Just some more Chemical goodness for you

When I was driving once, I saw this painted on a bridge. No, wait. I saw it in a greeting card and it cracked me up.

RanPicFri

I don't know why anyone would post this to their LiveJournal. Must be a drug chemical or something. Anyway, YAY CHEMISTRY. YAY AROMATIC HYDROCARBONS!

Poetry Thursday

Dream Song 44: Tell It To The Forest Fire, Tell It To The Moon
by John Berryman

Tell it to the forest fire, tell it to the moon,
mention it in general to the moon
on the way down,
he's about to have his lady, permanent;
and this is the worst of all came ever sent
writhing Henry's way.

Ha ha, fifth column, quisling, genocide,
he held his hands & laught from side to side
a loverly time.
The berries & the rods left him alone less.
Thro' a race of water once I went: happiness.
I'll walk into the sky.

There the great flare & stench, O flying creatures,
surely will dim-dim? Bars will be closed.
No girl will again
conceive above your throes. A fine thunder peals
will with its friends and soon, from agony
put the fire out.

List Tuesday

Well, I'm back on the horse after three weeks. Yup, climbing back on the wagon. Why do you think we have so many common idioms that reference horses and wagons? I've never used either. Live in the now, idioms!

Anyway, on to the list...

A Baker's Dozen Things I Want To Be When I Grow Up

1. An Ice-cream truck driver


2. Indie Rock tastemaker (suck on that, Pitchfork!)


3. Crotchety old man (Get off my lawn you damn kids)


4. Mayor McCheese


5. Starting centerfielder for the Astros


6. The cool dad


7. FEMA Administrator


8. Beachcomber/trinket salesman in Panama


9. Framed for the murder of politician (Oliver Stone, give me a call when I'm old. I'll sell you the rights to my story.)


10. Able to juggle guitars while riding a unicycle


11. A guy that could actually grow a beard


12. Rich


13. Part robot; just a bionic arm or something.

Memory Lane Monday

Go back in time with me, if you will, to about 48 hours ago. Back to the time that I attended a huge anti-war rally on the National Mall in Washington. Well, not so much attended as walked by, but that’s just semantics. Also, watch as I lounge in that soft-glow wonderland of lazy comedy: making fun of people. It’s like taking candy from a baby. By that, I mean it’s really easy.

While attending/walking by the rally I noticed four distinct groups of people:

1. The Hippies: These guys (and gals) are hard to miss. Some of their hallmarks are long dreadlocks, stupid-looking floppy hats, inscrutable fashion choices and horrible body odor. Note to hippies: there is nothing pro-war about taking a shower. Seriously. The other thing about the hippies is that they don’t seem to know what they are protesting at any given time. Whether this is because they attend protests nearly every day or because they are just hopped up on goofballs, I don’t know. Anyway, it’s hard to know what to say when you see this group protesting everything from sweatshop labor to high tuition (sometimes at the same time) at an anti-war rally. Stop diluting the message folks, and save it for the WTO protest or whatever.


2. The Aging Hippies: They’re old, they’re bold, and there’s nothing you can do about it(but please don’t put us in a nursing home). This group used to be the same as the first group, and they still grasp for any straws that connect them to their halcyon protesting days. I guess 30 years of soul-crushing selling out to the Man will make you do that. Most are probably content to live vicariously through their children, but a few, the proud few, still take that freak flag and fly it high, though they are decidedly less freaky now. But really, you guys, can we come up with something new? I seriously heard a group of these folk marching and chanting some golden oldies (much like the people themselves!) like “Hell no, we won’t go.” DUH! Of course you won’t go. First of all, I imagine that after a protest march, most of you need to go home and soak your aching joints and fake hips for a while. Not exactly prime fighting machines. And second of all, there’s no draft going on right now! Nobody has to go if they don’t want to. Get with the times people! And please, please update your chants. Maybe you could go with “Hell no, if there’s anything we can do about the poor and disenfranchised redneck idiots who think it would be fun to shoot some Iraqis won’t go.” If you don’t think that this is how these people look at those that voluntarily join the armed forces, well, you’re wrong.


3. The Upbeat Socialist/Communist Recruiters: There’s nothing more to say about these people, really. I mean, misguided though they may be, at least they tend to be friendly and happy. Enjoy your socialist utopia man. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any LaRouchians there. Sucks, because I really like those dudes.


4. The Normal People: Happily, this group made up about 80% of the crowd. It’s nice to know that it’s not just a herd of freaking weirdoes (I know, it looks weird, doesn’t it? But according to MS Word, "weirdos" is incorrect.) that are against the war. Mostly, it’s everyday people like you and me. Not that the media portray it like that. As far as most people know, these protests are big freakazoid-oramas. Makes for better news, I suppose.

