[dovate.com] » 2006 » August
This morning I read that 2 Fox News reporters were kidnapped in Gaza. Obviously this is horrible news… but emotionally I am unmoved.
My reaction was completely neutral. No tinge of anything. It’s because they’re Fox reporters that I feel this way, or don’t feel any way or whatever. It’s not like I’m wishing for their public beheading, because I’m not. It’s just that I don’t really care. This lack of concern, concerns me.
Liza got home from California. She brought me an organic shirt made out of hemp. It really doesn’t look like a hippy shirt at all… unlike my other (cotton) organic shirt. I like the way it fits too. Good deal.
On Saturday night I saw a 6’ +, 200+ lb. butt naked white guy walking around on the street near my house. I specify that he was white because it was dark out, none of my friends saw him and his whiteness made him stand out like a full moon on a cloudless night. He walked out of seemingly nowhere and ducked into a private, gated alley before I got the words, “hey there’s a naked guy over there” out of my mouth. Friends are still skeptical that he existed, although I swear he was real.
I went to the Reading Terminal PA Dutch festival, ate a donut, chicken pot pie. (PA Dutch style) I had a seafood stew at Banana Leaf and a steak at Caribou Café and blueberry pancakes at Farmacia. I ate very well this weekend.
In other news, I took all my change to the bank on Saturday afternoon and walked out with $69.44. I decided to spend my winnings at Banana Leaf, Caribou Café and Farmacia.
On Sunday I drove around North Philly, Strawberry Mansion and lovely Mantua taking photos of various murals. I’d never been to some of the streets/neighborhoods. Strawberry Mansion has tons of character and aside from the fear; it has a good vibe and a lot of potential. If people would stop killing each other it would be a great neighborhood. Lots of trees, Fairmount Park nearby and great architecture. A few good jobs and some private investment couldn’t hurt either.
All in all, it’s interesting going through places where I stick out like that naked white dude. When people associate me with the murals, they tend to light up. From what I’ve seen, communities around this city love their murals.
Sunday evening was spent at Tinicum nature preserve down by the airport. There I watched the 3rd installment in Mascher Dance group’s Inhabitations. It was the best one yet and I expect some great photos out of it. (I had no time to look at them last night or this morning) Turnout was good for an event 3/4 of a mile into a fairly inaccessible wetland.
Also photographed were deer, egrets, herons, sandpipers and various fauna. That’s all for now.
High above the Wissahickon Valley, in the Northwest of the city sits Mom Rinker’s Rock. On top of the rock is a statue of a dapper looking Quaker. Scrawled across the base of the statue is the word “toleration.”
Mom Rinker herself was either a spy who ratted out British troop movements from her high perch, or a revolutionary era witch who leapt to her death (or possibly flew away) from the rock. Edgar Allen Poe used to sit at the rock and write. (I’ve been known to do that too, but I’m not Edgar Allen Poe and no one gives a shit where I do or do not write.) Strange Philadelphian, Poe friend and Germantown resident George Lippard famously married “according to Indian rites” at the rock in the mid 19th century. It really is one of the prettiest and most relaxing places in the city.
During high school I used to hang out at Rinker’s Rock. One day, while sitting at the base of the toleration statue I realized that all the gnats buzzing about my head weren’t as annoying as they were necessary elements to the natural world. They were like the static field on which all life is hinged - or if not hinged - at least symbiotically dependent.
Earlier that same day, at the base of the rock, I realized that the gentle whispering I heard behind me was actually the spring breeze cutting through pine needles. That was the first and last time a tree spoke to me in a human voice.
Another night in the pitch-black woods, I summoned all skill and magic to accomplish the impossible. I was atop the rock with a small group of friends. It’s a bulbous, jagged thing that rises about 60 from the trail below. We had just finished what George Lippard might call an ancient Indian smoking rite. A friend was putting away his pipe when it skipped out of his hand and disappeared into the darkness below. I saw it leave his hand and heard it hit the rock twice before silence retook the space below. The small wooden pipe was given up for lost.
About half an hour later we made our way to the base of the rock and started back towards civilization. I looked up into the night and into the arc of the rock’s precipice. I visualized my friend, the pipe and the sound of it striking the rock, ricocheting and spinning wildly and then striking it a second time in a spot some ways below and to the right of the first hit. It was autumn and the ground was covered in brush and leaves. My friends told me to come on, asking what I was doing. I had stopped walking and had stepped off the trail. I said nothing, holding my hand up, asking with a gesture for a moment to finish what I was doing.
