It's just a slippery slope toward becoming worm food from here on out, folks. I want to draw your attention to the statistical bell curve. You'll notice in the above diagram, that I have been breathing the air of this dirty little mudball in space for 14,610 days now. And before you even make a comment about it: 14,610 days equals 40 years times 365 days/year plus 10 extra days for 10 leap years. I figure if I am off by a day, then it's only a margin of error of about seven thousandths of one percent -- a number so small that your bank savings account most likely earns that much interest on your money each day -- so you innately comprehend that must be a very small number.
There is some weird feeling about this whole situation in which I find myself growing deep inside my subconscious. (Kindergarten Cop voice: "It's not a tumor") I mean, really, what have I been doing with my 14,610 days roaming around in search of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?
Well. Hmmm. Right. I guess I'd have to say that I've been a few places, seen a few things, met a few people and done a few things.
I voluntarily joined the U.S. Army. I went to work in camoflage everyday for what is now about a tenth of my life. Besides working the green collar job, I've had fun working while wearing a blue collar, a white collar, and no collar at all.
I've been able to ski in the Swiss alps, eat space-cake in the original Amsterdam coffeeshop, and stare into the eyes of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa in the Louvre Museum in Paris. I've seen the changing of the Buckingham Palace guard in London and a bull fight in Spain. I've done blotter, moved the furniture against the walls and played hackey-sack in my hotel room in Zurich. I've walked through the French Quarter in New Orleans with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. I've gone backstage and been to private parties of rock stars. I got my name put on the back of an album. I've been on a Bahamas Carnival cruise with millionaires (and Taz!) for free. I've dipped my now middle-aged ass into the warm embrace of Atlantic, Pacific, Caribbean, and Mediterranean waters.
Not only have I experienced being homeless, hungry, jobless and broke in the past, but also eaten in fine restaurants and raided the minibars of expensive hotels in a few dozen major cities around the world.
I've tried to learn to speak english, spanish, german and some italian, polish and russian. Motivated to learn usually in the pursuit of some affection from women that I've known. I have appreciated the company of many people from many places -- white, black, hispanic, asian, and mutts like me -- casually and intimately. I've read or studied the teachings of the Talmud, New Testament, Book of Mormon, and the Quran. I've learned about the beliefs of Born Agains, Seventh Day Adventists, Zen and Tibetan Buddhists and Hindus. I've met some very interesting people. Some are still my friends.
So, I thought about it for a few minutes today. Overall, I have no regrets that I care to articulate and I'm generally grateful for the time I've already been given. I'm not going to be unreasonable and expect another 14,610 days either. I'm just going to do my best to be happy with the additional 24 hours I'm hoping to get if I wake up still breathing the air tomorrow.
From sea to shining sea. From the west coast to the east coast. From the left coast to the far right.
I normally roll my eyes when I hear neo-cons bitch about the federal court system. The main reason for most of the yadda-yadda is the decisions that the ninth circuit federal court of appeals hands down. If, for just a moment I play Mister Dress-up, put on some neo-con glasses and read the newspaper, I would probably bitch too.
Earlier this month, Born-Agains were whining because the San Francisco Chronicle reported a fired HP employee lost his appeal over anti-gay signs. The court ruled the Idaho man wasn't a victim of religious discrimination.
Then, just the other day, the San Diego Union-Tribune reported the same court decided that a San Diego police officer who sold videos on the Internet of himself performing a sex act was engaging in protected speech and his wrongful termination suit should not have been dismissed.
Reading these stories with my HFD neo-con eyeglasses on, I can see why someone might bitch. Personally, I'm a free speech Libertarian so anything that impedes me from telling you to go fuck yourself bothers me.
If the west coast is too liberal, then let's read what the federal court was busying itself with in Florida. According to the South Florida Sun-Sentinel, the 11th appeals court supports Florida's ban on gay adoptions. The article doesn't go on to say that Jeb Bush couldn't be happier because his brother, George, got so screwed up when he was adopted by Mr. Barbara and George Bush Sr.
In the end, I think it all balances out. It's like the tides in the oceans on either coast.
