Warren peruses the free stuff section on Amsterdam's Craigslist page

JUN 29 - Karma - (The Known Universe)

You opened it, so you must believe in it too. Something good will happen to you between 12:00 PM - 9:00 PM tomorrow, it could happen anywhere or any time. If you break the chain you will be cursed with relationship problems for the next 2 years. Repost this in another city within the next five minutes. You will get the shock of your life tomorrow.

Let's be honest. Probably not. I was hoping this would be a big tub of unused karma -- the good kind. Or maybe someone's grandpa's old karma from the 1970s. Or some karma that the kids have grown out of. This kind of karma -- the chain letter kind -- sucks. The known universe? Are you suggesting there isn't karma in the unknown parts of the universe, which is like, 99.99999999999% of the universe? If I give a bum a sandwich and there's no one there to see it, does it make the sound of one hand clapping?

JUN 27 - Free Greatest International Online MMORPG Brwosing Games

Do you enjoy Massive multi player games like Everquest? Are you tired of having someone that's level 200 smash your little 4th level character? Then try fallen sword. It's 100% free. Theres over 2 million registered players. And the only people that can attack you have to be with in 5 levels of you. Very well balanced and fun game if you have the time. Once your in if you want to play contact me and I'll even donate you some geat to get started. My in game name is zeta21.

What? What are you giving away for free? A tip? About computer games? Look, zeta 21, if I wanted to be a gigantic, unsexed nerd I would just travel back in time ten years and hang out with myself.

JUN 27 - FREE WEBCAM

I swear it works! I WILL GIVE YOU A FREE WEBCAM IF YOU SIGN UP. I GET $2 FOR EVERY REFERRAL AND TO SIGN UP IS FREE. I heard about these companies that pay you online for clicking some of their ads and i didnt believe it but this company is different. I actually made $5 my first day. Pretty amazing.

Wow! Five-dollars?! Then what did you do? Throw your glad rags on and treat your red hot dame to a bit of the old hoity-toity jig-jag razzamatazz moving picture show The Great Depression cars only come in one color? Five-dollars is not a lot of money.

JUN 15 - is this even allowed? - (Amsterdam)

hey i'm not sure if anyone wants it but i have four full bottles of focus factor that i don't need. a friend gave them to me and they've never been opened. let me know if your interested.

Huh. This one actually sounds legit. Um, sure, I'll take that Focus Factor.

JUN 1 - send me your buds to recycle

send me your nuggets to confidentially recycle them

no bullshit

Way to play up the stereotype, Amsterdam. Just so we're clear, I know exactly what recycling buds is, so don't think I'm just acting cool with it but that I'm secretly anxious about this conversation and hope you don't catch on to my ignorance concerning drug recycling. Totally down with the drug game, over here. Fishscale.

Free Gas Dryer (Parkville)

Free Broken Gas Powered Dryer. You Haul

No.

People are killing themselves after Michael Jackson's death because everybody is insane

Last night Dateline dusted off it's old Martin Bashir interviews of Michael Jackson from a few years back. I watched thinking how insane this man was -- Michael Jackson. Here he is insisting he's only had two plastic surgeries. Here he is buying million-dollar, gold-plated lawn ornaments. Captivating stuff, but what I wasn't thinking was how I'd kill myself now that he's gone. Sadly, this is apparently what at least 12 people have done so far.

This is bad. It's gotten so bad, in fact, that Jesse Jackson -- an insane person, himself -- has recorded a video urging fans not to "self destruct."



Ugh. This awkward video that was haphazardly thrown together at an airport is what makes me want to commit suicide.

Also, why is the article I've linked called Grieving Jackson Fans 'Commit Suicide'? What's with the quotes? It's unnecessary to attribute the act of suicide, so I guess these are scare quotes? That makes zero sense, though, because scare quotes are used when the quoted phrase doesn't signify its literal meaning. I'd like to believe that people aren't literally killing themselves because Michael Jackson is dead, but I'm pretty sure they are because this world is fucking bonkers.

Warren Rates a Website | The Kid Wizards Problem

Here's a dumb idea I just came up with. I'm going to review a website at random. Why? Because I can't come up with shit else to talk about, and I feel like writing something. So shut your filthy mouth, and read everything I have to say because you're bored or whatever.

How we gonna do this? Obviously, we'll use Google. No-doi. But what should we search for? Three random words. The words? Chosen from a nearby book. Oh, look. My Life and Hard Times is still on my desk. Just assume this book will always be on my desk so I can stop mentioning it being on my desk, okay?

First word, page ten, last word on the page: unique

Second word, page 50, last word: fell

Third word, page 100, last word: tomfoolery

What a terrific combination for this, the inaugural "Warren Rates a Website" post. Let's take a minute to thank our lucky stars and also the baby Jesus for allowing us this truly top-shelf random Googling inquiry. Thank you, stars/infant Jesus.

I'm pressing enter. I'm going to page ten. I'm clicking on the top link. Here's what it says -- Worthy of Publishing - Neander and the Dark Matter: Ch 15, Tomfoolery. Ugh. This could get ugly.

Okay, lemme read this shit.

Alright, no cheating -- also, I'm lazy -- so I'm not going to look at any page other than this one. It's from a website called Worthy of Publishing dot com, so right away this tells me that whatever I'm about to read is not worthy of publishing. This is called contextual clues. Let's not judge a book by its extremely pretentious cover, though.

But if we were to do that, a preemptive judging, I'd draw attention to the slew of Google adverts all over the page. What is this, my Gmail account? Anyway. This looks like one of those sites where you post the bad fiction you've written in hopes that people read it and love it or you get discovered and start writing shitty fiction for a living like everybody else.

Our page is written by Gerard Deignan -- sounds about right -- and represents chapter 15 ("Tomfoolery") from the book Neander and the Dark Matter. I'm guessing "Dark Matter" has to do with some inscrutable issue rather than the theoretically ubiquitous substance of the heavens. If so, boo. Let's see if I'm right.

Uh-oh, it's both. Seems Gerard is trying his hand at the old ARRY PAH-UH gambit. Kid wizards: the one thing more people go bat shit insane over these days other than vampires. If Gerard were smart, his kid wizards would ALSO be vampires. Where do I sign up for my Worthy of Editing Everybody's Shit dot com account?

We got Lucy, Josh and Joe. Lucy's getting home-schooled by some Jewish wizard Yoda guy with a cane. He can close doors with telekinesis, you know, because he's old and this is that kind of book. Lucy can make things out of dark matter, like her textbooks, which doesn't really make sense at all, but okay, fine. Dark matter books. Deal.

Not much happens in this scene, although Gerard writes that the old-man tutor is teaching Lucy "maths." Obviously, if you're writing about kid wizards, they have to be British. I just wanted to point out this colloquialism that I find simply dashing. MATHS!

Next we have Josh and Joe in a proper classroom. The teacher is making the students play dead because I don't have a damned clue. Josh is the ARRY PAH-UH of the group, and Joe is the rambunctious trouble maker who splashes water on a fellow student, which causes a melee? Okay. Then comes my favorite bit from this page:

Mrs. Bayswater struggled to be heard. "No, no, ahhhhhhhhhhh!"

Then Mr. Belding rushes in like, "Zack!" Except it's Mr. Higgins and he's all, "NOW THAT'S ENOUGH IN ALL CAPS!" Joe gets sent to the office, but he don't care. The end.

This bit of prose rates 4/5 stars at the bottom of the page. I'd give it a 3. Competently written -- except for random tense changes -- but not really moving. It's like, you're already starting off in a hole with the subject matter, and you're kind of taking a butcher knife to the concept of dark matter treating it like fairy dust. Fuck you for that, Gerard, on behalf of all space nerds, everywhere. I'd damn near say 2.5, but again, "maths," and I don't know, it seems unfair to come down too hard just because you're into that whole kid wizards thing. So, a solid 3 and a pat on the back.

This concludes the first edition of "Warren Rates a Website." What did you think? I know, me too.