I closed my eyes and removed the lighter from my pocket. Taking 3 steps to my left and 2 forward I kneeled at the base of a scraggly bush. Leaning lower I struck the lighter and held it close to the ground. It illuminated about 1 square foot of space. Leaves and brush were all I saw. Still kneeling, I looked back up to the rock and turned to the right by 45 degrees. I relit the lighter, held it to the ground – and there it was – the pipe.
That’s all for now.
Some people tell me that I have to take the online presentation of myself very seriously. People will judge me by what I say and do in this virtual space. I agree to a certain extent. On the other hand, the internet is a magical wonderland of hilarious shit done in extremely poor taste. I can’t just pretend that this side of things doesn’t exist. So you are forewarned when I say that…
…If you don’t want to see a chihuahua blowing a pit-bull to a Prince soundtrack, you probably don’t want to click this link.
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Seems that I had 7 or so comments queued up and waiting for moderation on the old photoblog. I just didn’t notice until today. If you commented, I wasn’t ignoring you, just stupid. So here are your responses. It’s easier this way:
Mr. Walmart: You’re a sick fucking terrorist, but it was good to see you the other night.
Albert: That is from the trestle that day we went up there and thanks, I’m really happy about the shot of the woman in the wedding dress holding the blow-up doll.
Iron: Yes that is creepy.
That’s all for now.
Today is a great day for Democrat on Democrat violence. At least now we know that when taking on themselves, the party can manage to barely eek out a win. In other news, a Democratic narrowly lost… as usual.
But anyway, has anyone else noticed that Joe Lieberman has the same posture, demeanor and attitude as a flaccid penis? But not just any kind flaccid penis, Lieberman seems to be an extremely frustrated limpdick. Try as he might, he just can’t do anything but flop. (He doesn’t flip, he just flops. Say what you might of John Kerry, but that man was made of wood. Lieberman on the other hand, needs some sort of total body viagra treatment.)
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Notice the above image of Limpdick and Cheney from the 2000 Vice-Presidential debates. Why did Cheney win that debate? Here’s why. While he does strike you as the stubby-dick type, he’s most certainly got the confidence of a human erection. Small, yes. But even small is better than useless.
In closing, it’s time for Limpdick to step aside and let this guy take his shot.
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Last week I’m sitting at the bus stop at 10th and Market. It’s about 8:15 and the bus is 5 minutes late. A woman standing at the stop turns to me and says something negative about having to wait. I’m tired and acknowledge her small complaint with a cursory expression of sympathetic recognition. Then she adds:
“And I only have 2 blocks to go. But I’m not walking. I do enough walking at work.”
Judging by the colorful, patterned polyester suit, she was an office worker. I struggled, but couldn’t find a single word in response. I went back to reading the Metro.
How long before you become an evil terrorist?
Today John Madden was inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. Today is the Eagles first pre-season game of the 2006-2007 season. In honor of these two events, here’s a review I once wrote about John Madden’s Ultimate Tailgating Book. READ IT TO THE BITTER END!!!
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Since I was a little kid, I’ve loved football. When I was about 9 years old, my dad started coming to me on Sunday afternoons, sitting me down in front of the TV, explaining to me the rules of the game. Before too long, I began going to my dad on Sundays. It was our day. Week in, week out, we would sit, watch and despair at the Eagles. Moods were raised and more often crushed by the Philadelphia Eagles constant and unyielding ineptitude. I learned a lot about life on those Sunday afternoons. I learned that ideals are foolish, impossible and unattainable, but never, ever, to give up hope. The Eagles have never let me down in that belief and to this day I defy them to prove me wrong.
Football was not just about futile dreams and dashed hopes. My father also initiated me in football culture on those Sunday afternoons. There would be beer, snacks and obscenely large martinis. My father would give me the gin soaked olives. During my childhood I thought olives were supposed to taste like chewy globules of turpentine. But I learned more about football one October day, than I had in all my father-son Sundays.
I was a little older. Me and some friends decided to go down and see the Eagles play the hated Cowboys. We arrived at Veterans stadium at 11am, 2 hours before kick-off. We had a couple hours to tailgate. We had to drink a lot before kickoff, seeing as alcohol had been banned inside the stadium due to several ‘incidents.’ Like the time the fans pelted Santa Claus with iceballs or the time(s) of the rioting in the upper decks.
A friend had gotten the John Madden tailgating book. It told us how to drink, grill up some meat and paint our bodies like true football maniacs. We had a great time. With John Madden as our companion, we were instant pros. The book also told us that tailgating after the game was an effective way to avoid the traffic jams and the post game mayhem.
The Eagles beat the Cowboys that day. Michael Irvin was critically injured in the process. The semi-sober fans cheered as he was carted off the field, strapped to a stretcher. It was a true Philly sports experience. After the game, we all hung out in the parking lot with our beer and our John Madden companion guide. The book told us not to start driving until we weren’t drunk, so we had some time. At about 6pm, we were among the last in the lot.
