It Helps Me Express My Feelings

So, upon hearing the news that my physical therapist is less and less optimistic every time that he sees me that my spinal cord damage can be fixed without surgery, how did I react?

First, I let my opinions on surgery be heard.


Then I thought I would try and meditate through deep breathing and returning to the comfort of my yoga practice:


But I just hurt too much.

The Object was committing rampant acts of douchebaggery, so I thought I'd pick a fight with him:

But then he pushed me around Dupont Circle on his skateboard. How could I be mad at him?

I thought I might have a drink:

But I was too tired to walk to the liquor store.

I realized what I wanted was a distraction from the physical and emotional pain. I'd really thought I was on the mend, and that things were looking up for a sah-weet summer surfing and climbing. Now my summer was looking more and more like it was going to be moved indoors, since the last time I checked, physicians perform surgery neither at the beach nor at the crag. I needed something to fight for, something to believe in. I went home to think about how I could transcend my injury and turn it into something to change the world for the better- something to make life a little more worth living, if not for me, then somehow to benefit humanity.

But I pretty much just went home and laughed at I Can Has Cheezburger all night.

That's Why They Call Them PUNdits

Womp womp womp womp, Wonkette.

DC: I Have To Go Home and Blog About This!

Apparently, David McCullough sued or something, because Washington, DC: The American Experience is no longer a worthy "state" (and I use the term loosely) motto. Because metro's not crowded enough with people who think DC residents are the scum of the earth, the DC Board of Tourism has decided they need a new slogan to attract more tourists to the city. Better still, they solicited suggestions from the fair citizens of the District, who overwhelmingly indicated that the motto, We Don't Like You Either, would be the best choice were it not taken by New York.

The best and the brightest- and some of my own:

• DC: Bitch Set Me Up!
  
• DC: Guns Now Welcome
• DC: What Happens Here Makes the News Tomorrow
• Homeland Security Alert Level: Fabulous!
• DC: Now With 30% Fewer Poor People
• DC: So, Who Do You Work For?
• DC: Don't Like the Neighborhood? Wait Ten Minutes!
• DC: All the Taxes, None of the Representation!
• DC: Walk Left, Stand Right!
• DC: Because Staffers are Cheaper than Prostitutes
  
• DC: Mistakes Were Made
• DC: Because Business Suits and Sneakers Never Go Out of Style
• DC: We Get A Quarter But We Don't Get A Vote?
  
• DC: We're More Important Than You
• DC: We've Got Aides!
• DC: No, I Don't Want To Read Your Blog
• DC: Sorry About Your Bike Getting Jacked
• DC: Come to Testify, Stay to get Mugged!
• DC: We Get All Federal Holidays Off!
• DC: Afraid of Snow
• DC: Please Have Your IDs Out and Your Bags Ready for the Security Check
  
• There's More Than Pork In DC
  
• DC: Slave Revolt-Free for Over 200 Years
• DC: We Can Be More Obsequious If You'd Like!
  
• DC: Cheapest Crack in the Nation!
• DC: Your Tax Dollars Inaction
• DC: More CVS Pharmacies than Churches!
  
• DC: A State of Mind... Just Not a State
• Washington, DC: Designed by L'Enfant for your L'Entertainment!
• Leave Your Guns at Home and Let Our Criminals Take Care of You
• DC: Condos Available
• DC: I'm Only Temping Cuz My Grant Didn't Come Through
  
• DC: Power Suited!
  
• DC: We Got Rid of That Sniper Ages Ago.
• DC: What's Your Interest Group?
• DC: Yield to Pedestrians When Turning (This Means You, Metrobus!)

Your suggestions?

Oh, the hat tips: WaPo, NPR, DCist, this guy, this guy. And the photo credit!

Very Important Information!!!!!!

I know, I promised you full details. They're coming. But an event of such magnitude needs a significant hunk of time to recount it, and such a significant chunk of time has yet to present itself, what with all the sleeping and working and let's face it, beautiful weather. I know I said today, but realistically, we're looking at the weekend. I mean, I could stop helping peoples in developing nations cure cancer- is that what you want? Why do want poor people to die?

Ummm, I'm also hoping to get photographs.

While you're waiting, clear your calendars for Friday night. Because you're all coming to the Warehouse Theater for the Deermilk Collective Gallery Opening to see the Werewolf Youth on display.

Why should you come? Because there's a Werewolf Youth Baby on the way for one of the collective artists, who is also our Artist-in-Residence here at the Goo. You know, this guy. I'm pretty sure that recent developments in baby care and maintenance require that all newborns be swathed in precious hand-tatted blankets with their names embroidered in non-violent silk imported from Vanuatu, where it's very difficult to actually grow anything, much less silk. But rules are rules. And since the top name of choice for the new Lowery is ReturnToCastleWolfenstein Lowery, they're going to need a sizeable wad of cash to pay for all that thread.

And if that wasn't incentive enough, well, there's also this, which is awesome, which is how the show will be.
See you Friday!

Pretty Hands Do Pretty Things Only When Pretty Times Arise

Can barely move today; so tired. Got home from the Decemberists concert at a reasonable hour last night, spent the next five or six hours bouncing off the walls and the Object before work. Spending workday floating on little cloud of awesome. Like the ones in the Gooey masthead. Never spent a better forty dollars and fifty fucking cents. Full account must wait. Must figure out how to form full sentences again.