There was one thing that united all four of these groups (and the gaggle of angry ignorant teenagers and anarchists): anti-war sign and/or t-shirt and/or button carrying and/or wearing. At an anti-war rally. I can hear the conversations now… “Hey man, is that an anti-war sentiment your placard is displaying?” “Yeah, brother, I’m straight up anti-war! I’m guessing by your t-shirt that you are too?” “Right on, dude! How weird! I mean we’re both anti-war!” Come on people, that’s like wearing a t-shirt of the band whose concert you’re at and driving around in the parking lot, pre-show, with said band’s music blaring from your cheap Wal-Mart speakers. O-V-E-R-K-I-L-L. Not to mention annoying. Now, of course, I’ll make an exception for those that were actually marching. Bringing the message to the masses is important. That’s like wearing a t-shirt of the band whose concert you are at, only it’s one of those “4 Bands, 4 Bucks” local Battle of the Bands thing and your friend is in the third band and you want everyone to know how cool they are. Not that the marchers get off scot-free mind you. Please, please, please, if you are going to march in a protest to make people see the horrible mismanagement of an ill-conceived war, design signs that are less ill-conceived and mismanaged, because if you don’t, no one will listen. Seriously, I saw a sign that looked like this…


I had to look at it for like 30 seconds before I could figure out what he was trying to say. I can’t tell if he was trying to be clever or if he was intentionally obfuscatory. Either way, the sign sucks. Just go with something simple, like “Bring the Troops Home Now” or even “Bush Sucks.” At least that way I’ll get your point.

[It was about at this point that Blogger ate my post. This is my second draft, and let me tell you, my first “hopped up on goofballs” joke was much better. It should be interesting to see if my posts get better the second time through, or worse. Compare the rest of the post with the first part to find out. And let me know, because if I get better having had my post get deleted, maybe I’ll just go and get my post gotten rid of every time!]

Let’s move on now to the speakers, or orators, or hacks, whatever you want to call them. The first one I heard was a guy named Jim Highsomethingorother. I hope it was Jim Highlander because I couldn’t see him and I like to imagine him looking like Steven Seagal and carrying a big ol' sword and chopping heads. Not very anti-war, but it is freaking awesome. Anyway, I think Steven Seagal would have been a better speaker too. Seriously, this guy stunk. Of course, he went with all the staples, Bush lied, people died, blah blah blah. But then he started talking about the troops and how the Administration is saying that they can’t find enough people to fight the war (I don’t even think they really said that, but I refuse to do any research to find out) and that that is stupid because, what about the Bush twins? And the Bush nieces and nephews? Basically, he went so far as to suggest that all politicians who support the war should have their families conscripted. Wait, no. Not “basically” and not “suggested.” That is exactly what he said should be done. Reinstate the draft. Good thinking you idiot. What pissed me off even more is that the crowd cheered. The crowd that was made up of mostly draft-aged people cheered at the idea of reinstating the draft. I shed a single tear.

Cindy Sheehan went on next. You know, the mother of a dead son who likes to camp in Texas and ride on a bus? She managed not to say anything offensive. Or anything, for that matter. I honestly believe that I could go up in front of a crowd like that and prattle off a bunch of pre-approved, noncommittal, generalized talking points. I mean, how hard could it be? That’s what frustrates me most about these protests. Nobody says anything. We already know that you think the war is bad. We already know that Bush lied. Tell us what we should do about it. What are your ideas to hasten the return of the troops? Do you have any, or do you just like talking to big crowds and having them cheer your words? It’s the same reason Kerry lost the election. All sentiment and no concreteness.

At that point, we left the protest area and wandered further down the Mall, so I don’t know how the rest of it went. I did see the reflecting pool though. It’s really not that majestic when it’s full of greenish duck poop. Also, I saw the Vietnam War Memorial. It’s pretty touching. Let’s hope we don’t need a wall that big by the time GWII is over.

Here are a few more notes from the protest.

1. Litter was everywhere. I really hope the organizers had a clean-up crew on hand for post-protest janitorial duties, because leaving a mess and leaving a good impression are probably mutually exclusive.


2. Seriously, hippies. You’ve got to do something about that smell. And stop playing hacky sack.


3. I wanted to hear Le Tigre play, but I didn’t.


4. When walking back to the Metro station, the band I heard on stage sounded like a mix of the Beastie Boys and Rage Against the Machine. Or in other words, the best band in the world according to me about 8 years ago. Now? I thought they sucked.