Just when you thought it was safe to let your little kid watch the Superbowl, Janet Jackson exposes her breast during the halftime show. This is definitely a sign of the apocalypse on a biblical scale. Yeah, okay ...
Unless little Johnny had a live action freeze frame TiVo DVR, he probably missed it too. And yet, all I heard about on the cable news shows was the talking head pundits yapping about their outrage while repeatedly showing the 23 milliseconds of blurry breast video over and over again. They actually want the FCC to fine everyone involved. Excuse me but I wouldn't have known about it at all had I not tuned into your un-rated cable news show and viewed the blurry version of Janet's tit.
Even if Little Johnny had taken his ritalin, stopped tormenting the family pet, and actually watched the halftime show full of crappy popstars singing hits from several years ago, is his innocent little mind forever tarnished now?
Concerned Parent: "Son, I really need to talk to you about what happened Sunday".
Little Johnny: "There are more friggin' erotic moments in the KJV bible than during Superbowl 38's halftime show, mommy".
Concerned Parent: "So you saw Janet Jackson. I'm concerned".
Little Johnny: "She's a fat middle-aged woman, mom. I would be more concerned if it was her brother, Michael, exposing himself if I were you".
The big game - Superbowl XXXVIII - was being aired on CBS tonight, live from Houston. The first thing I thought of was that I was turning XL next week and that I was actually older than the tradition of the NFL's big game. How nice for me.
The New England Patriots and the Carolina Panthers played a defensive game. In other words, the football game was mind-bogglingly boring until someone scored in a game during which very few people even care who will win it this year. Nevertheless, I thought it was my male duty to try and watch until the half-time show.
Besides, we're all supposed to get excited over the multi-million dollar TV commercials, right? I liked the AOL spots only because I've been a fan of Discovery Channel's Orange County Chopper's fat Mikey, Paul Sr. and Jr. in their shop. The only other commercial that made me giggle was the car advert where the kids end up with soap in their mouths for saying "Holy Shit" when they see the top go down on the car. What I don't like is watching CBS stroke its own dick promoting its own lame shows instead of airing good and expensive commercials. If CBS is "the most watched network in America", then the terrorists have already won.
If I wasn't going to watch the Superbowl, what were my choices on the other networks?
Fox was going after the SciFi guy audience by airing Independence Day. I can appreciate Will Smith getting into some SciFi movies, he's pretty cool in the Men In Black franchise. Jeff Goldblum is no stranger to strange movies. Remember Earth Girls are Easy and The Fly? And then there's president of the United States, Bill Pullman. He has a better chance of winning the presidential election next November than does Al Sharpton, unless Kevin Klein comes back as Dave. With all that star power, Independence Day is a cool movie. I appreciate the movie more for the fact that Harry Connick Jr., a great musician of our generation, plays a jet fighter pilot and we get to see Brent Spiner, from STNG's Commander Data fame, play the head scientist of Area 51 in charge of the alien artifacts from the Roswell crash. It's not a real stretch out of his role as Data's creator, Dr. Noonian-Sung, but Brent Spiner is interesting anyway. Even with all that, I had to change the channel. I've seen Independence Day 46 times already. I have the actor's friggin' lines memorized.
ABC is a big powerful network. Surely they'll have something cool on TV. It wasn't the case. The bean-counters must have chosen the programming. They put on a chick flick to get the chick demographic not watching the Superbowl. I watched thirty seconds of the some movie with Julia Roberts sitting around a dinner table exposing her character's inner-most feelings ... and then I saw it. I knew I was watching the wrong thing. Hugh Grant was there. Click!
NBC went after the twink demographic. They were airing some Queer Eye for the Straight Guy episode. Have you noticed that NBC is bringing on shows from its cable network properties lately? The Fab 5 is one. I enjoyed watching the Celebrity Poker Challenge on Bravo ... then I didn't really want to watch re-runs of it again on NBC, too. Must-Flee TV.
The WB aired a Surreal Life Marathon. This is a new pseudo-reality show with Ron Jeremy, the pornstar, living with Erik Estrada, Vanilla Ice, The Televangelist Masquera Queen, and two other fuck-bunnies from cancelled shows. Marathon equals re-runs. Click!