Meantime, the teasers:

• Brendan Canty. Yeah. Seriously, THAT Brendan Canty.
• Colin Meloy in an argyle sweater that kinda matched my socks. Yep, THOSE socks.
• Return of MACOF!
• Chris Funk's behind-the-scenes at the Yindieoff! Yep, THAT Yindieoff.

There IS an Answer

Ask yourselves- what's better than hanging out backstage with The Decemberists?

Details forthcoming.

Monday! Monday! Never Seemed So Strange

Fleetwood Mac fans, take note of my Gooey Comeuppance:

"The Decemberists and The Thermals are amongst the acts contributing tracks to a charity album rooted in their native Portland, Oregon."

OOOOOH! I loves me some Decemberists! What are they contributing?!?!?!

1. The Decemberists - 'Think About Me' (Fleetwood Mac)

Jesus, Mary, and Josephine.

GAH! I don't suppose I should be surprised, since at his solo show at the Birchmere in January 2006, Colin Meloy revealed that "Here I Dreamt I was an Architect" is actually just a cleverer version of "Dreams".

In trawling obsessively around the internets for more tidbits on Colin Meloy, I realized that I need to sit down and write a book, ASAP, a book"...that could be awarded some badge of high esteem, perhaps called “The Rooster” in honor of David Sedaris’s brother (surely the liveliest character in contemporary literature)."

Wot's all this now? March Madness, nerd style! "In the madness, who cares about Duke and North Carolina when you’re seeing red thinking about Thomas Pynchon and Monica Ali in a cage-match?" Not me, that's for sure. The awesome part? The judges are a veritable who's who in the literary salon in my mind:

• Blogger Jessa Crispin
• New Yorker writer Sasha Frere-Jones
• And, oh yes, Colin Meloy, apparently the most "literate" man in rock today (Good to know at least one rawk-er out there can read)
  

But the very, very, very best part?
"...We will award The Rooster to the winner. We have looked into shipping a live rooster to the winner. We are still looking."

Fuck the Nobel Prize, the Rooster is way more prestigious. And if we've learned anything here at the Goo in the last week, one should only undertake an endeavor if there is the promise of prestige and grandeur at the end. In the inimitable words of Rababob, "What's the point of being so awesome unless everyone knows how great I am?" For example, why even bother blogging unless you can be the third-best DC Blog by the third best DC writer?

I did NOT spend the weekend sobbing into my pillow harder than Tracy Flick, no matter what anyone tells you to the contrary (I want a janitor ex machina, too!). Sigh, in the meantime, I shall just have to content myself with the knowledge that Colin Meloy is probably judging me from the stage.

Actually, what's a lot more consoling is how many people rallied for me. And even more comforting than that is the knowledge that it was actually just a few very corrupt readers, which just makes me warm and fuzzy all over. Thanks to all of my readers- if I only had minions as loyal as you, I'd rule the world.

BEST. MONDAY. EVER.

As soon as the alarm went off this morning, my brain started in with its usual obnoxious nattering.

"So remember last night," it starts out, "when I made you have that dream where monkeys cut your hair really short, like, Amelie-style? Yeah, I thought that would be a great idea, because you really do need to cut your hair, but seriously, don't go with that style, because your hair is way to fine and frizzy; it would never work. Plus, having monkeys cut your hair is probably a bad idea."

It's very difficult to argue with the voices in your head, especially on a very grey and dour Monday morning.

"Fine," I replied. "What am I wearing today?"

My brain singsonged, "I know something you forgot! You have something special you need to dress for!"

I hate it when my brain plays this game, but I'm a sucker for it every time.

"What is it? Is there some meeting at work I forgot about? I thought we weren't scheduling things for Monday anymore? Ugh, do I have to wear pinstripes today?"

Fortunately, my brain has a tendency to act much like myself, and it can't hold out very long in this game. Also, i think I gave t a huz, whatwith the pinstripes and all.

"DECEMBERISTS CONCERT TONIGHT!!!!"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh fuck yeah. The tickets are already worth the ridiculous amount of money I paid. This is better than the time I took my winter coat out of storage (read: the closet) and found a Snickers in the pocket.

Ok, almost better.

You Can't Get a Vote with a Gun

Senator Lamar S. JackassSmith had better hope the handgun ban stays in place, because apparently us DC citizens are so wacky in the head and galldarn stoopid that you never know what'll happen if you give us a gun.

"Wait a minute," you're thinking, "I'm a DC citizen, and I actually feel quite sane and articulate, with occasional flashes of eloquence. Where do you get the impression DC denizens are such rubes?"

I'm glad you asked. Read the comments section of any news outlet's coverage of the matter, and you will come across some charmingly quaint albeit unfounded accusations that commenters use to deny us our basic civil rights:

• We are illiterate, trigger happy criminals: "What good are voting rights if you cant read the ballot or get shot and killed before you reach 18??? Idiots." If you're so much more literate than us, why don't you try reading the 16th amendment? I know I live in DC and therefore have a hard time reading, so maybe you could tell me what a nationwide prohibition against the denial or abridgment of the right to vote on the literacy tests on a nationwide basis means?
  
