April 2002

April 30, 2002

I saw this link on Drudge Report:

Senate faces fiercest fight: cloning...

I wasn't sure if this referred to the new Star Wars movie, or "real life."

April 29, 2002

They're messing with the Weather Channel. Bastards.

I suppose I should be comforted by the fact that it's not my imagination. My favorite channel has changed. Gone are the faceless days of looping "local forecasts" (accurate and dependable) with soothing new age-y soundtracks. (There was a period in the early-nineties when a 3 a.m. Weather Channel all-lights-off zone-out was a nearly daily ritual. Better'n warm milk and footsie pajamas, I tell ya.) Now we've got "original programming," and "weather personalities."

Fie! I say! Fie!

If I want a boob-implanted network tart (and who doesn't, really) to prattle on about "buttoning up the kids because it will be a cold one yada yada," I know where to go. Leave the Weather Channel alone.

Says marketing chief Steve Schiffman: "It's not about hot, cold, wet, warm, dry. It's not about the forecast. It's about the Weather Channel understands and cares about the connection between weather and your life."

It's not about the forecast, Steve-O? It's not about the forecast? "The Weather Channel understands and cares???" Tell me, Steve, does ESPN empathize and commiserate? And just what touchy-feely sensibilities does the Home Shopping Network emote?

How could one man be so wrong.

April 25, 2002 (later)

Sicker and sicker. Angrier and angrier. I really just should not read the news anymore.

This article, among other things, states that the U.S. Catholic church is pushing back against the initial reports of a "one strike and you're out" policy for priests who sexually abuse children. Only in "notorious" (read: well-publicized) cases would priests be immediately defrocked. In cases that are "not notorious" (read: the ones the church can hide), the church will decide on a case-by-case basis if a priest poses a threat to children.

What the hell is there to decide? If a priest sexually abuses a child, then by definition he poses a threat to children.

It gets better. Only if a priest "is guilty of the serial, predatory sexual abuse of minors" would he face immediate dismissal.

Serial - pertaining to or occurring in or producing a series; "serial monogamy" or "serial killing."

How many children can a priest get away with violating before losing his collar? 5, 10, 15? When does a cardinal/bishop/Grand Poobah say, "Well, Father John has assaulted n. When he gets to nⁿ, we'll know we've got a serious problem. We'll probably have to do something then. Where did I park my Audi?"

I didn't think I could be more disgusted by organized religion, but I can see I was selling the catholic church way, way too short.

April 25, 2002

Chriz (Don't hold the 'z' against him. He's actually a decent guy.) has succumbed to the blogging phenomenon.

His assessment of the Ginger says everything I've been trying to say, but roughly a quarter of a million times better.

April 24, 2002

Today's front and center Boston Metro (Boston's free pamphlet/newspaper) headline:

Pope Reads Riot Act to Pedophile Priests

whoa.

I mean, <keanu>WHOA</keanu>.

I suspected the Pope would take some immediate action regarding the recent heinous crimes committed by Catholic priests, but this... the Riot Act? The abject remorse that those disgraced priests must feel... upon being read.... the Riot Act. Well, I think it's obvious now that this sort of drastic measure has been taken, there's little left for the church to do. Well done, Ponty. Way to go, Popester.

You might not be aware of this - I am, cause I'm half Whopper - Pope in Italian means, "Parcel containing very warm wind."

April 22, 2002

Random Thoughts Monday

I saw a Ford commercial over the weekend. The head Ford guy (or head figurehead Ford guy), Joey Ford or something, was spouting off about how cool the Mustang is (no argument here - if time stopped in 1964), and how it doesn't get any better than a red, convertible Mustang...

Can you imagine busting your ass to make it up the corporate ladder (or, conversely, being handed the keys to the corporate elevator because of your last name), putting in long nights and weekends, forgetting your first-born's name, pushing your competition's faces into the mud to get ahead, lying like a fork-tongued snake in the grass to get that key promotion, committing every crime short of homicide to make your millions... and after the ink dries on your deal with beelzebub, the coolest car you're allowed to drive is a Ford? I actually felt bad for the guy. I'll bet he fucking hates Johnny Mercedes.

Whenever I see an exceptionally obese person smoking, I always think to myself, "Hey, you're self-administering cancer, but at least it keeps the weight off, right?"

Cause I'm mean.

I received this charming piece of spam with an absolutely adorable subject line that I just have to share:

Come see 15” C**ks rip open little hole

Thankfully, they censored "C**ks," cause otherwise, I'd find this, um, offensive.

Last week: 92 degrees, sunny. This morning: 32 degrees, chance of wet snow. I'm guessing all of Boston will be calling in sick next week.

April 19, 2002

I'm trying to turn my coworker on to the joys of Van Halen. In vain.

The way I see it, if you don't have an appreciation for Van Halen:

A.) You probably should get out of the country.
2.) You don't like rock and roll. At all. Not even a little.
iii.) Your sense of humor is largely deficient in the irony department.

Of course, my views are completely colored by the fact that I grew up in the eighties, and VH provided a simply stellar soundtrack to my youth. Ennio Morricone couldn't have scored it better. I mean, Van Halen and the summertime... What kind of commie has a problem with that?