It was then that we saw a luxury bus pull up a hundred feet from where we stood. Grease from my burger dripped from my lips as I spotted John Madden just outside the bus. I washed down the burger with a few gulps of Yuengling, wiped my mouth with my sleeve and shouted:
“Hey, that’s John Madden over there. Why don’t you go try to get your book signed Greg?”
My friend, Greg, grabbed his book and stumbled towards John Madden. We followed behind, eager to meet the God of football announcers. As we approached, we realized that sure enough, it was none other than John Madden. Up close he is a magnificent beast. His odor is a powerful musk. The wind whipped through his thin strands of white hair. He used no gel, this was the real thing. Stepping into his formidable shadow, Greg held his hand out to him as a greeting. A smile stretched across Maddens face, his yellowed teeth flashing in the sunset, just behind his thin, cracked lips. We introduced ourselves and struck up a conversation about FOOTBALL. We hit it off from the start. In fact we hit it off so well that Madden invited us out for a night on the town. Pointing to his book, he told us that we were obviously too drunk to drive home anyway.
What I remember of that night was great. We went out to a sports bar, drank and watched FOOTBALL with John Madden. When the days games were complete, Madden took us all to a Jersey strip club. I remember very little after that. Bits and pieces of Maddenisms I heard that night still come to me periodically. Madden is the Shakespeare of football. He is a football idealist. He believes in the essence of the game, the abstract and intangible elements of it. Madden balances reason and metaphor, always, always in the context of FOOTBALL. It was no Sunday with my drunken father. It was Sunday with a drunken John Madden at some sleazy Jersey strip club.
The next morning I woke in a dirty motel room. I was alone and could not find my clothes. I stank of cigarettes and liquor. My head throbbed, my eyes felt as if they were filled with lead and my throat was scratched and bleeding. What I saw next was pure terror and will forever be engrained in my mind. As an image, it has been stamped into my very soul, a memory to be carried with me until the end of time.
I stumbled into the motel living room and flicked on the light. Sitting on the torn up brown polyester sofa was Madden. Drenched in sweat, surrounded by empty beer bottles and completely naked. His massive gut covered his genitals although I could smell them. The odor stung my bleeding throat and I gagged a bit, my eyes still fixed on the beast. His wheezing became louder as he became cognizant of my presence. His head, previously slouched into his wet-hairy-man-breasts, moved. Grunts and snorts came from him as gas roared from his massive buttocks. A low groan, rife with the gurgling of saliva and phlem escaped his throat as his massive head turned slowly in my direction. His ice blue eyes pierced into my very being and a single bead of sweat dropped from his lower lip. The ceiling fan spun unsteadily, throwing rippled shadows of the morning sun in slow motion across the room in a steady, unbalanced rhythm. It was too much. My trance was snapped by that drop of sweat and I realized that my Madden was sitting on my clothing.
I ran naked form the motel. I stood somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike screaming for help. Again I blacked out. I don’t know how I got home that Monday afternoon and I don’t care. I learned more about football that weekend than I may have otherwise learned in a lifetime of Sundays. John Madden takes tailgating to a whole other level. In a way, even with the fragmented memory, it all makes perfect sense. I recommend this book to any football fan. John Madden truly is the essence of FOOTBALL.
Never give up hope.
The most ridiculous thing I saw last week was a late 80’s Ford escort with 2, (not 4) spinning rims. I saw this at Broad and Spring Garden.
The most ridiculous thing I bought last week was a mint condition T.O. jersey. (Eagles) It was $3, how could you not buy it? Even still, I can’t stand T.O.
Several months ago I saw a copy of Consumer Reports magazine lying unattended. The cover advertised the issue as their authoritative digital camera review. Now out of nowhere - months later -I remember what I found and have decided to share it with you.
*I have to admit that I was already biased against the publication and that when I picked it up I did so just to find something to get mad at.
It didn’t take long. This is just a short antidote, but a revealing one nonetheless. Flipping to their DSLR tables, I noticed that the Canons, including the 20D (my camera) rated relatively poorly. That’s odd, I thought. When I looked a little closer, I noticed that they tested the 20D, with the 18-55 “kit lens,” aka, Canons most worthless and embarrassing piece of glass.
Rating these cameras based on the performance of that lens is equivalent to filling a Ferrari with 87-octane gas and complaining about the car’s performance. And this is exactly why I dislike Consumer Reports. That’s all for now. Carry on.
