Sunday, March 26, 2006
Mickey Mouse Loves You (and doesn’t want you to get Venereal Warts)
Turns out, Walt Disney disliked VD almost as much as he disliked Hebrews.
This is a real, Disney-produced Movie about Venereal Disease. Honest. Shakira’s hips don’t lie.
And as soon as they discover a cure for Walt’s Chlamydia, Herpes, crotch rot, distemper, and anti-Semitism, they will thaw out that joyless bastard. When you wish upon a star…
This is a real, Disney-produced Movie about Venereal Disease. Honest. Shakira’s hips don’t lie.
And as soon as they discover a cure for Walt’s Chlamydia, Herpes, crotch rot, distemper, and anti-Semitism, they will thaw out that joyless bastard. When you wish upon a star…
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Loved By iTunes Once Again
Somehow, we’re back in the good graces of iTunes. I was going to re-submit, but I didn’t. It’s just there. I guess it was a glitch on their parts or something.
So click the thingy below, and visit us at iTunes. Hey, while you’re there, write a review of us. And check out Tiki TV too. That is some good shit.
So click the thingy below, and visit us at iTunes. Hey, while you’re there, write a review of us. And check out Tiki TV too. That is some good shit.
Creepy Uncle Keva
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
This one goes to 11
Episode 11 of The Progrum is ready to go. In it, you will meet Tony Vezner of New American Theater (unless you already met him, then you will be seeing him again).
Click the thingy to see the love.
Don’t forget you can subscribe to this VODcast by entering this feed into iTunes: http://feeds.feedburner.com/timstotzvodcast
These files should be rip roaring and ready for you video iPods too. And the older ones, you can convert right in the Advanced menu of iTunes.
One more thing. These are released under the Creative Commons license, so that means you can take it and copy it, and share it with your friends, even convert to other formats, like Real and WMV (why would you want to, I don’t know). So, it’s all about you, the viewer.
Click the thingy to see the love.
Don’t forget you can subscribe to this VODcast by entering this feed into iTunes: http://feeds.feedburner.com/timstotzvodcast
These files should be rip roaring and ready for you video iPods too. And the older ones, you can convert right in the Advanced menu of iTunes.
One more thing. These are released under the Creative Commons license, so that means you can take it and copy it, and share it with your friends, even convert to other formats, like Real and WMV (why would you want to, I don’t know). So, it’s all about you, the viewer.
Friday, March 10, 2006
A Door to the Soul
In my ranty, cynical, angry blogs, I can come off as ranty, cynical, and angry. That’s a part of me, no foolin’. But, I’m, for the most part, polite, and well healed. Angry guy is in there, peeking through the bars of civility. But, I don’t let him out too often.
It’s weird how politeness and society interact. There are things society tells us to do, in order to be polite, and things we are not supposed to do. Vague?
Flash forward to a guy staring at me incredulously—a child like confusion, and bit of unwariness.
Why was he looking at me like that?
Well, I was holding a door for him; as I walked out of the Stop ‘n’ Go, he was entering.
There is an unwritten law that dudes don’t hold the door for dudes, unless they are heavily laden. He didn’t have an armful of firewood, or a big tank of acetylene, or cinder blocks. So maybe that was it. Maybe he was all, ‘Huh. This guy seems nice, but why is he holding the door for me?’ Is he queer, or something?
He was also a black guy. We live in progressive times, but maybe he was unwary of a honky like me. Or maybe a bit indignant. ‘Yeah, getting the door for me pretty much washes away the hundreds of years of oppression. We’re even-Steven now.”
There’s also the possibility of the distance-gap. There is complex math here. If people are right by the door, to the point you pretty near have to slam it in their faces, you have almost no choice but to hold the door (or be a real dick). It’s as much a physics thing as it is a politeness thing. I mean, you’d almost have to ask them to step back away from the door so you could close the door. But, then there is the other side of the coin. If they’re far enough away…awkward. How long do you hold a door? It gets to the point your politeness almost forces them to break into a trot lest they look rude, and leave you stand there like doorman is your job. The guy I held the door for was pretty far away, but not ‘trot’ far away.