• We don't have to pay federal taxes (woohoo!): "These rights are reserved for *citizens*, those who pay federal taxes." And here I was, all stressed about April 15th. Now I can tell my employer to stop witholding the 17 or so percent of my paycheck that's going to pay my tax burden. Oh hellz yeah!
  
• From the WaPo:Wait just a minute. If we're such eejits, and therefore shouldn't vote, how come someone like this commenter gets a vote? "Im actually from Utah where well get another seat. Dear congress, dont do it. Theyre just going to expect Senate representation next. And worst of all youll give another seat to the Mormons, its just not worth it." You want one civil right, and then you'll ask for them all! God, it's just like when all those black people marched on Washington and demanded to be treated as more than second-class citizens. Remember how fucking annoying that was? Sometimes I miss Jim Crow.
  
• Giving us the vote would enable us to constantly harass Congress: "DC was made a non-state to ensure that congress would be able to operate with out fear of petty harassment from local government." Don't you think they'd get a lot less harassment for Eleanor Holmes Awesome if we got to vote?
• "DC was a made a DISTRICT not a STATE principally to ensure that it could not raise a militia that could physically threaten Congress or the White House." Wouldn't that be all the more reason NOT to force us to repeal our gun ban?
• If you don't want to own a gun, you are an un-American commie pinko: "Thems the breaks Dems !! You want to join America?? well we Americans like to own guns and carry them. If you do not like that, go join your uncle Fidel in Cuba."

Ugh, is anyone else in DC sick of having her character maligned based on ridiculously base stereotypes? Here's the piece de resistance: "Many people are ashamed that a sewer like DC is the nations capital. Decent people with a brain and a choice wouldnt be caught dead there. Let Prince Georges County annex it and move the capital somewhere else. Then, the DC residents all get a vote and we get a capital that you dont have to be afraid to walk around in."

I love it that these comments are coming in on the eve of the tourist season. Maybe our fair city is such a rat hole because of influx of fanny-packed tourists clogging the arteries of metro, picking the cherry blossoms for souvenirs, sticking their gum on the Vietnam Wall, and walking around the Holocaust Museum with their underoos hanging out, testing out the latest and greatest in ring tone technology.

Here's how I would resolve this mess:

• You are only allowed to visit our nation's capital if you support its citizens' constitutional rights. You want your pretty little cherry blossoms? Until you're willing to do so, the only pretty pink thing you're gonna be seeing is my ass when you kiss it.
  
• Until you start acting like the representations of democracy that we safeguard here in DC actually stand for something, you're not allowed to view them. This includes the buildings, monuments, Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and even the nudey pics of Antonella Barba in front of the WWII memorial.
  
• If you keep calling us commie pinkos for trying to participate in the democratic process, so help me God, we are not above restricting access to panda cam. We don't need you yelling "Go back to China, bitch!" at Butterstick.
  
• If the only way you'll concede us our constitutional right is by forcing us to have guns against our will, then we reserve the right to shoot you in the back when you stand on the left on the metro escalator.

So we're good. You let us participate in democracy, and we'll let you come see it in action and appreciate its foundations. And if you live in DC, come march for your most basic of rights on April 16th at 2:30. Try not to step in the ankle deep slurry of shitwater that apparently floods our streets.

The Time is NOW!!!! (Through Saturday)

Watch this:


Thanks. Now, go here, read the article, watch the video, and report back to me. I promise I'm going somewhere with this.

No matter what your feelings on Hillary are, you have to admit the whole thing is awesome. The commercial heralds a revolution in grassroots campaigning. Until now, peons average citizens haven't had much say in the process of choosing our elected officials. Unless you live in a few key areas, your vote- and how it is pandered to- has been pretty much worthless. But such interwebby technomology allows us to partake in the determining factor of our political process: the marketing. Also, it will render Iowa as inconsequential as it should be.

On that note, as those of you who regularly follow along know, the Goo has been nominated for the esteemed title of "Best DC Blog by the Best DC Writer". After a close call involving a "group" of commenters posing as the BeeGees, I turned to you, oh loyal readers. With your efforts and support, we squashed the Disco Mafia Coup and survived three elimination rounds to move on to the semi-finals.

Now we face our final battle: the voting. I wholly endorse the irrational and undemocratic voting process, which allows you to vote as many times as you want from any IP address, and there's certainly no paper trail. As a former Chicagoan, I have never been more excited to encourage you to vote early and vote often. Vote late and vote often. Vote in the mid-day and vote often. Vote! The polls are open now through this Saturday at 6 p.m.

Again, let me stress that you can vote many, many times.

HOW TO VOTE IN JUST FIVE EASY STEPS:
1. CLICK HERE to go to the voting site.
2. Scroll down until you see Poofygoo.
3. Click the circle next to Poofygoo, thus turning the circle (not Poofygoo) green.
4. Scroll down and click Cast Your Vote!
5. Repeat. Again, and again, and again. And then a few more times after that.

As you may have read, Time has endorsed you as their person of the year. This is your chance to use that power for a better cause- my personal validation. Don't feel bad for the other candidates who lose. As better writers than me, they can rely on their talent and accomplishments for self-actualization. I don't have that luxury, so I need your help.