Finally, would I recommend this page? Probably not. I'm for damn sure no one ever needs more ARRY PAH-UH in their lives. Stick to the original, and let the imitators toil in obscurity, if for my sake alone. Worthy of publishing? I'm afraid not. At least not if "Tomfoolery" is indicative of the entire book and you're not looking to publish in Kid Wizard Stroke Books Aficionado. If you are, though, it's a winner. Be sure not to staple your transcript.

I will say this, however. I'd love to see more dialogue like, "No, no, ahhhhhhhh!" in my novels. H.P. Lovecraft over here!

Your 15 minutes of fame just might be your last.

1:00 AM, June 29, 2009


The atmosphere around Hollywood has quickly turned to a state of panic this week and it isn't because of some massive alien invasion or a zombie attack. Tinseltown's most famous residents are fearing that they might be the next to have their spotlight fade.

Last week the world saw the unfortunate deaths of some truly great people. Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and most recently as of Sunday morning, television infomercial pitchman, Billy Mays, all of whom passed away within just days of each other. "They're dying faster than a Minnesota gang bang on a cold Tuesday morning.", said former CBS reporter, Dan Rather. Rather declined any further comment as he was headed directly into Cedar Sinai hospital for an unscheduled checkup, one of many such unannounced visits by stars to the famous hospital. "They're all scared, and I can't say I blame them.", said Doctor Abgani Moussefed. "It took me two and half hours just to convince Conan O'Brien that he wasn't getting any paler."

Churches also saw a dramatic increase in attendance Sunday morning with more than one half of the congregation at West Hollywood Baptist consisting primarily of those in the entertainment business. "We feel truly blessed by the increase in our morning services. When we saw Larry Flynt sitting in the front row holding an open hymnal up on it's end, we knew something was a stir in the community.", commented Senior Pastor Chris Levine.

Family, friends and fans aren't the only ones feeling the affects of the recent tragedies either. Many insiders speculate that the rate at which celebrities are dying, some individuals who make their living off of them might soon be finding themselves out of high paying work if they don't act quickly. "I just lost this month's rent when Jacko died.", said James Heeley, a Hollywood paparazzo. "I got there after it was too late. Not this time, I got kid's mouths to feed and I swear to god...I've been camped out here in front of (Patrick) Swayze's house all damn day waiting for my money shot and he's in there in bed. It's selfish. He should get up, move around, go attempt to get the mail or something. I'm patient, but I ain't got all day."

Major networks are also feeling the pressure by trying to maintain a fair balance between reporting the news stories of the world verses Hollywood. To help resolve this, CNN announced plans to spawn yet another sister channel that will broadcast twenty-four hour coverage of the recent developments and breaking news regarding dead celebrities. A new show, Stopwatch, will feature a yet to be announced doctor to the stars who will discuss the medical conditions of famous people and take calls from viewers who wish to give their input on who they think will be next.

-Travis Lickey

You hear that, Ed? Bears. Now you're putting the whole station in jeopardy.

Shortly afterward, she was mauled by the bear. It's okay though, she only received a few deep paper cuts.

Original Source

Bread

Michael Bay-Bay's Kids?

I went to go see Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen Wednesday night to a packed theater, the only way I like to see the big summer blockbusters. It offers a unique perspective into the tastes of the public as far as what does and does not work in a film. It's also a whole hell of a lot more exciting because it adds a depth to the film that you just can't get when you wait a couple of weeks and see it with a nearly empty auditorium. It also makes you feel like less of a geek when you uncontrollably break out into cheer for your favorite multi-ton alien robot. After the film ended, it was no surprise to me when I heard people cheering and applauding. People got it, people liked it.

Before I go see a movie like this I want to catch up on some reading and watch as much video as I can on it to help build up my own hype. I'm a Hollywood big budget fan, and I want in on all the action. What I won't do however, is read reviews. Reviews spoil everything for me because I want to form my own opinion on the film rather than let the opinion through the eyes of someone else tell me how it's going to be. I made the mistake of reading Roger Ebert's tear apart review the day before it premiered, and I have to admit, it jaded me just a bit. It made me start thinking that perhaps the sophomore installation couldn't match up to my expectations. I quickly got it out of my mind and gave it not a second thought. Transformers 1 was fresh and full of bang and this one was going to conquer it. I walked in without reservation or any preconceived thought that went against that idea.

Two days later and I've been scouring the Internet, reading up on what people have said and trying to find the succulent dish on Transformers 3 and I come across this. Apparently Michael Bay has been accused of adding a touch of racism to the movie in the form of the Autobot twins, Skids and Mudflap, two street talking, and humorous additions to the Cybertronian team. Sure, they talk a lot of shit in the movie, they provide more than their fair share of comic relief and attitude, but that sort of thing has always been the spirit of The Transformers since the original cartoon aired on television. Some Autobot or Decepticon was always running their mouth about something and it's because it's a direct influence of the human culture they're surrounded by. I realize I'm talking about just a movie, but I felt the same way when people tried to insinuate that Superman was gay in Superman Returns. Just because these characters might reflect a sliver of identity to a certain culture doesn't mean that's the context in which it should be taken in. Do we look at celebrities such as Eminem and shout racist because he happens to be a white man who affiliates himself with a predominantly black crowd, sings rap and hip hop music, and coordinates a little bit of bling into his wardrobe? He's well accepted as an artist and no one makes mention that he's trying to act black. It's ridiculous.

One article I read chastised Bay's decision of having the characters 'speak with voices that sound like urban black stereotypes...'. Last I checked, black people weren't the only ones who fit that. I've encountered many white people that speak the same way. Race should not be defined by the way someone speaks, although sadly, it does. People target the specific speech of someone and will associate them with gang bangers, thugs and crime just because they happen to use an idiom that is in the popular vernacular with those types of people, and unfortunately, in their minds, those people almost always have to be black. It's ignorant. The Autobot character, Ironhide, refers to a Decepticon as a punk ass, but I have yet to hear anyone call him a racist. Isn't punk ass identifiable to those stereotypes? People are up in arms because one of the twins has a gold tooth. Of course, they're right to be upset. Obviously black people are the only ones to ever have gold teeth.

I'm not saying that I am blind to the fact that there is an abundance of urban style attributed to the characters. That's not my argument though. My argument is that to call someone racist or liken them to a particular race because they choose to speak a certain way, dress a certain way or act a certain way is racist in and of itself. I'm guilty of doing it just like everyone else, and to deny that at one point or another we all haven't done it is as wrong as those who are quick to point the blame. To stereotype the stereotype isn't furthering the cause to eliminate racism from this planet, it's adding to it. We have to stop labeling something because of color. An action isn't a color. A way of speaking isn't a color. People are colorful and people live colorful lives in the true sense of the term. We all have different things that make us unique and bring us together as one unified race. At the risk of closing this with a line from the first movie and sounding very cheesy, I'm going to anyway. There's more to people than meets the eye.

Yahoo! homepage featured headlines continue to be utterly meaningless

Yahoo! isn't the bastion of air-tight journalism like TMZ.com. OBVIOUSLY. I mean, we can't all hope to break the "Michael Jackson is maybe dead but we'll just go ahead and confirm that he's dead ourselves" stories, right? But at least Yahoo! can keep up with things like "Jon and Kate announce divorce! What about the kids?!?" You know, slightly more evergreen stories that are 100% pertinent and really important to all our lives.

Unfortunately, Yahoo! cannot do even this. Their featured headlines are always on mach-10 what-the-fuck? mode. I'm constantly logging into Yahoo! [Ed.'s note: I only log into Yahoo! to check my fantasy football and baseball scores. SPORTS!!!] and seeing all manner of vapid and banal headlines. It's enough to make me read the articles just to see if they're as vapid and banal as the headlines suggest. So I guess good job, Yahoo! Reverse psychologist doctors over there at Yahoo!, everybody.

Anyway, tonight's featured headlines that are sending me to the brain hospital:

Secrets waiters aren't telling you
Who first called [Michael] Jackson 'King of Pop?'
Rhode Island may change its official name

These are the featured headlines? These are currently the most pressing issues of which the Yahoo! demographic should be interested and appraised?