5. The McDonald’s on the corner of F St. and 13th was the only fast food restaurant open in the Metro Center vicinity. And it was packed. And it was under staffed. And it was full of people from the protest who are also probably against huge multi-national corporations and low-wage labor treatment. I didn’t see anybody being nice to the poor McD’s employees though.

Well, that’s it. I can’t believe I rattled on for more than 1,600 words! That’s got to be some kind of record for me! Also, if anyone reading this works for, or knows someone that works for the Washington Post Express, please try to get me published in the Blog Update section. If there’s one thing I want in the world it’s to get about infinity comments. Also, I would feel validated if I could get just one troll who would leave nasty comments on every single post that I make. How sweet would that be?

RANDOMPICTUREFRIDAY

Dude, that was one sweet party we had. I'm looking, but I can't even find ONE more Keystone. We went through 30 Stones, just the two of us. In one hour. Not bad. Not bad at all. Wanna do it again tomorrow? Dude? You awake? Ah, man! Don't puke in my shoes! I need to wear those tomorrow! I should have just kept them on!

The Song I Will Never Write

The song that I will never, ever get around to writing would have been the greatest song in the history of time. That's right, you heard me. Better than anything that has ever existed or will ever exist. Let me describe it to you in a series of violence-related smilies.

Each and every kick drum beat would sound like a bomb going off.

Each snare hit would sound like a gunshot.

Each hi-hat would sound like the chambering of a bullet in said gun.

Each cymbal crash would sound like a 35 mph delta-v, car crash with a PDOF of around 25 degrees.

Each guitar part would sound like a raging warehouse fire.

And there'd be about 7 different guitar parts at all times, so it would sound like the whole warehouse district was going up in a raging conflagration.

Maybe there would be 8 guitars. I can't decide.

The bass would be distorted like a one-armed warehouse fire burn victim.

The vocals would sound like wounded miner lost deep in a mine, screaming for his life. (all echoey and crap!)

The harmonica would actually be downright pleasant and joyous.

Man, that song would be so good, I can barely wrap my head around it. I don't even know what it's about, but I don't care! It's just that good. Anybody want to make it?

Also, please note that I added a link to what is most likely the best radio station in the history of mankind: KEXP Seattle. It's totally listener supported, which means they can play anything they want, and they do. You'll hear stuff on KEXP that you'll never hear anywhere else. Even cooler, they often have live studio sets on the air. Once, I heard a band called Sex Videos (I don't even want to try and google that to find their website. It's not worth it) play 12 songs in about 15 minutes, not a one of which had intelligible lyrics. It ruled. KEXP streams live on the internets all day long, so you can annoy all of your coworkers. Or if you work from home, you can annoy your family if you turn it up loud enough. If I ever get my song made, I'm definitely going to try to sucker KEXP into playing it.

Poetry Thursday

Happiness
by Raymond Carver


So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Maturity? Maturity? I'll show you maturity!

Okay, I usually don't write about work, but I have to. I just have to. If you don't want to hear it, feel free to move on.

I took a short trip to Detroit on Monday to give a presentation about the inner workings of the governmental agency that regulates the auto industry: NHTSA. My audience was a group of 20-some fresh-faced college graduates. I arrived a few hours early and had time to stop in and talk to some of my colleagues in the office. One of the guys I visited is the test lab director. In general he's a pretty nice guy. However, in our brief discussion he said what I consider to be a monumentally ignorant thing. He mentioned that my hair is a lot shorter now than it was the last time he saw me and asked if it was just the Washington influence or if it was maturity. WTF? That ignorant question sums up everything that is wrong with the auto industry. Of course, I didn't say anything that I was actually thinking. I just laughed and said "Probably a little bit of both, ha ha."

Me with longer hair about 10 months ago = Immature (apparently)

Me with short hair now = Mature (apparently)

In my experience, maturity and hairstyle are not really correlated (R-squared of about .35 or so). I find that short hair is much more highly correlated with being insufferably boring. But, that's the automotive industry for you. Traditional to the point of stifling. It almost seems like an unstated rule in the industry that every employee needs to have their soul crushed. No creative thinking. Just do everything by the book, the way we always have. And don't even think about looking different than everyone else, we don't cotton to that real well around here. What's frustrating about this is that at the same time the corporate culture is destroying people's will to live, the industry leaders pay lots of lip service to needing "Outside the box thinking." The irony is that, aside from the OEM design groups, creative thinking is actively discouraged. And people wonder why the domestic auto companies are in trouble. I don't. Even more ironic is that if you look at the history of the automotive industry, it is exactly the non-bureaucratic, creative thinkers that brought it to life! Ford and his assembly lines, the guys that invented turbocharging, the guys that invented the automatic transmission. But all of these innovations took place decades ago. Nearly a century ago, actually. What have we got since then? Okay, I'll grant you the hybrid engine (thanks Japan!) but can you think of any other MAJOR technological development in the automotive world? It's all just been fiddling with the old inventions. There is nothing new under the sun these days.