I look forward to your vote and serving you as the Best DC Blog by the Best DC Writer. In the inimitable words of Theodore Parker Church, "The arc of the moral universe is long, but ultimately it bends towards Poofygoo."

The People's Mayor- but What About the People's Feet?

Wooohoo, thanks to the many many readers who rose up against the Disco Mafia to defend my honor at Best DC Blogs. We have an interesting week ahead of us, as I try and figure out some rhyme and/or reason to this whole contest business. I'll keep you all posted.

In the meantime, I realized I completely forgot to tell you about my St. Paddy's Day excitement.

MEGHAN AND I MET MAYOR FENTY.

I know, I KNOW! You find that hard to believe insofar as no one has ever actually met him before. But Meghan decided that she desperately needed new trainers and she needed them right then. We rolled over to Fleet Feet on Columbia Road, natch. Standing outside the door were two suited and burly men, wearing brown trenchcoats and sunglasses, despite the fact that it was 7 p.m. They hovered in front of the door looking us up and down. I thought they were just obnoxious lecherers until I saw the earpiece in one of the gentleman's ears. After assessing us for a few moments, they held the door open and silently nodded us in.

And there he was, in all his mayorial glory. Except that he didn't look all mayorly; he looked like a boy talking to his mom (who owns Fleet Feet). Meghan and I walked past him and I gave a nod and said, "Hey, Mayor, what's up?" He did a bit of a double take, as though his secret identity had been unmasked, then made a palpable shift from finagling-with-mom mode to I'm-looking-forward-to-your-vote mode. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Mayor: Well, hello ladies! [introductions all around]
Meghan: Mayor, are you going to fit me for my new sneakers?
Mayor: I actually have an event I'm running off to.
Goo: But this is a city event; one of your constituents needs new sneakers fitted!
Mayor: I'm sure my mother and brother can help you out.
Meghan:Yes, but were they elected to the position of cobbler? We want this to be a democracy, you know.
Mayor: Ladies, it was wonderful to meet you. I'm leaving you in the capable hands of my family.

The mayor hurried out the door faster than necessary.

Meghan turned to the other people in the store, proclaiming, "You heard the Mayor, we need a fifty-point plan for the fitting of my shoes!" I chimed in, "What I want to know is what is your plan for the first 100 days of Meghan's shoes?"And in a one of the more brilliant moments in the history of obnoxiousness, we cried in unison, "We demand answers and action!"

A Salesperson Fenty had already been standing there, ready to serve us while doing a really good job of looking like he hadn't heard this same joke 10,000 times already. "Hi Ladies, what were you looking for?" Meghan replied, "Actually, I just want the same model of shoes that I'm wearing. The same color would be nice if you have it. "

I've never seen a person practice so much self-restraint as when this salesman did not roll his eyes right out of his head.

Impressions of the Mayor: Tall. With better things to do than sit around and put shoes on peoples' feets. When I recounted this story to the Object, he almost spit out his coffee. You know why? Because he was really, really upset that I didn't address the Mayor as Mister Mayor. He said it would be like walking up to the Pontiff and saying, "Pope! Dude, what's up?!" He almost cried when I admitted that's probably what I'd say in such a situation.

Wait, Don't Play the Music Yet!!

Awwww, shucks!

I've been nominated for "Best DC Blog by Best DC Writer." Suddenly, I feel like Ben Affleck at the Oscars- not quite sure I belong, but I'm just gonna shut up and try really hard not to look like I'm passing a kidney stone. Oh, and the DCeiver is Alan Arkin. And El Guapo is Clint Eastwood.

But that's not even the best part! The BeeGees have risen from the dead solely for the purpose of voting me off. That's right, the Disco Mafia has a contract on my head. Don't they know I'm the girl who'll blog them inside and out?

Is this a good time to mention that the Goo is endorsed by a cadre of Roller Girls?

Alernate Realities
Originally uploaded by Hannahchan.

Disco Mafia: Be very, very afraid.

Dearest readers, you can save us all from a soft-rock bloggy future by casting your votes for the Goo right here.

The Goo Report: The Cribbed from Making Light Edition

photo credit!

I've only recently discovered from 3pennyjane the joy that is Making Light. Thusly, I have many, many links for you, dear Poofygoers.

As a rock climber and surfer with a spinal injury, I can't tell you how excited I am about the next generation of extreme sports. How excited am I for extreme knitting? The disclaimer for treehouse knitting reminds me a lot of the disclaimers that come with rock climbing equipment, dire warnings that engaging in this activity guarantees you a premature death for which the manufacturers are not responsible. Sign me up!

***

Why am I not waking up to the Stephen Fry alarm clock? Instead of being jarred out of sleep by the raucous energy bundle that is Steve Inskeep and Renee Montaigne, I could be greeting the day with inspiration from Jeeves:

• "I'm so sorry to disturb you, sir, but it appears to be the morning. Very inconvenient, I agree, sir. I believe it is the rotation of the earth which is to blame, sir."
  
• "Come come, sir, let us not be defeated. Let us seize the day and take it roughly from behind. As the Colonel used to say in his unfortunate manner."

You know it's how Margaret Thatcher wakes up.