No, Yahoo! No.

They say Jesus saves after each level, well these kids need some salvation of another kind.

I know practically nothing about the video game, World of Warcraft, or WoW as it is sometimes referred to, and the following video is why:




People get so into this crap that they have actually died from sitting in front of their computer for so long without so much as even getting up to go to the bathroom. What's worse than that? This.

If the video above wasn't enough for you, then...well just watch for yourself.



I'm certain that these games cause you to become possessed by some demonic force that can't be beaten by your standard Boss killing technique. Unplug it and get yourself a priest.

Truett and Daddy: Wrestling parenthood

My son loves to wrestle. That is to say, my son loves to kick his daddy's butt. My son is two weeks shy of turning five. He disciplines himself with a strict training regimen of an early morning workout by waking me up at 8:00 AM and proceeding to spend the next hour engaged in delivering merciless beatings to my body. Whether it's with a diving body slam to the stomach from the arm of the couch, or a full on drop kick initiated from across the room by running at locomotive speed to my still disoriented and waking consciousness, he will execute his deadly moves until I succumb to his will. He is the predator and I am the fair game.


Recently, however, I've discovered that there is nothing fair about any of this. In fact, I've been getting duped the whole time. He cheats. Oh yeah, he cheats and he has it down to a fine art. If he has me in a head lock and I turn the tide by reversing the move and implementing a choke hold (yeah that's right, a choke hold. I gotta teach that boy how to take it like a man!) he will summon forth an ancient ritual that has been passed down through many generations, the Time Out. The Time Out is regarded by many to be the quintessential action to be taken when one starts to fear the worst or just simply needs a breather. Not so with the five year old. They're stocked with energy from an unlimited and unknown source. They don't ever have the need or desire to take a break. No, the Time Out is used by the five year old as a reset device; a means to take back the advantage, and when it's spoken, look out, because all hell is gonna break loose and you should not hope to ever recover.


Here with me now is my son, Truett. I am going to ask him to describe some of the moves and techniques he uses against me, his disadvantaged and helpless father.

Me: Hey Truett. So tell me, why do you enjoy beating me up?

Truett: Because, I really like my energy. It has a power. It gives me strong bones so I can beat you up.

Me: What is your favorite move when beating me up?

Truett: Karate.

Me: Have you seen The Karate Kid?

Truett? No.

Me: Where did you learn Karate?

Truett: From my dad.


Me: So basically what you're saying is, I have sealed my own fate by giving you the means to murder me?

Truett: Yes.

Me: Why would you want to do that? That's sick.

Truett: Cause I like it. It's so fun.

Me: Fair enough. So, describe your best move and how it works.

Truett: A disappeared electric shield so I don't get dead. The shield shoots power from it. Bombs.

Me: Bombs?! Truett, do you have Weapons of Mass Destruction?

Truett: Yes.

Me: Where are they at?

Truett: Right in my bones.

Me: I'm terrified right now.

Truett: I'm terrified too.

Me: Why?

Truett: Because when I beat you up... Daddy, I just love you. (gives me a kiss)

Me: I love you too.

Truett: Daddy? I have to poop, ok? I'll let you know if I need help wiping my butt.

Who has the upper hand now?

(Untitled)

Been a spell since I blogged proper. Guess I should give in to what I've been up to, since we're dying to know.

Most recently, as of five minutes ago, been reading a book goes by The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Just shy of 100 pages, I've learned that the heart is, in fact, a lonely hunter. Lots of people lonely in this book. Seems Loneliness knows no bounds, go figure. Young, old, black, white -- don't matter to Loneliness. This is all according to The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

Nothing devastating in the narrative, as yet. Just a load of sullen folks talking to deaf-mutes about in-particulars. There's a sense of roiling, though. Definitely some roiling going on, under-the-surface-like. Have a feeling shit's about to pop off. Local negro impregnates white trash and goes on trial or some such thing.

Before this, talking on the phone with girlfriend. We competed against each other in trivia games at sporcle.com. Name the U.S. presidents. Name the states. I remembered how to spell molybdenum during the "Name the elements" game. Proud of that.

Earlier even than this, work. Fuck. That. Noise.

S'pose I could get into what's been on the mind. Problem with that -- not much. The heat's been insufferable, which has led to a general malaise regarding anything but the simplest functions. Walk in straight line. Open door. Eat that thing.

So many people dying, though? Too much dying. Too much dying.

My copy of My Life and Hard Times is still sitting on my desk from when I finished it and set it there weeks ago. It provides a perfect visual reference to what these last two weeks have felt like for me.

I'm sorry, this is the best reproduction of the picture I can manage. It's a man dozing in a chair, anyway. Uncomfortable drowsiness. That's what that is.

Michael Jackson died

... in California.

Wheel up, log in.

3:30 PM, June 24, 2009
by, Travis Lickey


Facebook announced plans Wednesday afternoon for the development of a sister site that will broaden the road of accessibility to people who are "still names without a face.", said Mark Zuckerberg, founder and CEO of the networking giant. "We're the biggest thing out there on the Internet right now and we want to see that continue to grow until we have everyone."

Just how much larger does the number one standing social networking site hope to get? "We're running in fifty-eight different languages world wide and we're working on adding a few more by the end of summer, including 'senior citizen'.", Zuckerberg stated. That's right. Senior Citizen.

Zuckerberg made the decision after numerous attempts at trying to explain 'creeping' to his grandmother. "I want Bubbe to understand what I'm doing. I want her to understand!", he said. His grandmother was present at the announcement today at the headquarters in Palo Alto, CA and afterward she publicly patted him on the head calling him her mekhashef (Yiddish for wizard). "She started calling me that right after I showed her how to use the remote.", Zuckerberg said shyly.

So just what will this new sister site look like? In the earliest stages of it's conception back in 2004 Facebook was quaintly called, The Facebook which is what the company wants to call the senior version. "Old people unnecessarily put 'the' in front of most everything anyway, 'the cancer', 'the McDonald's', so we figured it would already make sense to them.

Facebook has worked diligently in creating a platform so that seniors will be able to communicate better with other seniors, especially in nursing and retirement homes where mobility isn't always an option. "A lot of these old folks are stuck in their rooms sitting in front of windows watching all of the happy people on the outside. We want to give them the freedom to talk to others, especially since a lot of them have families that have forgotten about them.", says Marie Craft, a senior citizen advisor to the company.

The new site will include many of the same features as it's predecessor with only a few slight changes to the format. Seniors will be able to access an application which will let them anonymously chat with nursing staff, thus saving them the implications of unwanted sexual advances. For those incapable of using a computer, a weekly printed version of The Facebook will be directly mailed to their residence; however, due to the costs of printing, the price will be covered by adding bulk ads for products such as The Comfort Wipe and Meatball Magic.

Facebook was kind enough to give us a sneak peak at what the new page will look like. A beta version of it has been up and running at the Sunrise View Retirement Village in Tampa, Florida since May. It features large print and uses terminology that is easily understood by someone of age.



Only time will tell if The Facebook catches on, and from the looks of it, time isn't a luxury this demographic can afford.


-Travis Lickey

Prepare for the Ronald Jenkees mind explosion

I've done the research. It seems to check out. Everything in the following clip -- the hat, everything -- is 100% legitimate.



Please go to Ronald Jenkee's YouTube page and watch the rest of his dope-ass jams. There are worse ways to spend your time and few better.

I don't think I'd buy Ronald's CD, but I'd trample over a dozen old women and small children to see him play live.

Roger Ebert tees up the Transformers sequel and slam dunks it into the upper deck Shaquille O'Neal BOOM!!!

The opening line:

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a horrible experience of unbearable length, briefly punctuated by three or four amusing moments.

Freshmen composition students, take note. That's how you get shit started. But Ebs is only getting started, boys and girls.

About how the robots talk:

Their accents are Brooklyese, British and hip-hop, as befits a race from the distant stars.

About how the robots look:

Their appearance looks like junkyard throw-up.

About how the robots fight:

The humans, including lots of U.S. troops, shoot at the Transformers a lot, although never in the history of science fiction has an alien been harmed by gunfire.

