emotional reaction that is going to result in a solution? Hell no, try this: “For F*#$ sake! My GD shoelaces keep bloody falling apart!” And that my friends, is how Velcro was born.

So I encourage you all to embrace this gift that only we as humans have been given. Keep the coals of that fire within you glowing and stoke it every now and again with the obnoxious and insufferable actions of your brethren. Love is not going to save the rainforest, but anger just might!

Anger is an ace in my deck!

Keanu Reeves

Keanu Reeves is not a good actor. At his very best, he is competent enough that he does not bother the viewer; in The Matrix he got by largely because he barely had any lines apart from "whoah" and "what." He's functional and able to play characters that are very dull, sort of annoying, or both. At his worst, though, he is an enormous detriment to the films he is in: see Constantine (although that one had plenty of other problems) and The Devil's Advocate (that horrible accent!) for examples.

Looking through his acting career, the highest praise I can muster for him is that he was okay in a few movies. The worst criticism I can muster is that he was a terrible abomination which brought an otherwise good movie to its knees. His range, therefore, is somewhere between okay and catastrophically awful. Not a great average.

One time I heard a rumor that he was being considered to play the lead role in an adaptation of The Sandman, and I almost cried. I think I may have made some threatening statements while I was not in my right mind. It is safe to say, however, that if someone is ever considering Keanu Reeves for a part in a movie, they would probably be better off with someone else.

Grade: F+

Pre-Ordering Video Games from Amazon.com with Release Date Delivery

Whenever I go into a GameStop, the people behind the counter try to get me to pay them for games that have not come out yet. This is ridiculous, first off, because you get no discount at all for the game. Also, they will have plenty of them on the day they come out, so it is entirely unnecessary that you spend money early. I'm amazed anyone falls for it.

It is even more amazing that anyone falls for this stupid ploy because you can pre-order the same games from Amazon with release date delivery, they don't charge you until they are about to ship them, they usually give you a discount on the game itself, and the cost of the game plus shipping almost always costs less than the cost of the game in a store, because there is no sales tax. The game will then be waiting for you at your home when you arrive there after work/school/whatever.

Of course, it's even more inexpensive to wait until the game is a few months old and get it once it drops in price, but if you want to buy a game new and have it the day it comes out, GameStop is never the way to go.

Amazon paid me no money to say this, and it is definitely worse for the environment to have all that packaging and fuel used to get something delivered to your home, but it is still worth saying that GameStop has been completely outmaneuvered by Amazon.com.

I mean, Amazon even takes video game trade-ins now. And you can use them for anything on Amazon, which means pretty much everything. I bought Annie's Macaroni and Cheese from Amazon one time.

The Supreme Court's Denial of the Petition for Writ of Certiorari in Haskell County, et al. v. Green, James W., et al., on Monday, March 1, 2010

Good move, Supreme Court. Well played.

Malayan Tapir

The Malayan tapir is an endangered species that is shaped like a pig, has a mini-trunk like a stunted elephant, and is genetically related to horses. It has four toes on its front feet and three on its back feet. Is it more cute or more weird? I'm not really sure. It's definitely pretty cute when it's little, that's for sure. When it grows up, it looks like this:

The strange markings you see are a form of self defense. The idea is that maybe, just maybe, predators will think that the tapir is a large rock or something. Oh, and they're mostly nocturnal and the largest species of tapir in the world.

I have very conflicted feelings about this animal. On the one hand, since their primary means of self-defense is looking like a rock, I am not terribly surprised that they are endangered. On the other hand, the main reason for their becoming endangered is illegal deforestation in southern Thailand, Burma, and the island of Sumatra, and that is definitely not their fault. Also, even as an adult, they really straddle the line between weird and cute. Whenever I have the instinct to say that I think they might be more weird than cute, I feel sort of sorry for them and don't want to say it out loud, because I would hate to hurt a cute endangered animal's feelings.

Would I hang out with a Malayan tapir? I don't know. They're vegetarian, which I like, but they communicate with shrill whistles, which could get annoying. They can weigh over 600 pounds, which is intimidating, but they don't look like they would want to fight me. I think I've decided that the baby Malayan tapir is cute now, but the adult one still seems pretty weird.

I know this is the part of the review where I am supposed to make up my mind, but I don't think I can.

My verdict? I just don't know how I feel about the Malayan tapir, but I can't stop thinking about it.

I decided! It's cute. No, wait. The nose is still so weird, and its ass is enormous. But the baby is cute, I'm sure of it now. The more I look at the adult, the weirder it looks to me. And I do feel a natural sympathy for endangered animals, but there's a part of me that knows that animals go extinct all the time and our attempts to prevent that are pretty weird and paternalistic. But it's definitely the fault of humanity with the tapir, and not natural selection at all. And the baby is really quite cute, now that I've gotten used to it, but I'm having trouble getting past the whole, "Don't attack me, I am actually a rock" approach to defense. Then again, that's sort of hilarious, and a great trick if it actually works...

A 30-Year Old Man with Four Cats

Is it weird? Four seems like an acceptable number of felines, especially if they have a mellow disposition and the man is attentive to his caretaker duties. Maybe he didn't even plan on having so many cats—I can imagine how that might have happened: strays showed up, the tomcat next door knocked up his lady cat, a new roommate came with one and left without it, Santa left a kitten in his stocking, etc. Then the man woke up one day to discover he had a house-full of fur balls. Seems like that could happen to any kindhearted animal lover, doesn’t it?

HOWEVER, I strongly feel that this guy is about to cross a line. Five cats is way too many for any single person to own. If he were to acquire one more cat, I would fully suspect him to be on the path to becoming “that crazy dude with all the cats.”