***

Speaking of merry old England, the BBC remains the journalistic juggernaut that it is because of ledes like this:

Israel has recalled its ambassador to El Salvador after he was found drunk and naked apart from bondage gear. Reports say he was able to identify himself to police only after a rubber ball had been removed from his mouth.

My favorite part is the Dragnet "Just the facts, ma'am" dryness of the reporting, as though the typical BBC reader is well-versed in ball gags.

***

Great news for devoted Muslims. On your next Hajj, you don't have to traipse around the holiest of cities in anything less than the most fashionable of togs, since Mecca is now home to its very own shopping Mecca!

***

Plenty of links to vampiverish tyrants, but the best news is that they no longer have to go without political slogans. My favorites:

• Raising the stakes of the election
• Undead for Impeachment
• Why vote for a 'lesser' evil?!
• I feed on the flesh of the living... and I vote!
  
• Don't impeach- IMPALE!
  
• Nyarlathotep / Cheney in '08

And while it's not exactly vampiverish, I do wholly appreciate the Republicans for Voldemort campaign.

Those Crafty Bastards.

This time of year, it's important to remember God's commandments for how He wants His peoples to adhere to His will on earth. Specifically the one about "Thou shalt not misuse brand names to misrepresent your product to unsuspecting bloggers."

After reading the craftzine article on how to make your own yarn from plastic grocery bags, I was really excited to see a link to a post titled, "How to knit Easter peeps."

PEEEEEEPS!

Because surely the only thing better than blowing peeps up in the microwave is to make them yourself, and THEN blow them up in the microwave.

As it turned out, craftzine hoodwinked me. There is no high fructose corn syrup involved at all here, just yarn. Bah. Those things are way too fucking cute to blow up in the microwave.

Easter is officially OFF, and God is pissed. We're talking Old Testament pissed. Now I know why it's winter again.

Didn't Yeats Write a Poem About This?

Every year around this time, I get a little homesick for Chicago and that beautiful green river.

Dan O'Leary of Chicago Saint Patrick's Day Parade asserts the tradition "...ranks right up there with the parting of the sea by Moses and the Pyramids of Egypt." I'm inclined to agree, since I like the mental image that evokes: legions of enslaved leprechauns guided by the Hand of God Almighty to use their magical power to turn the river into a manifestation of Irish Power.Since this is Chicago, though, it's more than a little suspiscious that those leprechauns aren't represented by a union. The magic becomes much more plausible if you imagine a secret organized crime network of little green men wearing knickers and using heavy-handed mob tactics to maintain their pot of gold and rainbow cartel.

Actually, the whole tradition was a bit of a fluke. It started back in 1961, when a civil engineer working with an orange dye to detect waste leaks in the river noticed that the dye turned his coveralls kelly green. He and his buddy, Stephen Bailey, who was the Business Manager of the Chicago Journeymen Plumbers Local Union, came to the natural conclusion anyone in their position would have, namely, "If we dye the river bright green for St. Patrick's day, it'll cover up more of the vomit!" And thus, a miracle was born.

The celebration maintains roots in its Catholic heritage. Much like the transubstantiation, two miracles occur when the river is dyed, according to O'Leary. "Two miracles appear that day, the river turns a perfect shade of green, something that many other cities have tried but have not been successful at doing, and the second miracle by starting with the color orange giving the impression that river will be orange only to convert the river to that true Irish green. We believe that is where the leprechaun comes in." So if I have this straight, this event perfectly symbolizes St. Patrick's conversion of the Irish. The orange (Protestant) dye is converted to green (Catholic) with a little bit of Irish magic (polluted river water). And as we all know, that's the same way St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland.

The miracle took a little bit of finessing. In 1962, the leprechauns tossed 100 pounds of dye in the river and cossed their fingers. The river stayed EctoCooler green for a week. By 1966, they'd figured out that they really only needed about 25 pounds, only to have environmentalists bitch and moan that the oil-based dye was polluting the pristine Chicago River. After they stopped laughing hysterically in the environmentalists' faces, they figured it wasn't actually going to hurt anyone to change to a vegetable-based dye. To this very day, they use about forty pounds of dye to turn the river green. After about four to five hours, the river turns back to its natural color- green.

Meanwhile, cadres of leprechauns trawl the streets, looking to deflower naive Irish step dancers.

Breaking: Khlaid Sheikh Mohammaed Confesses to Fathering Anna Nicole's Baby

Possibly the only thing that pisses me off more than Khlaid Sheik Mohammed's plot to kill Jimmy Carter is his purported murder of Daniel Pearl.

From the transcript:
"I decapitated with my blessed right hand the head of the American Jew, Daniel Pearl, in the city of Karachi, Pakistan. For those who would like to confirm, there are pictures of me on the Internet holding his head."

First of all, he totally loses all credibility by invoking the internet. "If you want proof, look it up on the internet?" Oh hells, no, that's where dipshit wackos like him get their information. Thanks, but really, no. Moreover, he's fucking up any hope the internets had for becoming a credible source. In this sense, he's ten trillion times worse than all those asshole little high school kids who are making crystal meth out of decongestants, and thereby ruining Nyquil¹ for those of us who have legitimate colds. Now what are we supposed to do? He's not just a murdering maniac, he's a nuisance. The more people who follow this nutjob, the fewer people there are who trust the goodness of the Wikipedia. Do you really want to live in that kind of society?