Then there was the real thing. The real reason. I was demanding this guy become a subversive. For you see, I was holding the EXIT door for him to enter. And though not illegal, it is still a rule I was not only inviting him to break, but insisting he break. Not to break the rule, would have been impolite on his part. It was peer pressure in the purest form. To him, my congenial grin must have devolved into a devilish sneer, daring him not to be a pussy and use the exit to enter.
Sorry, about that, guy. Social engineering isn’t always a keen insight into culture, but just happens to dumb people like I am.
It’s weird how politeness and society interact. There are things society tells us to do, in order to be polite, and things we are not supposed to do. Vague?
Flash forward to a guy staring at me incredulously—a child like confusion, and bit of unwariness.
Why was he looking at me like that?
Well, I was holding a door for him; as I walked out of the Stop ‘n’ Go, he was entering.
There is an unwritten law that dudes don’t hold the door for dudes, unless they are heavily laden. He didn’t have an armful of firewood, or a big tank of acetylene, or cinder blocks. So maybe that was it. Maybe he was all, ‘Huh. This guy seems nice, but why is he holding the door for me?’ Is he queer, or something?
He was also a black guy. We live in progressive times, but maybe he was unwary of a honky like me. Or maybe a bit indignant. ‘Yeah, getting the door for me pretty much washes away the hundreds of years of oppression. We’re even-Steven now.”
There’s also the possibility of the distance-gap. There is complex math here. If people are right by the door, to the point you pretty near have to slam it in their faces, you have almost no choice but to hold the door (or be a real dick). It’s as much a physics thing as it is a politeness thing. I mean, you’d almost have to ask them to step back away from the door so you could close the door. But, then there is the other side of the coin. If they’re far enough away…awkward. How long do you hold a door? It gets to the point your politeness almost forces them to break into a trot lest they look rude, and leave you stand there like doorman is your job. The guy I held the door for was pretty far away, but not ‘trot’ far away.
Then there was the real thing. The real reason. I was demanding this guy become a subversive. For you see, I was holding the EXIT door for him to enter. And though not illegal, it is still a rule I was not only inviting him to break, but insisting he break. Not to break the rule, would have been impolite on his part. It was peer pressure in the purest form. To him, my congenial grin must have devolved into a devilish sneer, daring him not to be a pussy and use the exit to enter.
Sorry, about that, guy. Social engineering isn’t always a keen insight into culture, but just happens to dumb people like I am.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
It was legal in '49.
Here’s My Report
Straight from Interzone. Here we go to the “online diary” purpose of the ‘blog. You may not find any entertainment here (and I only optimistically assume you do find entertainment in the other entries). This entry will serve as reminder, roadmap, and report—much like Burroughs wrote reports (but this is the internet, not Interzone).
Some strange occurrences have…occurred. Not so strange that I think they could be entire subjects, just weird little…things. I post them here as record in hopes that one day, I’ll look back on this trail of breadcrumbs and say, Oh, yeah. That’s how we got here. I don’t see civil unrest, decay, apocalypse, or invaders from another dimension…and that friends is exactly why I’m posting theses entries. I will assuredly look back and say, “How could I not see it coming?”
Item 1: Ghost Car
I have taken a brief break in drinking, and maybe this has caused DTs or something. One would think it would make driving home EASIER. But as I pulled into the left lane of Alpine to turn, on Linden, I had to jerk it back quickly to avoid a jackass driving North in the southbound, left lane. And he only had his parking lights on. The timing is wild. I only barely was getting ready to change lanes, and was about there—not even all the way, when I saw him ambling toward me. It happened so fast, that I had to wonder if it really happened. As I got home, I really had to think hard on whether it happened or not.