Some people have a lot of love to give, and they happen to choose cats as the recipient. Nothing odd about that. Yet.

My professional opinion: Not weird, but on the verge.

Scurvy

I’ve never had the disease and probably never will. To be honest, I don’t know much about it beyond the fact that it’s caused by a vitamin C deficiency. I also think that, because of it’s playful-sounding name, if it were to occur in me, I would eventually overcome it and the story of how I came to be afflicted by it would be a humorous one. The name also brings to mind surly and disgruntled pirates. Therefore, because I’m safe as long as I continue to regularly eat fruits and vegetables, and because the sound of the disease’s name and the image it conjures is enjoyable, I give Scurvy 4 out of 5 stars.

Making Sense

The jury has been out on sense and the formation thereof for nigh on twenty and time. After a dry shower, the verdict spells "C-A-T."

I think I said it best when I said what I said best: a tree is only as gullible as a shoehorn. But that was never and today is the day before the end of yesterday! (I am the master of disaster.) Allow me to point my proof with logic. Say: “Bloomin’ onion.” Did you sing a song of six pence? With a doubt, you smell what I mean. And, with a boat, this recalls my inland voyage to fairyland:

‘Twas but a melodic chance, atop a fiery mountain of shame, square corners a freedom shoppe, up the lane from Grandma Barnacle’s glass cottage, wherein she rocked and rocked all ‘round Christmas dinner, complete with turkey-stuffed pillows, towering as tall as a tall, tall tower, half lacquer elephant, half star-child, and half a cup of sugar.

It was then I knew what I had to do, wakawaka, zoodaloo: 3-2-1-Extravaganza!.

Twilight (Books/Movies)

Twilight is a poorly written series of books which include abusive relationships with vampires, pedophile werewolves, and an undead, murderous fetus. They have been transformed into uncompromisingly abysmal movies aimed primarily at teenaged women. Somehow they have reached a fever pitch of popularity with minimal cultural backlash from the expected corners of society.

This cultural detritus has gone on to spawn sparkling dildos for necrophiliacs, nightmarish abusive boyfriend body pillows, ridiculous careers for completely untalented actors, and a small army of knock-off books even more horrible than the originals. As far as I am concerned, the Twilight series is a weapon of mass intellectual and cultural destruction. Stephenie Meyer should be charged as a war criminal.

Oh, and on top of all that, it makes vampires seem completely lame and whiny. Not only is this a shame, but the ramifications may be profound. No one wants to give the real vampires an excuse to hate us and disregard our pathetic mortal lives as worthless even more than they already do.

The only redeeming quality I can think of is that as a result of these books, some human beings are reading words with their eyes. I'm not even sure that's a good thing, however, considering the words they're reading.

Would you recommend it to a friend?

No.

The Sun

Behold! On the Horizon! Again, The Sun rises!

Ah, yes. The Sun. I’ve always been a fan. Its warmth rouses the slumbering birds and blossoms; its rays chase away the shadows and all sorts of loitering spawns of evil; its sublimity exalts the minds of our greatest seers and thinkers; its energy is the very spark of life. From mighty mogul to vassal wight, who doesn’t rejoice at the sight of that majestic glowing orb returning after a long and tumultuous storm? From colossal planet to speck of dust, has anything in nature ever reproached The Sun? I think not.

And so, as a human being, a living being, and a corporeal thing, I give unto The Sun: two thumbs up.

Canada

Canada is awesome. When you make fun of me for being born there, and for my obsession with all things Canadian, it is because you are jealous.

True/False: True

Paper Clips

Pros: I'm not sure that paper clips could ever be made more effective than they are now. The design is so simple and elegant that it's almost erotic: The shape curves gently, and the metal is just pliant enough that it resists being bent, but slides apart with gentle pressure. Paper clips are also named almost perfectly; they clip papers together. They could also be called paper holders, or very-thin-things clips, but neither of those names have the same appeal. If you want to keep several papers together without damaging them with a stapler, a paper clip is probably your best option.

Cons: Paper clips are not very sturdy. They break with repeated use and degrade over time. This is, unfortunately, an unavoidable side effect of their already mentioned pliability. They can also leave marks on the papers being clipped, either imprints from pressure or gray dust from the degradation of the metal. Also, past a certain number of papers, the basic paper clip becomes useless. There are large paper clips, but they're not nearly as effective as binder clips for higher paper volume. (The binder clip is named very poorly, as it is almost never used to clip binders.)

Grade: B

The Weather: March 1, 2010, Zip Code 20005

The weather today is not nearly as cold as it has been. It is not immediately uncomfortable to go outside, and I was able to walk for several minutes with my coat open, though I did require a hat and a sweater. The days seem to be getting warmer, but there is still a chill in the air which subtly implies that things might get worse before they get better. The day is clear and bright, both traits which impart a sense of optimism.

The weather is a bit of a tease today: nice enough in the sunlight, but uncomfortably cold in shadow. It is also teetering between being comfortable enough to sit outside and cold enough to require shelter. I ate lunch outside, but my hot soup could not fend off the chill.

I would like it to be warmer, but the temperature seems appropriate for the beginning of March. I'll consider it quite rude, however, if things don't get more pleasant by the end of the month. Still, by comparison to most of the last few weeks, today feels downright lovely.

Statement of bias: I tend to like things a little colder than average. My favorite season is the Fall, though I am quite partial to hot days which include loud, chaotic thunderstorms and heavy rain.

Final Verdict: 6 out of 10 Rays of Sunshine