After having this enlightening discussion, it was almost tragic to walk into the boardroom and face these sweet college kids. They're so idealistic. They truly think that they will make a difference, that things are going to be fresh and exciting and new. But within a year, they will be bitter corporate drones like the rest of us. Knowing that this will happen, I can't feel anything but pity for this innocent children. But we do need more drones to keep this monolith rolling. Status quo is the new revolution. Status quo has always been the revolution. There is no such thing as revolution. Conformity is absolute. Conformity is truth. Go back to work.

P.S. Shortly after the hair comment, the guy I was talking to mentioned that the woman running the program for the new hires I was about to talk to was very attractive. "Not bad for someone in her mid 30's," he said. "She is a good looking woman." Nothing about her business acumen or anything. Just that she was hot. And I'm supposed to listen to this guy about maturity? In my book, how you treat and talk about others says a lot more about your maturity than how you look.

P.P.S Would some indie t-shirt maker please make a t-shirt that says something like "My other hair is long" that us corporate drones could wear.

Something like this. I know I would buy it.

The TSWG Answers again

So ... here's my question ... how come you sometimes count up the
number of links in your post?  Is there a links contest out there
somewhere?  Or are you OCD? Or is it something else entirely?

A subscriber

Sorry subscriber, but I'm going to bore you on this one too. There is neither rhyme nor reason behind my random link counting. I just felt that, on occasion, my posts contain so many links that readers may think to themselves, "Wowa! That's a lot of links! I wonder how many there are?" So I count them up beforehand to save others the trouble. Hm, I guess that is a reason. Now here's the rhyme, since I missed Bad Poetry Thursday yesterday.

When I count links
I think
That maybe
You will want to know how many
there are.
If you care.

You like that? I even threw in a little visual rhyme for you. How about that?


We can make it a contest if you want.


P.S. Kate. My dear Kate. I can't. I want to but I just can't.

Dnarmo Citpuer Dirfya

I wish I knew what this pile of stuff meant. I really do. I mean, I like apples too!

The Return

Pathetic as it may be, I must say that I am glad to return to the etherland of blog posting. Not that I have anything important to say (come on, do I ever?). It's just that I like the clickety-clack sound of my fingers hitting the keys.

So anyway, we spent the first half of this week in Boston. It's, uh, not bad. Pretty cool city, but it really sucks trying to drive around. Especially in a big ol' GMC Yukon. In spite of that, we did some stuff. Went to Harvard Square, went to the North End, saw the old North Church. You know, tourist stuff.

The rest of the time, I sat in a conference listening to people present papers. What fun. I learned that teenagers are stupid, inexperienced, risk taking drivers. I learned that middle-aged people who die in car crashes are surprisingly teen-like in their driving patterns, and I learned that old people can't see well, can't drive well, and are very fragile. I also saw some pretty grisly autopsy photos. I think it's best to just avoid driving or riding in cars from now on. But if you must, and you have a booster seat age child (4-8, up to 80 lbs), put them in a high back booster seat, not a backless booster. That's all.

One final side note. I spent three days listening to people talk about traffic safety and injury. On the way home, United Airlines showed most of the first episode of a retarded new show called Three Wishes, starring Amy Grant. It's retarded for three reasons: heartstrings needn't be yanked so severely or often, it stars Amy Grant, and they do stupid things. Case in point. One of the three people they helped was a little girl that was severely (AIS 5) injured in an accident. She still has sections of her skull missing and thus has to wear a helmet all the time. They said that her head was hit by the bumper of the intruding car (left side impact at about 60 degrees from head on, very, very typical type of accident), but I would be a little surprised if it was really the bumper. It's far more common for heads to hit the intruding hood. Anyway, for her head to directly contact ANY portion of the intruding vehicle, I would bet that the car that hit her was an SUV (or pickup truck) because they ride so much higher. So what do the team at Three Wishes do next? They give a Ford F350 to the second of the people they are helping. Tragic irony. I guess [WARNING: Offense provoking statement coming] it just makes me angry how many people feel that they need big trucks. Do you really? They use more gas, they are a hazard to other people. What do you need it for? Yes, there are some people that actually need them. That's okay. But you, mom of three, do you need a Suburban? Why not a minivan? They're safer both for you (yes, it's true, size isn't everything) and for occupants of other cars. Have some consideration please. Also, I might note, about 25% of all traffic death occur in rollover accidents. SUVs are much more likely to roll over. You do the math.