For reals, it's time to stop blaming the Jews. It's just so tired and lacks any originality whatsoever. I don't even care anymore about the insidiousness of the implications, it's just sooooooooo last century. And the century before, and before, and before. I mena, didn't Zola already clear this up a few centuries ago? Move on, and let's eat some delicious potato latkes. If KSM is the criminal mastermind he would like us to believe he is, he's gonna need to come up with a much better accusation. Like Daniel Pearl had weapons of mass destruction or something. That one seems to go over pretty well with the peoples.

Since KSM does such a piss-poor job of playing the criminal mastermind, I find a lot of what he confesses hard to believe. They seem like the semi-coherent ramblings of a poorly written Inspector Gadget villain. I mean, did you read everything he confessed to? I'm pretty sure it included the 9/11 bombings, sinking the USS Monitor, burning Washington in 1814, shooting Abraham Lincoln, kidnapping JonBenet, bombing Pearl Harbor, and producing American Idol. And yes, I do believe he did infer he fathered Anna Nicole's, Britney's, and yes, even Angelina Jolie's adopted babies.

If I were in charge of the internets, I would replace every picture of KSM with one of Daniel Pearl. Partly because Pearl was H-O-TTT, but more so because Pearl is the hero and martyr here, not KSM. The richest, most wonderful part of this is that all the banal braggadocio displayed by KSM simply serves to highlight the integrity and grace Daniel Pearl exhibited in his death. Maybe this is why I'm not a journalist, but had that been me, I would have snivelled and soiled myself. Pearl approached his death with more aplomb and badassdefiance than even MacGyver could have shown. "The men guarding Danny spoke very limited English. He couldn't communicate with them or they with him. I suppose that's why they didn't notice what he was doing with his fingers when they took Polaroids of him—flashing a victory sign to us with one hand, shooting the bird to them with the other." Truly the world is a better place for Pearl's having lived in it. Not to mention that he also raised the general good looks of the population. My deepest condolences to his family.


Finally, the award for Most Insensitive Headline of the Week goes to Huliq.com's
"Khalid Sheikh Mohammed's arrest leaves al-Qaida without its head." Klassy!



1. Let me contextualize really quickly, in case no one told you. The decongestant in many major cold medicines is often used to make crystal meth. Therefore, drugstores have been putting medicines with this ingredient behind the counter. Rather than have its product removed from the shelves, Vicks, the makers of Nyquil, changed the formula so it no longer contains that decongestant. But they didn't tell anyone, so that anyone who had the evil death cold that's making its way round the country found no relief from their longtime trusted friend, which is essentially now just 180 proof licorice-tasting syrup. So if you see your kid with a gym bag full of Sudafed, smack him really, really hard for me.

The Question Is: Tony WHO?!

In her Outlook calendar today, my boss¹ has two hours marked out of office to "go get money from Tony".

We're supposed to have a "strategy-planning" meeting this afternoon. Is that a baseball bat in the corner of her office?!?!?!?

I think I'm going to start wearing kneepads to work, just in case.

¹Suddenly, I'm acutely sensitive to the term "boss"...

Pop Goes the Culture

Via the Blathering: Bob Dylan + Dr. Suess= Awesome. I'm getting better at this math thing.

Warhblog!

'Ware the Ides of March

I'm generally a a peaceful person, but it's hard have sympathy for the mastermind of the murder of several thousand people. But when I heard about this, I started thinking torture was a pretty good idea:

[Khalid Sheik] Mohammed also said he plotted to assassinate several former presidents, including Jimmy Carter, a scheme not previously revealed.

Wait, Jimmy Carter Jimmy Carter? Is there some guy other than the champion of human rights, peanut farmer, and writer of bad poetry¹? I've never been so naive as to wonder why the terrorists don't like us, but Jimmy Carter?! For reals? That's like hating Wilbur the pig or homemade oatmeal raisin cookies- you can fight it if you want, but you're really not doing yourself any favors denying yourself all that wholesome, peace-y, peanutty goodness.

1. How much fun would a poetry slam between Jewel and Jimmy Carter be? None. Poetry slams are stupid.

Maybe She Just Did A Lot of Cartwheels?

Follow-up to yesterday's Amy Winehouse postage.



I'm pretty sure at one point Winehouse is actually looking in her pants to see if she's wearing underwear or if gold has magically appeared down there. She looks very interested in that region of her body.

That said, I maintain that Charlotte Church is obnoxious enough to warrant such drastic measures.

It's About Time We Had A Motown Revival

I'm completely geeked out about Amy Winehouse. Also, not a little jealous that all those Brooklyn hipsters get to see her play with the Pipettes, which is my current fantasy lineup. I'm mostly excited that her emergence and success Stateside might mean that the indie rock kids will stop deriving their sound from the Boss ad nauseum. As the Object pointed out, if you listen to some of the earlier Springsteen work, the Hold Steady sounds a lot less original. But Amy Winehouse, ahhhhhh! Fresh breath of wickedly subversive Motown air!

Also, she proves the long-suspected theory that Pitchfork has no idea what the fuck they're talking about.