Item 2: The Living, Crystallizing Fog
My defroster, she don’t work too good. Sucks, I know, but it helped me keep my car, I have theorized. (Refer to previous blog about recovering my car; I honestly do think the fact the thieves couldn’t see out the damn window is what made them only drive a few blocks away.) But two nights ago was surreal. This fog congealed on my windshield and made the most beautiful pattern; it slowly engulfed my windshield, and made splintery, colorful, fractal galaxies. Mandelbrot claimed my windshield! It’s the kind of beautiful math that makes you realize that we are awesomely random, and in no way connected to a bronze age, spoiled, jealous, murderous, morally repugnant brat of a deity. I only hoped that I could have grabbed it on video, but I also know that it would have been well, nigh impossible to capture. That makes the moment mine. Until I blasted it with windshield washer fluid. It came back. I blasted.
Item 3: Scoring the Digits
The landing procedure. We all have them. It’s the routine you affect when you come home. It is relentless in it’s robotic nature, cold, thoughtless, almost inhuman. Other than seasonal variances—contrary to what Doug thinks, I don’t wear a coat in summer—my routine goes like this. Get key, wrestle with laptop bag, open door, do a strange doe-see-doe to wrap around the door, toss keys on microwave, look at its clock, toss laptop on the…whoa. What’s going on with the clock? Some of the bars on the charmingly anachronistic LED are out. The numbers are now digital Sanskrit. I check it and it still works…that is it microwaves, but the numbers instead of counting down in their normal way, are now animating, dancing lances of light, avoiding reason, and semiotics. Oh well. This happens. It still has a magnetron that excites molecules in foodstuffs and makes them warm. I can live with that, and if I decided to get crazy, I can excite the molecules in metal and have a real party. But, ALAS! The next morning it works again. What is this? I’m okay with things breaking, decaying, tending towards heat death entropy. It’s the kind of beautiful math that makes you realize that we are awesomely random, and in no way connected to a bronze age, spoiled, jealous, murderous, morally repugnant brat of a deity. I am, however, severely not okay, with things fixing themselves. Yes, on one hand, bonus. Yeah. But then, there is the sinister at hand possibly. Someone coming into my house and doing stuff to my shit. Like I had a magically replaced light bulb once, but I’m relatively sure a maintenance guy from Beacon Hill did that. No maintenance guy cracked my microwave’s LED panel. Now I examine the “why it went out in the first place” thing a little more in-depth. What is the job of a microwave? To create huge amounts of energy. Energy that may disrupt LEDs. And there are fields and, half-lives, and maybe some tritium leaking from the nuke plant that on a clear day I can see from here. What also might these fields be doing and disrupting? The LED may be a harbinger, like the badges people wear at nuke plans that turn colors when exposure is too high. Or to carry the harbinger thought further, maybe it’s warning me in a language I don’t understand. Then, if so, why did it stop? Did it suddenly decide I wasn’t worth the info it wanted to impart? Did it display only briefly to avoid detection by the very thing it wanted to warn me about? Did it give up because I didn’t get it? Did it get “fixed” by people wanting to keep me in the dark?
Three entries seems like enough for now. It’s not my intention to overwhelm. I’ll save my notion that the universe owes me a tub of low fat cream cheese for another time. I don’t want to blow your mind. The cream cheese thing is wild though. It’s the kind of beautiful math that makes you realize that we are awesomely random, and in no way connected to a…ahh, you get the picture.
Some strange occurrences have…occurred. Not so strange that I think they could be entire subjects, just weird little…things. I post them here as record in hopes that one day, I’ll look back on this trail of breadcrumbs and say, Oh, yeah. That’s how we got here. I don’t see civil unrest, decay, apocalypse, or invaders from another dimension…and that friends is exactly why I’m posting theses entries. I will assuredly look back and say, “How could I not see it coming?”