It seems he likes the humans in the movie a bit more than the robots. A bit more than not at all, though...

About the plot:

The plot is incomprehensible.

Sorry, Transformers. Y'GOT PLAYED!!!

This just in: WHOOPSIEZZZZ!LOLZ ;-(

We can all agree that the Air France plane that disappeared a few weeks ago reminded us of Lost. Which is fine. A terrible human tragedy, yes, and maybe it's a touch flippant to draw those lines between the two, but we'll be damned if that shit didn't ring of Oceanic flight 815. Maybe they HAD TO GO BACK!!!

Of course, we only make jokes like these in private or on our public blogs. Unfortunately, if you're reporting on the Air France crash for a certain Bolivian television news station, that isn't where the buck stops.



Yeah, those were screen caps from Lost, a television show. That was Kate in the foreground, clearly. All that just happened. Apparently, some Bolivian journalists were too busy to catch parts of this amazing episode when it aired.

But really, this goes beyond any knowledge you may or may not have about the show. As news hunters and gatherers, shouldn't the Bolivian news station be a little more scrupulous when it comes to information they say they received "from the Internet?" Is that all it takes? A seal of approval from "the Internet?"

According to the news director, the photos were taken by a passenger "the instant before the collision and after the aircraft crashed." ??? Does that sentence make any sense? Does any of this make any sense?

Incredible, Bolivia. Just be glad you've a healthy store of goodwill thanks to Bolivian folk singer Zulma Yugar.

Jon & Kate Plus Who The Fuck Are These People?

I manage to stay pretty well insulated to the current pop culture fads and trends, what with my arthritic back and ear trumpet keeping me busy most of the day, but I'll be damned if this Jon & Kate fracas isn't always trying to wrench open my skull and sneak in.

I don't want it! I don't even know what it is! What is this?! What is this show?! These people have a lot of kids, and boy, it's a lot of work. Okay. Fine. So what's the show? You're pitching me this show, and I don't understand.

I cannot green-light this show because what you've described to me is a show about a family who lives in a house and does entirely normal things like "grocery shopping," but here is your genius stroke, THERE'S A SHIT TON OF THEM DOING IT. This is your show? You need to leave my office, now. You need to leave and come back when you have an idea for a real show like New York Goes to Work.

Jon & Kate Equals Hate

05:00 AM CST, Jun 23 2009

'Jon & Kate Plus 8's Mom and Dad will "separate", says Jon Gosselin, the soon to be ex-husband of Kate Gosselin, both of whom are the stars of the hit reality series on TLC. The anticipated, yet still somewhat surprising news came Monday night as the show featured both of them discussing the matter on camera in separate interviews leaving the rest of the nation wondering, "What now?".

"The current plan is to have the children remain in the house while Kate and Jon alternate their time with them.", said Jennifer Stocks, the show's producer. "That will be the arrangment for the remainder of this season."

While this isn't the first time that a reality show has seen the suffering and ultimately the failure of on screen relationships, this sets the precedent for shows that involve children as far as the negative impact is concerned.

"We have been very pleased with the way that the show has taken off in the ratings and we don't want to see that taken away from us because of what is happening.", Stocks said. "TV has seen marriages come and go before, so it's not like this is anything new."

One proposed idea was to take the show into an entirely new direction with a reboot of the 1970's classic, 'The Brady Bunch". "We sat around the table one afternoon and pitched ideas about how to keep the show alive should we see a slip in the ratings." said Stocks. "We tossed around the notion of replacing the parents and writing out the twins altogether and focusing on the sextuplets in their new environment, but that went straight into development hell. We decided to break for lunch...well, Lunchables. All they have at the craft services table is that. Bologna and Turkey. I'm not a fan. Anyway, we came back and Rick (another producer) had this phenomenal idea of sticking with writing the parents out and letting the kids fend for themselves. See what happens when the power bills go unpaid and the food runs out."

As it stands now, TLC has approached Jon and Kate with the proposed new season and both seem to be in agreement. "For the sake of all parties, "it's the best way to go.", Kate said.
"It'll let John and I get back to normal without, you know, the lights, the tabloids, those eight little reindeer shits."

However, TLC has recently come under some crossfire concerning child labor and with the new season's format in the works, the legality and moral implications of it are outraging those on the outside. A spokeswoman for chlidren's rights has said she will fight for the rights of the eight children and try and work with the parents to form a resolve. "We cannot stand idly by and watch these innocents be used as some form of tasteless and wretched entertainment. We cannot let them become the next Lindsay Lohans and Robert Pattinsons of the world."

When approached with the allegations that season 6 might bring unwanted troubles to the show, Stocks retorted with only this, "Kids have always been a staple to a family's entertainment, whether it's at home in real life or watching them on TV. I don't see any problem with that. And as far as morals go? They're not my kids."

-Travis Lickey

A little something for the ladies.

I had never heard the term vagpon before today, and boy, am I glad I did! Vagpon is a portmanteau of the words vagina and tampon and the blend is ironically fitting, don't ya think?

Good friend, Nick Stolle, introduced it to me today through a text and it's been stuck in my head all day. "I must do something with this!", I thought. So I did. Even though the word vagpon doesn't illicit much imagery, the dynamic of the word itself seems to command power and a sense of self sufficiency all unto it's own. My design, therefore, is simple yet effective and convenient for today's woman.

I give you, the Vagpon:



Your vagina never had it so good.

You didn't even try, did you?

I feel very stuck. I'm in a place where, like a lot of other people, I feel as if there is no forward momentum that is driving me. I could bitch, I could whine and complain about this ever present void that I seem to be trapped in, but I won't. I won't because I do that too much in the waking world and I'd rather not bore you with the ongoing details of just how much life can suck sometimes.

Life isn't a bitch, it isn't cruel and it isn't unfair. "But wait," you're asking yourself, "if it's none of that then what is it exactly that you could bitch, whine or complain about?". Simple: You get out of it what you put into it, and to be perfectly honest, I haven't given much of an effort to doing anything that I feel could be up to my full potential. I back down too easily. I give up too quickly. I don't try. In retrospect, I really don't have a soapbox to stand on because I've never taken the time to properly build one in the first place.

I'm not afraid of failure, mind you. I'm fully aware that in life there is always going to be a winner and a loser, a first and a second, a challenge and a defeat. Like I said, I'm not afraid of failure, I'm afraid of trying, which is even worse. I have goals, I have aspirations, but what more are they if not daydreams that cause me to become clouded by disillusionment if I don't wake up from them and apply myself to the greater good? I say this not with a sense of ego, but with a sense of frustration - I'm talented, very talented. I've been told so by more people than I can remember ever since I was my son's age now, which is five. I also feel incredibly alone in that talent. It's difficult for me to express myself to others about what I truly feel without being made to feel as if I'm some lunatic on the outside looking in on a normal thinking society. Not that I'm some great mind of brilliance beyond the capabilities of those around me; rather, I feel alone because I feel underdeveloped and under stimulated. My family and friends have always taken an interest in what I do, but even with that sort of support, it's somehow never been enough for me. My artistic and other worldly views do share a common ground between myself and a few close friends, but beyond that, I feel terribly misunderstood and misguided. It's almost as if I somehow missed the ride to a certain place I should have traveled to in order to be around people like myself and greater resources and as a consequence, I find myself struggling to cope with the reality that I might just have to make the best with what I have around me and call it a night. That's partly why I'm afraid of trying. I look at my environment and say to myself, "what's the point?".

I was married for six years to a woman who never really understood me, and she still doesn't. A lot of that is my own fault I must admit. I didn't understand her either. I don't think either one of us really ever tried to. We got married young and were more in love with the idea of being married and the whole husband and wife routine that we never fully took the time to appreciate each other for who we were as individuals. We're both extremely stubborn people and I let a lot of that rule me in regards to how I acted as a husband. I wanted my own way. I still do, and that's the biggest struggle of all. I might try things now and then, but if I sense that things aren't going the way I want them to I immediately quit and walk away and try to find blame in anything else but me. I realize I might be taking you into a tangent and you might be thinking what this has to do with feeling stuck. Well, let's get to that.