Let's just hope she doesn't go the same way as the former crack whore-cum-songstress Carla Bozulich, who, judging by Evangelista¹, went back on the rock. That said, let she who wouldn't have to get drunk to appear on Charlotte Church cast the first stone.², ³


1. That said, Geraldine Fibbers are pretty cool. I think I would like them better if they took a very low dose of Adderall, though.

2.Which would be worse- a Charlotte Church variety show or a Dakota Fanning talk show? Discuss.

3.According to Ms. 3pennyjane, who saw Winehouse perform on Charlotte Church, the whole thing was a pretty spectacular debacle and Winehouse pretty much is the second coming of Joe Cocker.

Tsk Tsk Tsk.

I'm wholly disappointed in the denizens of DC, who apparently spent this weekend on tenterhooks, wondering if Marion Barry will go to jail. Again. This was instead of going to the sweet, sweet Nethers show (which exponentially increased my starry-eyed worship of Nikki West, who is like an Appalachian Kim Gordon). And Lord knows I had the sun patches abounding on 18th street all to myself last Saturday.

That's why I'm advertising the two most important events of the next month(ish) far in advance.

First of all. Friday, March 30th.
Personally, I think they should invite My Latest Novel to be part of their arty retinue. They could change the song to be When We Were Were Werewolves! And we banged on our pianos, lalala!

Sorry, this whole daylight savings thingy is awesome; LOVING the extra sunlight, and when it starts being light in the morning again, it'll be that much less of a sisyphean feat to get out of bed every day. But since I the batteries in my biological clock are those environmentally friendly rechargeables that don't actually work, my bio clock gets mighty irascible when forced to do actual work. I am in full groggedy mode here, too sleepy to even be cranky.

Anyhoo, on April 16th, take a few hours of work off in the afternoon to come and march for the right to send snarky notes to your senator that will actually mean something. I hope lots of people come so that I can have voting rights so I can sign all those congressional action alerts and finally feel like I'm doing some good in the world without actually having to do work.

Pirate Jokes NEVER Get Old

How does a pirate exercise his Civil Rights?

By speaking truth to pow-ARRRRRRRR.

Seriously, Read A Book.

Articles like this one piss me off to no extent:

Adding Eighth-Graders to the Equation

First of all, it promulgates the ridiculous notion that in order to succeed in life, children will need math. I gave up adding years ago, and I'm doing just fine. So is that waitress whom I gave a fourteen dollar tip on a six dollar meal.

Second of all, as we all know from Hollywood, math turns you crazy, and then you have to blow your Nobel Prize money on therapy.

Thirdly, math is stupid, and so are these people. If they put half the energy and resources put into math towards learning languages, kids could learn to fight terrorists on their own. No one ever fights terrorists with math, not even MacGyver.

And finally, it's just setting the little buggers up for the greatest disappointment of their young lives: mathematicians are all just making that shit up.

Imaginary number my ass.

Must Know More!

Someone found the Goo by googling "crap your hands say yeah satan said dance my hair turns alligator white dancing".

If that's not a portent of what's to come this weekend, I don't know what is.

Entropy: It's Not What It Used To Be

All I want in the world right now is for Bush to pardon Libby, just to see the international shitstorm that would ensue.

Soviets No Make Jokes, Only Declaration for Purposes of Great Patriotical Satiricalism

Reading The Master and Margarita last night, I remembered just how goddamn funny Soviet humor can be.

“A suspicious person by nature, [Nikanor Ivanovich] decided that the bombastic citizen was certainly unofficial, and maybe even superfluous.”

With that one line, Bulgakov perfectly captures the quintessential Soviet reaction to meeting the devil (the "bombastic citizen") in the streets of Moscow. Why even bother with someone who isn't in the Five-Year Plan?

Reading The Master and Margarita, I also realize how important it is to have a proper translation. I bought the book for the Object of My Affection's Christmas pressie. He has a four week statute of limitations to pick up a book and feign that he's reading it. When the statute expires, I'm free to yoink the book and pretend like I didn't buy it for my own devious purposes. So yoink it I did, only to realize I'd bought the wrong translation. I went over to Olsson's and conferred with the staff, who were only too happy to recommend the latest and greatest translation by Burgin and O'Connor. And so I began reading.

Then, one fateful night at the Object's house, we were about to kick back with our respective tomes when I realized I'd left the Burgin and O'Connor translation at my house. Figuring that reading from a different translation wouldn't make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, I picked up the edition I'd given the Object for Christmas, and found it completely unreadable. I can't tell if the translator was a product of the Soviet English-language learning system, where they probably learned useful phrases like "Children learn communism for good of making Uncle Sam know to stop making of nuclear war." Lord knows he wasn't a product of the U.S. foreign language system, since it doesn't actually exist.

I'm back to reading the good translation and the funny just keeps on coming- Bulgakov seems to be experimenting with his audience's (and the censors')ridiculous bullshit limits while wisely tempering it with complex themes about the quotidian absurdities of Soviet Russia. In the middle of a scene about the frustrations of housing bureaucracy, it's totally acceptable for a giant talking cat to come in and on a whim, decide to have the protagonist framed by the KGB. This might just be the best book ever.