Item 1: Ghost Car
I have taken a brief break in drinking, and maybe this has caused DTs or something. One would think it would make driving home EASIER. But as I pulled into the left lane of Alpine to turn, on Linden, I had to jerk it back quickly to avoid a jackass driving North in the southbound, left lane. And he only had his parking lights on. The timing is wild. I only barely was getting ready to change lanes, and was about there—not even all the way, when I saw him ambling toward me. It happened so fast, that I had to wonder if it really happened. As I got home, I really had to think hard on whether it happened or not.
Item 2: The Living, Crystallizing Fog
My defroster, she don’t work too good. Sucks, I know, but it helped me keep my car, I have theorized. (Refer to previous blog about recovering my car; I honestly do think the fact the thieves couldn’t see out the damn window is what made them only drive a few blocks away.) But two nights ago was surreal. This fog congealed on my windshield and made the most beautiful pattern; it slowly engulfed my windshield, and made splintery, colorful, fractal galaxies. Mandelbrot claimed my windshield! It’s the kind of beautiful math that makes you realize that we are awesomely random, and in no way connected to a bronze age, spoiled, jealous, murderous, morally repugnant brat of a deity. I only hoped that I could have grabbed it on video, but I also know that it would have been well, nigh impossible to capture. That makes the moment mine. Until I blasted it with windshield washer fluid. It came back. I blasted.
Item 3: Scoring the Digits
The landing procedure. We all have them. It’s the routine you affect when you come home. It is relentless in it’s robotic nature, cold, thoughtless, almost inhuman. Other than seasonal variances—contrary to what Doug thinks, I don’t wear a coat in summer—my routine goes like this. Get key, wrestle with laptop bag, open door, do a strange doe-see-doe to wrap around the door, toss keys on microwave, look at its clock, toss laptop on the…whoa. What’s going on with the clock? Some of the bars on the charmingly anachronistic LED are out. The numbers are now digital Sanskrit. I check it and it still works…that is it microwaves, but the numbers instead of counting down in their normal way, are now animating, dancing lances of light, avoiding reason, and semiotics. Oh well. This happens. It still has a magnetron that excites molecules in foodstuffs and makes them warm. I can live with that, and if I decided to get crazy, I can excite the molecules in metal and have a real party. But, ALAS! The next morning it works again. What is this? I’m okay with things breaking, decaying, tending towards heat death entropy. It’s the kind of beautiful math that makes you realize that we are awesomely random, and in no way connected to a bronze age, spoiled, jealous, murderous, morally repugnant brat of a deity. I am, however, severely not okay, with things fixing themselves. Yes, on one hand, bonus. Yeah. But then, there is the sinister at hand possibly. Someone coming into my house and doing stuff to my shit. Like I had a magically replaced light bulb once, but I’m relatively sure a maintenance guy from Beacon Hill did that. No maintenance guy cracked my microwave’s LED panel. Now I examine the “why it went out in the first place” thing a little more in-depth. What is the job of a microwave? To create huge amounts of energy. Energy that may disrupt LEDs. And there are fields and, half-lives, and maybe some tritium leaking from the nuke plant that on a clear day I can see from here. What also might these fields be doing and disrupting? The LED may be a harbinger, like the badges people wear at nuke plans that turn colors when exposure is too high. Or to carry the harbinger thought further, maybe it’s warning me in a language I don’t understand. Then, if so, why did it stop? Did it suddenly decide I wasn’t worth the info it wanted to impart? Did it display only briefly to avoid detection by the very thing it wanted to warn me about? Did it give up because I didn’t get it? Did it get “fixed” by people wanting to keep me in the dark?
Three entries seems like enough for now. It’s not my intention to overwhelm. I’ll save my notion that the universe owes me a tub of low fat cream cheese for another time. I don’t want to blow your mind. The cream cheese thing is wild though. It’s the kind of beautiful math that makes you realize that we are awesomely random, and in no way connected to a…ahh, you get the picture.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Episode 10: How to pick up girls
Go get er' while she's hot. (That means, click on the picture below)