The choices that I've made up until now have summarized who I am today, but they don't define me. People cannot be defined by a sense of what they have or have not done. Their definition comes solely from one thing, the truth. I can do anything I want to in this world. I could learn how to rip an engine apart and fix it if I wanted to. I could learn computer programming and get a good job designing websites. I could walk into a McDonald's and start a career as a fry cook if I decided to. Are those things I want to do? Hell no. Would those things prosper my ambitions in life? They would be a means to make a living, but nothing more. I would take no gratification from them because it's not who I am. I wouldn't be honest to the truth of who I am. I suppose that begs to ask the million dollar question of who is it that Travis Lickey is supposed to be? I have some pretty good ideas, but I'll never know for sure unless I try. We're back to that again. See, it's like a vicious circle of frustration for me. As I've said before, I'm not afraid of finding out that what I want to do with my life might end up coming to a halt because I made some wrong decisions. We all do that. That's how we learn, that's how we grow. But I often ask myself this question, is my fear of not trying really a burden that I have imposed on myself, not because I don't think there's any point to it, but because I'm terrified that what I want to try won't be available to me where I'm at right now? Let's face it, if you want to grow corn you have to first find a field. It's not like you can just grow a crop in any location. It wouldn't work. I'm at a point in my life where I have been afforded the opportunity to start fresh, yet I can already feel myself being enveloped by stagnant air. My eyes are bigger than my mouth and my dreams and goals are bigger than my surroundings. If I'm going to be true to myself I feel like I need to be true to the reality that what I want to do with my life, what I know I was born to do, what I know that I have to do, won't see any manner of success by staying in the sticks.

Therein lies the reality behind the reality. I don't really have any options as far as getting away, or none that I can see clearly in the daylight. Not that I feel that doing so would make me feel as if I was running from a problem, I very much feel it would be me running towards a solution. I have a son, five years old, whom I love to death. I want to be a part of his life and his a part of mine. I also want to show my son that I tried, not for him or anyone else, but that I tried for me. I know he'll love me no matter what I do, but I look back on my childhood and remember a time when I saw my own father miserable in his environment. Granted, the circumstances are drastically different, but some of it is the same. I asked my dad if he is happy with his life and he said that he was, which is all I truly care about. Sure, I'm certain that he wishes he would have done things differently. We all do. I'm at that place right now where I can either choose to continue doing things to just get by and be content, or I can press forward and create a momentum that will drive me and lead me to reveal the truth about who and what I am. My dad has said that he feels he would have been a good writer, but he never tried. I have a lot of fear about moving away and trying, leaving everything behind, even if it would be for a little while. I fear missing moments of my son's life that I would never get back. I also fear that I could be passing up opportunities and killing off dreams and that twenty years from now my son will ask me, "Why didn't you try, dad?" I feel that I would be a good film maker, but I haven't tried. I have a lot of friends and even some family members constantly telling me to follow my dream, to just go, to do it. I also feel a great opposition from my ex-wife who again, doesn't fully understand me and why I want to pursue my own truth. For years she never followed hers and she finally gave herself the chance to get on a stage and sing. It might not be her life's calling, but dammit, she tried, and I'm proud of her for it. I see the lives of those around me and I see them doing the things that they wanted to do with their lives or at least making the efforts to get there. Am I saying that if I moved I would walk into a life that I've only dreamed about over night? Of course not. I realize that one has to work for it to get it. I also realize that once people begin to chase their dream, sometimes that dream changes. I don't feel that holds true for me. We're talking about someone that when I was five years old took a pencil and scribbled 'Travis Lickey Studios' onto my bedroom door. Over the years I turned my bedroom into movie sets and my imagination was the star. Every year I prayed and prayed for a video camera so I could start making movies. I never got it, but that never held me down. The first video camera I had was just a rental and I was off and out the door. I didn't have anyone to star in my movies so I would make up stories and walk up to random people on the street and ask them to do stuff for me. they always did, and I loved it. I couldn't get enough of it. It might have been crap to watch, but at least I was doing it. I was trying.

I know that I have a lot to think about regarding my future and how it will affect me and those close to me. I have to consider all of the possibilities and make responsible choices. I also have to close my eyes and stand accountable to myself and answer the dreamer inside of me that's asking, "Did you try, Travis?"

Did I?

Buying a telephone is somehow a reason to cheer for someone

This is my phone. It's called the Samsung Stripe. It's got a shitty camera and holds about 50 pictures. It slips out of my hand easily because it's shaped like an egg. It was also free when I signed my contract with T-Mobile two years ago.

In a few months I'll throw this phone away, sign a new contract and ask the clerk to show me the four or five phones that are free for people who sign contracts. I won't ask about special features or applications. The one I pick will probably come with a camera, but I won't particularly care. Really, the only question I'll have will be something like, "So this one works pretty well? Reception's good?" If the reception is good, I'll take it. It should be no surprise, then, to discover that I'm completely baffled by today's iPhone launch.

I understood the hoopla surrounding the launch of the first iPhone generation. Actually, no. I don't understand any of it. I guess my number one question is why are people being cheered for buying a phone at 1:20 in the following clip?



Hooray! You spent some money on a thing!

Why do people love their phones so much? It's a phone. A phone. Nobody gave two shits about this phone:


Sadly, the Trimline's two "extra" buttons could only carry it so far into the future. The extra buttons were 1968's answer to today's iPhone restaurant-finder application. Also, I find it ironic that families who owned a Trimline used the damn thing for three decades, while most cellophiles these days will eagerly trade in a phone months after purchasing it.

I hate cell phones.

Brain Rush

Wrong answers are often hilarious, but all will pale in comparison to those on Cartoon Network's new game show Brain Rush.



C'mon, kid! How did he not get that first one right? Nineteen?!? He answered that like, "Nineteen? Get me out of here!"

I CAN'T EVEN HEAR ANYTHING!! OH, MY GOD!!

Aaaaaah, Twinkies?

Early this evening I was sitting in my living room going over some different ideas to write about. I was looking through my notebook, reviewing some old notes and jotting a few new ones down when it dawned on me, what would happen if I was to write a blog about a topic that has already been written. I don't mean just the general idea, I mean everything about it right down to the content and its structure. Could something like that even be possible and be a genuine coincidence? I'm not a fan of plagiarism, in fact I think it's downright crooked and lazy, but again, with six billion plus people on the planet, surely the odds of two people having almost the exact same idea and bringing them both to fruition must be fairly high. It would be akin to having an idea for an invention and then a few days later seeing pretty much the same idea being sold on an infomercial.

Well, with that off my chest, I'll begin the real blog that I originally came here to write.

Something happened to me today, although it wasn't all that great. I bought a package of Twinkies from the gas station and put them in my freezer for a little bit so they would get cold right away so that when I got around to eat the Twinkies they'd be good and cold and fulfilling.

IT GETS SO MUCH FUCKING WORSE FROM HERE!!!

The fucking worst part being that I totally let it slip my mind about buying a package of Twinkies from the gas station and my putting them in the freezer so that when I got around to eat the Twinkies they'd be good and cold and fulfilling. I wasn't even thinking about that shit till just now, when I opened the freezer door to get a Dr. Thunder. The Twinkies that I let slip my mind were sitting before me! All good and cold and...frozen to hell. I can't eat them now, the good and cold and frozen to hell Twinkies. Fuck those Twinkies.

I'm curious as to whether or not they have Twinkies in Mexico? If you're an illegal alien sympathizer, you should buy those border jumpers a package or two of Twinkies. I don't think they sell Twinkies in Mexico.

Great Zeus, these Twinkies are really frozen! I sure as shit wish I could eat these frozen Twinkies.

I'm so pissed off at these frozen Twinkies, if I saw a commercial for Twinkies I'd start screaming and kicking my TV.

Twinkies my ass. I bet Zingers wouldn't freeze like this shit did.

Mmmmmm, Zingers!