All this is a lengthy way of confessing that I have been engaging in Soviet-style blogging. Back when I introduced Poofygoo, I wrote that I'd learned Poofygoo was Russian for "whatever". Fast forward several months to a party, where I was telling a young woman from Russia about my blog. When I told her the name, she did a double take and spit out her vodka.

"Do you know what that means?!" she asked incredulously.

"Sure," I said, "It's supposed to signify a little of this, a little of that- whatever's on my mind."

She paused, trying to think of how to explain the word to an ignoramus such as myself, then replied, "Well, in Russia, it is not so nice a thing to say. It is more like telling someone you hope that God say that they should be with the devil."

"You mean, like goddammit?" I asked.

"Yes, but is not so nice as to say it here in the U.S. In Russia, is a very impolite thing to say, is like saying God says 'fuck you!'"

Well, that fit in a lot better with my five-year plan. So the Goo remains the Goo, goddamming be damned!

Speaking of the Five-Year Plan, it's time for Soviet Worker Jokes!

A Mexican, Englishman, and Ukrainian are lost in the desert. The Mexican carries a bottle of water, explaining, "I have this water for when I get thirsty." The Englishman carries an umbrella, explaining, "I have this umbrella to shade me from the sun." The Ukrainian carries an old tire, explaining, "I did not expect a desert to be in my Five-Year Plan."

Why did the chicken cross the road?
There is no chicken. Only bread and milk.

What's the first thing a blonde does in the morning?
She Gives thanks to Our Glorious Leader and then goes to her job at the factory.

Here's a Soviet joke Wonkette told me a while back, with the disclaimer, Actual Soviet Joke, paraphrased from a Russian history prof I had... guaranteed to get you laid:

Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev are all riding a train through Siberia. Suddenly, it comes to a halt -- something's wrong with the engine. Stalin is the first to act: He orders that the conductor be shot for anti-Party activity and sends the engineer to the Gulag.
Next, Khrushchev acts -- he brings the engineer back from the Gulag and says "It's been a while, but try as hard as you can to remember how to operate this train." But the engineer can't.
Finally, Brezhnev springs into action -- he orders that all the shades be drawn and demands that everyone left on the train rock back and forth and say "chugga-chugga-chugga."
"There," he says. "Now we're moving again."

That's goddamn funny in any language.

We Don't Need No Stinking Badgers!

Have you ever wondered what a tone-deaf badger getting sodomized would sound like? Then oh boy, do I have a treat for you! They’re called The Paper Cuts, and they may have been the worst opening act ever. Bad to the point that I distrust my recollection of how awesome was the headliner, Grizzly Bear.

See, the way I remember it, Grizzly Bear fractured my mind into a million little pieces of pleasure, the likes of which I haven't seen since some psychotropic liberal arts school days. Everyone in the band contributed to the vocals, knew how to harmonize with each other, when to let their voices soar out, and when to melt it into a whispering reverb over the flute and clarinet. By my count, the bassist had seven pedals, and used them all to create innovative reincarnations of their best songs. The whole effect was an incongruous juxtaposition of shimmery melodies and harmonies floating over pure rawk. Plus, they knew how to use an autoharp. Really well.

But - and this is the problem when you give your band a quirky name like the Paper Cuts but don’t have the goods to back it up⁰ - I would rather be covered in billions of paper cuts than have to listen to the Paper Cuts live again. And moreover, I find the Paper Cuts’ claim that they’re from San Francisco specious at best. I mean, would the snooty denizens of San Fran really allow themselves to be represented by untalented children whom could have been mistaken for muppets if not for the lack of explosions¹?I thought that level of reprehensibility had all been banished to Seattle, where such incapacity levels can be offset by Menomena².

Oh, and when I say untalented, I mean they left no area of musicianship unsullied. The backup vocals were out of tune with the lead singer, who was also out of tune with his guitar, which was, in turn, out of tune with the other instruments, so that every single note had four quarter tones competing with each other for melodic supremacy. It worked about as well as when the Object tried to take over Asia last time we played Risk, but ended up kicking the game board over and sulking for the rest of the evening³. They’re all losers⁴.

So did I love every minute of Grizzly Bear because it was a feast for my ears more delicious than Whole Foods at 5 p.m., when they have all the free samples out? Or because in playing their set, Grizzly Bear mercifully put the Paper Cuts and that poor, poor badger⁵ out of their misery?

0.Like naming your handicapable child Wee-Todd. Why would you do that?
1. Explosions and monsters would have slightly mitigated this abomination.
2. Menomena! The Radness!
3. For once, it wasn't me!
4. To be fair, the Object is a loser only insofar as he lost the game.
5. I hope they don't play Madison, cuz those crunchy granola kids will snap, and Madison will be in flames. Don't fuck (with) the badgers. I've learned this the hard way.

Gulp

I missed you too, Poofygoers. I spent the last week mending the seams of my life and pretty much pulling some classic INFJ brooding, until I heard a few words of wisdom that impacted me profoundly. As human beings, we can forget something so dear and precious to us that it can be hard to even comprehend its enormity, and yet, we so often lose sight of it. My dear bloggy friends, we must "Live every week like it's shark week."

God, I can't wait to go surfing again.

And so without further ado, let the bloggy goodness continue.