Sure, I checked out towards the tail end of Sammy's stint, and don't even mention the fop from Extreme that killed the band. And, certainly, there was a period where I tried to conceal my pedestrian musical roots and make pretend that I cut my teeth on the rarified strains of Romantic-era symphonic works. I'm sure I was as successful as some trailer trash mama trying to neatly tuck her bleach job up into a baseball cap with a towing company name, logo, and phone number on the front.

Ah phooey. Who needs it? I fully embrace the rawk now. It's way too much fun to leave behind. If loving the sound of DLR's hoarse whistle screams over some good, ol' fashioned power chords pumped through plexi-head Marshall amplification is wrong... Christamighty, who the hell would want to be right?

Come on. Cut the shit. Get in the truck.

April 12, 2002

Last night on ESPN2: The U.S. National Jump Rope Championship.

Now, I'm hardly in any position to mock a... ah... sport (?), since the sum total of my physical activity for the past five months has been climbing the two flights of stairs to the office every morning. (which, by the way, I have yet to do without blowing an o-ring. Ew. Messy.) But I found it oddly disturbing to watch these young women all hunched over-like, wrists flopping around like soggy noodles, taking super shallow running steps in place as the jump rope makes its 60 revs in a second (as the crowd cheered. WTF??). A bit like other highly stylized, repetitive motion-intensive... ah... sports (?) like power walking, I have a hard time making the connection between the activity and any possible physical benefit.

I should've given Sean a call. He's all 'bout the jumping rope these days.

Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha.

April 10, 2002

I've borne witness to an odd social phenomenon for some time now that I'd like to comment on.

Men like to sit next to me on the train.

There are five seats per row on the train, with an aisle down the middle, more or less. Facing "forward" and standing in the aisle, in a given row there are two seats on your left - three on your right. I normally look for an empty "three seater," and then scootch all the way in, taking my place next to the window. I choose a "three seater," because that gives me the best chance of a "neighbor-free" ride. I scootch all the way in, because it is the polite thing to do. Certainly, I would rather no one sits in either of the other two seats of my "three seater" (because I'm fiercely anti-social), but I'm not going to sit on the outside seat and construct a crude barricade with my bag, or spread my possessions out on the other two seats like some commuting squatter, to prevent anyone from attempting to take a seat next to me. Because that's fucking rude (of course, living in Boston, I've come to understand "rudeness" as "the human condition").

Anyhow, back to the men-always-sitting-next-to-me deal.

As much as I try to send out the "please don't sit next to me I don't like people very much in general and chances are I would really dislike you intensely if I knew you wouldn't you be happier sitting somewhere else" vibe (short of actual physical obstruction or the placement of a "No Sitting Here, Please. Thank you." sign), it seems more often than not, some pym will plop down next to me. Always a man, which is worse for me because although I don't really like anyone, I like men less than women, in general. This wouldn't be so odd if we were talking about a full train, but this occurs even when there are completely empty seats in the vicinity and when there are available seats next to women, which I would assume (incorrectly, apparently) would make these seats inherently more attractive than the ones next to me. I mean, I'm a big, ugly mannish man. The look of my face in repose is the same most people wear when they've bitten into something very, very sour. Why the hell do these guys insist on sitting next to me? I vant to be... alone.

If this continues, I'm going to change my lipstick.

April 9, 2002

I'm trying so hard to be buoyed by the weather. I want to write about Spring and happiness and tulips and shit. But the priests won't let me.

Christ forgives all sins, right? But even he got steamed when those thugs set up a veritable Foxwoods in the temple. I seem to recall that Jesus went all gangsta rap - upending tables and such, maybe flashing a bunch of God-like gang signs. I'm hoping he'd have a stronger reaction to what's been uncovered recently in the Catholic Church.

After all, when the Son of God returns, he'll return as the Lion not the Lamb. (like when Jurgen Prochnow explained as much to Demi Moore in that movie... the name escapes me now... you know - the one with the Son of God.)

I'd like to see the Lion go to work on these pedophile priests. With a big, God-sized lead pipe.

I can't imagine the rage that the parents of the children who were abused must feel. And I can imagine a lot of rage (I pay rent). It's like irony, but worlds more disgusting, that these are some of the most trusted, most revered community leaders to many people. Many of those people parents. And, apparently, many of those parents stabbed in the back, not only by the criminals that committed the original crimes, but by those even higher in the Church's org chart who conspired to hide these crimes.

Repulsive.

Even my hope for some karmic justice does nothing to mitigate the outrage. Fortunately, I can't imagine anything worse than what these Men of the Cloth did to the children they were supposed to be shepherding along in the way of the lord. Unfortunately, that means I can't reconcile what they've done with some fierce unknown justice that remains to be served.

In other news... Sunny and 69 degrees in downtown Boston.

April 8, 2002

Listening to the "Magnolia" soundtrack this morning. Wow does this album make you want to open up your wrists. Supertramp never sounded so good.

April 8, 2002 (later)

A little late, but here's my take on the Friday Five!

1. What are the first things that you do in the morning to start your day?
   This question makes me want to die.
2. What are the last things that you do at night before going to bed?
   This question makes me want to die.
3. What daily routine have you recently added to your day?
   This question makes me want to die.
4. What routine do you wish you could get rid of?
   This question makes me want to die.
5. What's the one thing that makes you feel like something is missing if you don't do it some point within your day?
   This question makes me want to die.

April 4, 2002

Hey, so, when you don't renew these domains, they shut 'em right off.

Who knew.

April 1, 2002

Do you know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams?

David Coverdale does.