A great thing happened to me today. I bought a package of chocolate Zingers from the store and put them in my refrigerator so that when I decided to eat the Zingers they'd be nice and cool and satisfying.

BUT THIS ISN'T EVEN THE GREAT THING.

The great thing is that I completely forgot that I bought a package of chocolate Zingers from the store and put them in my refrigerator so that when I decided to eat the Zingers they'd be nice and cool and satisfying. I'd forgotten until just now, when I opened the refrigerator door to get a Wild Cherry Pepsi. The Zingers I'd forgotten about were right there! All nice and cool and potentially satisfying. I'm eating them now, the nice and cool and satisfying Zingers. They are nice and cool and satisfying.

I wonder if they have Zingers in Saudi Arabia? If you're making a care package for a soldier, maybe throw in a package or two of Zingers? I don't think they sell Zingers over there. Sure, since you're mailing the Zingers, they won't be nice and cool and satisfying like mine, but they'll be nice and satisfying for the soldier, all the same. Besides, after shooting our enemies in the face all day, I doubt any solider is going to get nit-picky when it comes to the temperature of his Zingers, you know?

God, these Zingers are really good! It's like, they so got the name right for this particular confection -- "Zingers." It's like they're zinging with taste. Like a zing of taste to the mouth with these Zingers.

A good Zingers commercial would maybe be, say, a baseball team is down by a run in the bottom of the ninth, and the batter is really nervous because there's a man on second and two outs. Somebody on his team -- the coach or whatever -- gives him a Zinger like, "Hey, man, try this," and the batter takes a bite like, "Wow, okay!"

Then when he gets to the plate he's got all this confidence and the pitcher is like, "Oh, boy. What am I in for?" And the batter hits a home run, and as he's stepping on home plate he holds up a package of Zingers at the camera and says, "Zingers. When you're looking for that ZING power." Really emphasizing the "ZING" and maybe nodding at the package of Zingers he's holding while saying it.

I can't eat this third Zinger.

Avert your eyes, sinner!

Whilst riding on the bus today, I was standing holding the railing that goes overhead. I cast my eyes downward and realized that I could see straight down this girl's shirt. Not that they were the most magnificent breasts I had ever seen, but it was between that and the Polish immigrant reading the Polish newspaper and chuckling quietly to himself over its contents, so I was looking pretty intently.
I don't feel like I should apologize for these types of moments. I have no ill will towards this fortunately placed gal. I harbor no desires to defile her in any way. It's just nice to look at the breasts of pretty much any woman under the age of 50 and under the weight of 250. I like looking at clouds too. Granted, boobies is better, but it's basically the same principle. No matter what's going on in your life, taking a moment out of your day to look at clouds or breasts will set you back on the right path. It's a zen moment.
I understand that there is such a thing as looking for too long. It's best to think of the welcoming and completely revealed bosom as a Snickers candy bar that you have on a long trip. You take small bites (glances) every so often (depending on how long the bus ride is) and you make it last until your trip is over (semen coats the inside of your boxer shorts).
However, on one of my glances, I guess I just wanted to see how far down I could look, hoping to spot belly button, and instead stumbled upon the book that she was reading. The Holy Bible.
My face fell and I thought, "shit, she might as well be wearing a nun's habit now." It brought about a whole bunch of guilt, likely left over from my Catholic days. There are times when we men don't need anyone else to point out to us how disgusting and filthy minded we are. Times like these, or when you are mentally undressing a woman you've only seen from behind, and she turns around and you see that she's pregnant. Very pregnant. When you're the type of fellow who ogles as a part time job, you run into the situations from time to time.
So I felt bad and stopped looking down her shirt. It was only a few more seconds until the bus ride ended anyway. But what really stopped me was looking down at the Bible, seeing the red letters of the gospels, like tiny Jesus eyes looking back up at me. Like when you realize that someone has been watching you without your knowledge for quite some time.


"Hey, champ. You want to stop eye raping my daughter here? Since I died for your sins and all."

Who exactly is the target demographic for this Rachael Ray banner?

This is on the home page for my station's website, and I'm like, "What?"

First of all, Rachael Ray rides a hog? Secondly, what? Thirdly, why is The Rachael Ray Show trying to attract motorcycle riders? Fourthly, now that I look a little closer, it actually looks like a moped. Fifthly, ABATE!!!

The Great Debate | Beat Konducta 5-6 is better than Champion Sound

In this debate, Todd posits that the album Beat Konducta, vol. 5-6 by Madlib is better than Champion Sound by Jaylib.

*THE CASE*

Freely, I will admit, I am a pasty white fellow who grew up next to a lot of corn fields. Clearly, I am not an expert on rap. Most of it does nothing for me. Sure, I enjoy a good beat, and it does make me feel a bit cooler, but that doesn't really take a whole lot. But I can say, with utmost certainty, that Madlib is an artist whom I truly feel. A man who seemingly has no interest in fame or fortune, but only in releasing great music. His style has proven itself to me so thoroughly that I can now purchase any album of his without first listening to it.

So Warren and I both have the albums Champion Sound, a collaboration that Madlib did with Jay Dilla, and Beat Konducta Vol. 5-6, a 42 track set of instrumental beats and film audio that Madlib did in tribute to Jay Dilla, who passed away from lupus some years ago. Because apparently people still die of lupus.

I would not shortchange Champion Sound. It has great lyrics and beats, and none of this should be a surprise, coming from arguably the two best little known producers out there. Note I said producers. Neither one of them would claim rapping as their strong suit, and yet this album is filled with them rapping over each others beats. Adequate rapping and clever wordplay even. But, put simply, there is no Superfudging way that this is better than Vol. 5-6.

It comes down to a matter of tastes, I suppose. Champion Sound, for all of its high points, does tend to lean a bit more towards the "club bangers and bitches" style of lyricism, which is not my favorite aspect about the genre. Beat Konducta, however, uses vocals sparingly, and lets the music tell the story. All of this makes me sound like an asshole, but it's not any less true because of it. Beat Konducta is also a more melancholy affair, but this album manages more emotion and complexity than any two Champion Sound might. I love good lyrics, but I can't get over a good instrumental for weeks. His name is Madlib, and though I might not be the first to mention this, the Beat Konducta series is like the Madlib books. It provides you the background, the structure, and it is up to you to fill in the blanks. Champion Sound created a picture of a place I like to look at. Beat Konducta took me to a place that sounded familiar, and showed me new areas and corners I had never thought to look at before. Warren could not possibly have a defense.

*THE DEFENSE*

You must be high, Todd. Beat Konducta 5-6 better than Champion Sound? You're a good friend, but let the public undressing begin. In the sparse words of your precious BK volume, "Take it in the brain, motherfucker."

First of all, I totally agree with you. CS has great beats and lyrics. And you know what? BK has great beats and... well, great beats. Therein lies the problem with any contemporary instrumental album like BK. For as great as any non-lyrical album may be, it will always have a handicap when compared to an album with beats and lyrics. Its potential has a low ceiling, just like the female workforce. This isn't to say BK isn't better than any lyrical album. In fact, it's quite better than the majority. Unfortunately for you, CS isn't one of them.

You may now be thinking: WHAT ABOUT MOZART, WARREN? YOU THINK MOZART SUCKS! No, Mozart doesn't suck. Did you know Mozart was the first rapper? Just kidding, the first rapper was Tone Loc. Look, we can all agree that many classical masters like Mozart made truly beautiful and moving music, but comparing music like theirs to a contemporary instrumental album is unfair. Apples and oranges. Further, most instrumental efforts from Madlib are meant for, or end up with, lyrics.

You claim that BK's "emotion and complexity" trump CS's "club bangers and bitches." Really, the comparison is insubstantial to an album being better than another, but since you went there, I'll grant that there are moments in BK where the emotion is palpable, but it's hardly consistent throughout. In fact, I'd argue there's a good amount of that "bangers and bitches" attitude as well, but I'd hardly call either album "club bangers and bitches" fare. Sure, there's a track called "Strip Club" on CS, but this isn't Curtis Jackson pouring malt liquor down some nubile rumpshaker's torso. There's pathos in Champion Sound. It's a Dionysian pathos that you must dig for, but it's there.