As I write this, my girlfriend – Liza – is on a beach in southern California. Having chosen to stay home, I’m in Philadelphia. I now question the wisdom of this decision. I love this city and all, but at the moment I’d rather be sitting on the beach, where the weather is sunny and the temperature is hovering around 80 degrees. Instead I get to watch an Eagles preseason game and get ready to go to work in the morning. Beh.
I’m watching “Scarborough Country” and Pat Buchanan is being cast in the role of the liberal. The saddest thing is that he’s doing a better job than the actual liberals. Fuck.
I’m sitting here watching Keith Olbermann’s Countdown, when author and Washington Post journalist, James Bamford suggests that Ahmed Chalabi was acting as a double-agent when supported regime change in Iraq.
You see, Cahlabi secretly wanted to see a Shiite majority in power Iraq because in reality… he was working for Iran. To take it past Olbermann and over to the wacky world of Fox News, (out of protest I will not give you the link) Chalabi may have lied about WMD’s and given false “assurances that U.S. forces would be welcomed as liberators and that the post-Saddam political transition would be rapid and easy.”
Wow Iran is a conspiratorial evil genius on the level of… Israel… who as coincidence would have it is also blamed for exerting an invisible hand on events in the Middle East. It’s all like some big, stupid chess game. In the left corner, you have the Zionists, who somehow, some way have made the United States a client to Israel and forced us by proxy into the Iraq war… but wait… In the right corner you have the Iranians who are so damn clever that they’re really to blame. They made us invade Iraq and now they use Hezbollah as pawns to instigate a wider conflict. Whoever says the ‘legitimate (cable) news’ isn’t full of the most fantastical bullshit out there is a damn liar.
That’s all for now.
People wonder why we as Americans are so much more sympathetic towards Israel and Israeli deaths. The answer is long, complicated and open for academic debate, but this image from Rina Castelnuovo posted on the New York Times site this morning, is one pretty good reason:
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Is that an American car burning there? In America, Lebanon is a faraway land full of the “other.” Israel has Sbarro pizza shops and people with Jersey accents. This is a gross oversimplification, but I don’t want to get into any other aspect of this right now.
As someone who spent too many years of my life in the hell that is customer service, I’d like to share an experience I had this morning. It left me uncomfortable and confused. What I witnessed was the most blatant display of customer abuse since I’ve seen since a co-worker of mine told one of our clients to “sit the fuck down.”
Since, what happened is better than a description of what happened, here’s a play version.
The scene is Whole Foods. A Young man stands at the checkout, the cashier having left her station for a manual price-check. The young man is pretty hipsterie, greased, slightly long hair, short, thin, dressed in striped polyester. My cashier asks him:
Cashier 2: She didn’t believe you?
Man: No, I guess not. It said $8.54, but it rang up 16 something.
Cashier 1 Returns.
Cashier 1: Next time you cause such a big problem at the counter, why don’t you make sure you know how to read a sign first. All you’re doing is wasting time, wasting all of our precious time. It said YOU SAVE $8.54. The price is $16.
Man: oh
Cashier 1: Here’s your damn book.
I exit the store.
Now while cashier 1 was living the dream, I couldn’t help – as a customer – to be offended. Even as someone with a history in customer service I couldn’t help but be offended. This little hipster dude was not the customer to go nuclear on. He might have been a pain, but you save the ultimate blowout for someone worthy. If you’re gonna get fired, go off on an egotistical lawyer, or a belligerent elderly person. From hipster dude’s reaction, he hardly knew the meaning of the word irate. She should have saved her final outburst for someone who would have jumped over the conveyer belt swinging a organic sausage. That’s all for now.
With the impending death of Cuban Dictator Fidel Castro, it’s a good time to take a peek into the looking glass. Today’s journey takes us to the eve of the Cuban Revolution. The following article by Times journalist Herbert Matthews is a good primer in the reasons behind Castro’s rise.
In short, the U.S. backed pre-Castro Dictator, Fulgencio Batista, had really pissed off a lot of Cubans. His evisceration of the political middle ground left Cuba with no political option. Castro’s movement, which developed deep within the rugged terrain of the Sierra Maestra mountains was geographically too remote for Batista to destroy. Without another political option, when Castro made his move out of the mountains, Cuba followed. The U.S. didn’t like him and he eventually allied with the other world power of the day, the Soviet Union. And here we are today.
I got ¾ of the way home from work before I realized I didn’t have my bike helmet on. Why is this heat related? I’m not sure… but it is.
Upon arriving home, I saw enough tea leftover for a big glass of iced tea. Liza must have made it this afternoon. I hope she wasn’t saving it for herself… but I sure am enjoying it. Nothing like a big glass of iced tea on a day like today.