UPN didn't even try. Re-runs from ST:Voyager. Crap. Click!
The glitz and glamour of a superbowl half-time is unparalelled. Or it is supposed to be. I thought I might have been watching a clip from Larry King Live or Greta Van Sustern show interviewing Janet Jackson in the wake of her brother's legal gymnastics over his unending pedophilia scandals. It wasn't a cable news show magazine clip, it was the half-time show. Argh.
Wearing some Pirate of the Carribean outfit, Janet Jackson's fat ass is lowered onto the stage using a heavy-duty hydraulic lift. I guess you could call it a big entrance. She bounces around a sea of lean dancers with a white dress thing covering her fat, middle-aged ass. Just when I thought I could make it into the bathroom to puke, P Diddy arrives on stage.
Now, I actually have played football in an indoor arena, at the Pontiac Silverdome. It was just our high school team playing in a state championship, but I think I can comment on one thing. Reliant stadium is pretty much the same as any indoor stadium. It's friggin' tropical on the playing field, even if it's 10 below outside. P Diddy was in a white, full-length down coat with friggin fox fur collar. When he started yapping, I mean rapping, he must have thought he was climbing out of his Cadillac Escalade into the Manhattan winter because he looked more like a Pimp Daddy than a P Diddy.
Luckily, Nelly pulled up in a car and reminded everyone that it was "Hot in Herre", which was good. Sean's ears must have still been Puffy, because he came back anyway and started yappin' some more. Luckily, the spotlight operator turned off P Diddy's stage spot after only a few lines of yap and lit up the secondary stage where Kid Rock appeared.
Now I like Kid Rock. He's a homey from Detroit. But if I see another pop star draped in the U.S. flag, I'm going to contact some nutbag in the alt.conspiracy.black.helicopters newsgroup and urge him to please go on a shooting spree.
Right about the time I was wiping my initial vomit from my chin, Janet Jackson stage re-lit and she came out again in what appeared to be a Cirque D'Soleil performance. I'm not sure, but black latex and some samurai kilt thing still didn't work to cover her big fat ass.
What really makes human vomit stink is the acidic stomach bile. In the case of the Superbowl half-time show, it was the icing on the cake ... Justin Timberlake. He sashayed around the stage in mock heterosexuality, sniffing after Janet Jackson like Ashton Kuschner following behind Demi Moore.
I turned the channel back to the WB network and the Surreal Life marathon. It seemed more normal.
My happy little weather pixie tells me it's another nippy night outside -- 48 degrees. There was frost on the ground last night so I guess it's just as well that I can't go out easily.
My day was fairly uneventful. High Priestess was being the good friend and took her co-worker to the doctor's office. Moral support. I do hope the news wasn't bad, her co-worker seems like a cool person.
Not being so nice anymore, and disabled, I stayed home. I spent my morning and afternoon spraying the cat, Scrappy-Doo, with water to keep him from howling at the top of his furry little lungs at the event of High Priestess' departure.
Back when I had to use a Stihl Masonry Cut-Off Saw indoors, we would fashion a water spray bottle by sticking a nail hole in a plastic soda pop bottle to spray on the diamond blade in order to keep deleterious dust down. Squeeze the plastic bottle and the spray will reach 10-12 feet away, which is far enough to reach the cat without having to hobble closer using my friggin' walker. Pretty HFD.
Try making one for yourself. Surprise your friends and co-workers with a shot of cold water in the face the next time they say something utterly friggin' stupid. Better yet, fill the bottle with gasoline and use it on your boss.
When I wasn't spraying water at Scrappy-Doo, I did use the time alone to make an MP3 file with the Fruity Loops demo. It's a dance-club track called JfZ-beat1.mp3 right now. That name is so friggin' catchy, it just about gives me a hard-on. Not. Eventually, I'll put it online somewhere for download. That way, you can listen to it and come back here and make fun of me (or it).
I also made the [> permalink <] thing for the blog entries. If I am really bored (yet still motivated) later tonight, I may go back and put my permalink code in past entries. The permalink URL is the archival URL for each individual blog entry. It's just in case you wanted to book mark an entry for some reason only known to yourself and that imaginary friend you're always seen talking with.