*TODD'S REBUTTAL*

Ok, first things first. Dionysian? Fuck you.

Secondly, as he released the album as is, I would say what he or someone else may do with them or has done with them is quite inconsequential. To look at and listen to this album, you notice the way that it flows. There is a cohesive sound. It could be viewed as being one large seventy five minute song. Champion Sound has none of that. Madlib and Jay Dilla may have been friends, but the styles are clearly different, and the disjointed nature of skipping from one producer to the next as each track goes by is detrimental.

And ok, Beat Konducta 5-6 is an instrumental album. That's a strike against it as far as most are concerned. And yet, it manages to rise above the level of mediocrity that most of those similar albums produce. Because it has to work harder to earn the respect, it makes it that much more rewarding. Who else is out there putting out instrumentals of this quality? No one. That's who. Or, more appropriately, that's not who.

Any album which is of a high enough quality to make one forget or at least not notice the lack of rapping/singing is classic. And from the number of times I have listened to Champion Sound, I don't hear classic. I hear solid. I do not hear classic. Go ahead now, Warren. Tell me that I'm wrong. Try to change my mind.

I get Loc'd after dark.

*WARREN'S REBUTTAL*

It seems we have a case of one man's trash being another man's 75 minute song. I kid, of course. Beat Konducta is hardly trash. Though it does appear my opinion of it pales in comparison to yours, an opinion which may even speak to BK's ability to mend bones and cure cancer.

Where you enjoy the flow of BK's 75 minute song, I sometimes get lost in its seamless monotony. I was surprised to find that BK is only about ten minutes longer than Champion Sound because it feels like BK plays much longer. Certain sections seem redundant, and it takes a good five minutes for the album to take off. I don't need fireworks and explosions out the gate, but I also hate a dick tease.

Further, I think what you call CS's "disjointedness" is its greatest virtue. Variety is the spice of life, Young Todd, and here we have two of the greatest in their field playing off each other to create beautiful and unique musical juxtapositions that helped usher in the era of collaborations like Madvillainy and The Mouse and the Mask. This was the first Madlib/Jay Dilla collab, and the excitement and possibility of a new, musically potent friendship blasts from the speakers.

CS may not be a classic album, but then I don't consider BK one, either. They're both solid efforts, but if forced to chose one, I'm picking Champion Sound, which contains more memorable moments, sick beats and head-nodding turns of phrase. I'll leave Beat Konducta for those times I'm looking for a subtle soundtrack on a quiet evening or a long drive.

*TODD'S CLOSING*

Warren, you stupid piece of shit. At no point in your inane ramblings have you come even close to getting me to change my opinion. All of your arguments came from the same guy who also said that the Holocaust never happened and that we should all consider ourselves very very lucky if then President George Bush put up a wall between the USA and Mexico borders because, and I quote exactly here, "The smell of this country would greatly improve. Put plainly, you are a racist sir, and a man of loose morals at best. You are worse than lupus.Clearly, these are just two differing opinions, and we have been clear, I think, in establishing that neither one of us dislikes the other's chosen fave. But in regards to which album moves me, both emotionally and groove wise, hands down Beat Konducta Vol. 5-6. Note that I did not abbreviate Champion Sound like a douche. I did not narrow it down to syllables that resemble a burger joint. You're a terrible person, and I have it on good authority that you were the man who made an attempt on Bob Marley's life.

*WARREN'S CLOSING*

You know how some families have that one stained-shirt dullard everybody patronizes? Usually in shifts because one person can't take it for very long? Well, that's you, Todd. Especially when you keep going on about Burger King's -- I'm sorry, Beat Konducta's -- ability to master cold fusion.

Surely, if we were to ask Madlib himself which album he preferred, he would chose Champion Sound. After all, it's the album he made with Jay Dilla, not just about him. But beyond that, it's plainly superior. In fact, while preparing for this debate, I listened to both in their entirety -- Champion Sound first, of course -- and had to stop halfway through BK 5-6 to listen to Champion Sound, again. It's that much better!

I'm beginning to think you simply like the idea of Dilla being dead, which is sick, just sick, Todd. Is that why you never bothered to wear 2-Pac shoes while the man was still alive? Is it mere coincidence that you bought your pair after he'd been slain? I'll stop there, for I fear if I dig any deeper, I'll uncover some disturbing truths connecting you to the deaths of ever major hip-hop or rap artist from the last 20 years.

Oh, those Pitchfork writers!

While fumbling around Pitchfork.com tonight, I stumbled across a Worst Album Covers list that included this gem that hits on multiple levels for yours truly.

Genesis
Foxtrot

Why do hipsters reject Genesis? Animal Collective couldn't try any harder to mimic them, from the prog-jamming down to the stupid album art. In 10 years, Geologist & The Mechanics will top the charts with an inspirational ballad and Panda Bear will record a slick blue-eyed soul album for yuppies, write some songs for a Disney cartoon, and play a butler in a movie. Then your kids will make Animal Collective the butt of jokes, and you'll be just like That Guy defending Genesis to anyone who's born post-Bret Easton Ellis.

The damp hand of melancholy

There is a direct line that connects the overall apprehension with which I approach the world and the hopelessness and disaster that often seems to accompany my attempts at writing anything at all about it. It's the pits, but in a careening world, the words simply do not come.

This is no great epiphany. It's more like stating the obvious. For hamstrung situations like mine, there's never any assuaging this apprehension. Honestly, I've never asked for anything of the sort. The greatest comfort is realizing that this is normal and probably encouraged. Terribly confusing, often exhausting, but normal and encouraged all the same. Sometimes I forget that, though.

Probably the best -- yet frankly jerk-offy -- advice about writing I've ever heard is, Tell the truth. I'm often accused of stating the obvious, so again, pardon me for pointing this out, but this doesn't mean "never lie." Writing truthfully has nothing to do with proof. Think of it as having true aim. Accuracy. Pointedness. If you can write like you're splitting arrows on a bullseye, you will come back to the words years later and they will continue to ring true.

For instance, all this so far? Probably not the truth. That's the tricky part because I don't know yet. The snappy three-word aphorism fails to tell you that truth takes time. For the writer, anyway. You? You can usually tell right away. In fact, perhaps you can save me a few years and a lot of grief and let me know if what I say ever rings true right away. Thanks.

There is a point. If James Thurber's My Life and Hard Times were a sandwich, it'd be one made infinitely better by the gourmet roll surrounding what's inside. The nine short, autobiographical essays are bookended by the brief "Preface to a Life" and "A Note at the End." Although the biography-proper is swell to read in itself, I found these two writings to be especially entertaining and -- to use our term -- true.

You can likely find a copy of the book for less than a dollar at a used book store. I got mine for 75-cents. The entire thing weighs in at just over a hundred pages. Nearly ten percent of that is devoted to an introduction by John Hutchens, so perhaps it seems gratuitous to transcribe roughly the same amount here. The internet is a big place, though, and I've seen some of the crap we've been filling it up with, so I don't feel the least bit shamed.

In the Preface, Thurber defends his decision to write his memoirs before the age of 40 because by then he says, "my faculties may have closed up like flowers at evening, leaving me unable to write my memoirs with a fitting and discreet inaccuracy or, having written them, unable to carry them to the publisher's."

He adds that writers like him -- those of shorter, lighter pieces -- are often misinterpreted and experience a sort of apprehension about the world. It's this second half of the Preface that I specifically enjoyed.

The notion that such persons are gay of heart and carefree is curiously untrue. They lead, as a matter of fact, an existence of jumpiness and apprehension. They sit on the edge of the chair of Literature. In the house of Life they have the feeling that they have never taken off their overcoats. Afraid of losing themselves in the larger flight of the two-volume novel, or even the one-volume novel, they stick to short accounts of their misadventures because they never get so deep into them but that they feel they can get out. This type of writing is not a joyous form of self-expression but the manifestation of a twitchiness at once cosmic and mundane. Authors of such pieces have, nobody knows why, a genius for getting into minor difficulties: they walk into the wrong apartments, they drink furniture polish for stomach bitters, they drive their cars into the prize tulip beds of haughty neighbors, they playfully slap gangsters, mistaking them for old school friends. To call such persons "humorists," a loose-fitting and ugly word, is to miss the nature of their dilemma and the dilemma of their nature. The little wheels of their invention are set in motion by the damp hand of melancholy.

Such a writer moves about restlessly wherever he goes, ready to get the hell out at the drop of a pie-pan or the lift of a skirt. [...] He pulls the blinds against the morning and creeps into smoky corners at night. He talks largely about small matters and smally about great affairs. His ears are shut to the ominous rumblings of the dynasties of the world moving toward a cloudier chaos than ever before, but he hears with an acute perception the startling sounds that rabbits make twisting in the bushes along a country road at night[.] He can sleep while the commonwealth crumbles but a strange sound in the pantry at three in the morning will strike terror into his stomach. He is not afraid, or much aware, of the menaces of empire but he keeps looking behind him as he walks along darkening streets out of the fear that he is being softly followed by little men padding along in single file, about a foot and a half high, large-eyed, and whiskered.

It is difficult for such a person to conform to what Ford Madox Ford in his book of recollections has called the sole reason for writing one's memoirs: namely, to paint a picture of one's time. Your short-piece writer's time is [...] his own personal time, circumscribed by the short boundaries of his pain and his embarrassment, in which what happens to his digestion, the rear axle of his car, and the confused flow of his relationships with six or eight persons and two or three buildings is of greater importance than what goes on in the nation or in the universe. He knows vaguely that the nation is not much good any more; he has read that the crust of the earth is shrinking alarmingly and that the universe is growing steadily colder, but he does not believe that any of the three is in half as bad shape as he is.

[...] The "time" of such a writer, then, is hardly worth reading about if the reader wishes to find out what was going on in the world while the writer in question was alive and at what might be laughingly called "his best." All that the reader is going to find out is what happened to the writer. The compensation, I suppose, must lie in the comforting feeling that one has had, after all, a pretty sensible and peaceful life, by comparison. It is unfortunate, however, that even a well-ordered life can not lead anybody safely around the inevitable doom that waits in the skies. As F. Hopkinson Smith long ago pointed out, the claw of the sea-puss gets us all in the end.

Rejected Secrets

If you haven't visited PostSecret.com yet, you're really missing out. It's a site where secrets, written out on postcards in an artistic expression, are mailed in by people wishing to anonymously confess them to the world. Some are cleverly humorous, some are tragic, while others really make you think about your own life when you realize the parallels between the secrets of others and your own.

The identity of the people submitting their secrets is always kept hidden; only their handwriting or their particular style of expression could give them away to people who really know them. Occasionally, however, some secrets are sent in that border on being too controversial to post. Not because of the subject matter, (Post Secret posts some rather outrageous secrets sometimes) but rather, the anonymity of the one sending in their secret would be too identifiable, and so, to protect the interest of both parties, these submissions are usually shredded or filed.

After doing a bit of research, I was able to uncover some of the secrets that have fallen into this category and feel that if these individuals put forth the time and effort to send them in, they should be shown. I present to you now, the rejected secrets.
















...and don't worry, your secret's safe with me.

Last Night: Part 1

I came home last night, (or was it this morning?) anyways, I woke up naked and sitting in my bathroom sink. I had no memory of how I had gotten myself into the bathroom sink, or even why. I was just there, fastened in tightly like a champagne cork. There was, I suppose, one outstanding clue that I should have taken into consideration right away, but failed to, my George Foreman grill. In the past, when I have become belligerently intoxicated, I would sometimes deprive myself of all senses by going into the bathroom, grill in tow, turn off the lights and try to calm myself by cooking a burger or two. It's what got me through college during the hard nights. This instance had appeared to be no different. When I finally managed to pop my ass from the vacuum that the sink had created overnight, I noticed , along with the large red ring around my lower waist and the backwards impression of the letters 'H' and 'C' pressed into my lower back, a large drawing of a penis that was sprayed onto the tile of the shower wall in ketchup topped off with what appeared to be a Hellman's ejaculate. Must have been a hell of a night.

I walked out of the bathroom, ignoring the mess that I'd soon have to clean, (the grandparents were coming over that afternoon) and headed into the kitchen to collect my thoughts over a pot of thick, black coffee. It was there that I noticed something else that was as unique to me as being drunk and grilling in the bathroom, though this ritual wasn't at all familiar. Seven bowls of Cap'n Crunch cereal with the sixth and seventh bowl having been filled with orange juice, lined up in a row on the kitchen counter. I don't eat cereal, nor do I enjoy the pulpy, acidic taste of Florida's best. "I must have been totally wasted.", I thought, "My god, did I drive to go and get this shit?". Standing there next to the counter, trying to piece together the events that lead up to the bewildering scene before me, I heard a strange yet recognizable moan coming from around the corner. Apprehensively, I took the next few steps into the living room where I was shocked to see something both unexpected and disturbing. My grandfather, on the floor snuggled up with two pillows and shamefully disrobed from the waist down. I grabbed a blanket from the couch, tossed it over the pastiness of his wrinkled skin and attempted to rouse him by gently nudging his shoulder with my foot.

"Grandpa? Grandpa, wake up."

He laid there in his relaxed and unconscious state, flapping his lips like a child does while imitating the sound of a horse. I knelt down and patted his cheek until he suddenly opened his eyes without caution, startling me and causing me to stumble a few steps backwards.

"Jesus?", he let out.

At first I thought his outburst was one of surprised exclamation. Only soon did I realize that his was a frightened and disoriented query.

"Yes?", I answered instinctively.

"Am I, am I dead?", he asked.

Taking into consideration the deep rooted religious beliefs that had calculated every move of my grandfather; the fact that I was curious as to why he had already arrived at my house and without grandma, not to mention half naked and asleep, that, and coupled with the already bizarre events leading up to this moment, I decided to try and make the best of it and have some fun.

"Yes, Orlan. Yes you are."

He laid there for a moment, paused and curious. He looked down at the floor then back up again several times.

"Why are you naked?", he asked.

It was then that I realized I had failed to get dressed. I was naked and standing in front of my grandfather assuming the identity of the Almighty himself. Oh well. I went with it.

"Um, everyone's naked in Heaven.", I proclaimed.

He right away shook his head as if that had actually made sense to him. He then rolled over like a turtle would if you placed it on its back, knocking away the blanket I had used to cover him and exposing his unfortunate looking backside. He stood up, composed himself and was silent for a moment.

"Christopher?", he groaned, trying to focus his eyes. "Where are my slacks?"

It was Freshman year at Millikin all over again.

"I, I don't know, grandpa.", I said.

Now, as normal it is for me to turn a bathroom into a place to prepare meals, the current situation I found myself in, you know, standing in a room with my grandfather, both of us naked and discussing the whereabouts of pants, really made me start to think about what it was that I was doing with my life.

"Well you find 'em. I've got to urinate."

With that being said, I stepped aside allowing my grandfather to pass by and stood there scratching my head and pondering the location of his neatly creased pants. Grandpa liked his pants, whether denim or gabardine, to have a nice crisp crease in them. It made him feel classy even if he was mowing the lawn.

"Why that looks like a penis!", shouted my grandfather from the bathroom. "Is that mayonnaise?"

He found the ketchup dick. My grandfather emerged from the bathroom, shaking his head and wearing a bath towel the best he could.

"Find my slacks yet?", he asked.

I had stopped looking once I heard him make mention of the perverse artwork that adorned my shower. I glanced over at the door handle on the bedroom door and saw them.

"There they are, grandpa."

As he walked over to put his pants on, I felt I should do the same, after all, one doesn't want to be the only one standing naked in a room with your elder. I walked into my bedroom to find some clothes and was met with another surprise that gave me more of a shock than discovering my grandfather in my apartment, my grandmother sleeping in my bed. In my bed and holding an empty bottle of ketchup. The events of last night were no longer in question. This was one hell of a night.