Poetry Thursday

I Shall Come Back
by Dorothy Parker

I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply;
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity-
A mild and most bewildered little shade.
I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid,
But softly come where I had longed to be
In April twilight's unsung melody,
And I, not you, shall be the one afraid.

Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead
I shall come back to you, who hurt me most.
You may not feel my hand upon your head,
I'll be so new and inexpert a ghost.
Perhaps you will not know that I am near-
And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear.

Ah, Anger

If there's one thing I love about the internet, it's the absurd amount of anger. From cringe-inducing racist rants to unplumbable depths of self-loathing to rabid, mouth-foaming political self-righteousness, the internet has it all. And has it all in spades.

WARNING: I know I usually keep it clean around here, but parental discretion is advised for the rest of this post. It just comes with the territory.

Here's an experiment, if you don't believe me.
1. Go to a popular blog (no, this one does not count)
2. Read Comments

I guarantee you will find many, many angry comments. Maybe they are offended by what some random person they don't know wrote. Maybe they just think the author is a douchebag. Maybe they are just an angry dude. We may never know why people do this, but I will give a theory later, just hold on.

Here's another experiment that I'll go perform right now. I'm going to go look at the Washington DC Craigslist Rants and Raves Board and post some things that I find. Mind you, this will only be from the first 100 posts. I won't even look farther than that. Also, this would probably work with any relatively active message-type board, unless it's run by wussies who don't like to fight and also don't like to be called "faggot." Anyway, I'm going to go find some Craigslist posts. Be right back, hold on.

Okay, I'm back. I found some pretty good stuff but don't be surprised; These sentiments are perfectly normal and are posted day-in day-out all day long. If you've got kids near, now is the time to use the old earmuffs. Or if you're not reading it out loud, the eyepatches.

Good going asswipe, you won't get a recommendation. Plus if he finds out its you, you may be getting worse than dog poo on your computer. Could be vandalizing property charge on your ass. I hope you saved with your $115k income and not over spent it on women, hookers, cars, and a house you can't afford.

Fucker

The point is is that the Military is the biggest socialist program for pussies that feel they need to be babysat by government, because they can't fend for themselves against big scary governments, because they are pussies. Anyone that supports the military is a homosexual.

Ya know what, fuck you!!! And YOU TOO!! Who the hell do you think you are, saying stuff like that. Are you like the official CRAIGSLIST TROLL PATROL??!! What makes you think you are so superior and have such a keen eye for spotting anger-provoking posts? And if someone wants to get angry and reply in a hostile manner, why shouldn't they?! FUCK YOU!!! It is a public forum. People can say WHATEVER they want. If someone wants to try to provoke anger and idiocy then WHAT DO YOU CARE??? SO WHAT if the posts aren't real? WHAT THE HELL IS IT TO YOU?????

So who fucking cares if Bush goes fishing, good for him fuck New Orleans. It is a fucking shit hole anyway. The best thing about New Orleans was the tits.

And this is just a small sample. Don't get me wrong though. People discuss other things on the R&R board, too. Like sex stories, or even revenge fantasies, which actually are usually pretty angry, so never mind

Why do people post this stuff? That, my friends, is a very good question. My good friend Alex Blagg (what? I sent him one email and he responded. That means we're friends right? Right? ) has a theory. Basically, he thinks that these angry commenters are just that: angry commenters. And maybe they hate themselves and are idiots. But I think there's more to it than that. I think it is an addiction. Wait, wait, wait. Here me out. I know what you're thinking; You're thinking "No, that can't be it! Letting out your anger is cathartic! Once you let it out, it's gone. " Well, Mr. or Mrs. or Ms Smarty-pants, you're wrong. Studies have shown (I don't know which ones, just....studies, you know?) that catharsis is, ironically, not cathartic. Venting your anger actually produces more anger. The more you post angry comments, the more you NEED to post angry comments. Like most things, it's a viscious circle (NOT VISCOUS you idiots on Craigslist). Oh man, it's getting to me now. I better stop!

So, in conclusion, I don't know what this post was about. Anger and why we do it? I didn't really answer that, did I? I don't know why we start, but I do know why we keep doing it: It is fun to make other people mad.

Random Picture Friday

Dude, check it out! It's the first photoshoot for our new band, Hopscotch! I am lookin' gooooooood, don't ya think!

Bad Poetry Thursday

Okay, today, we're going with that timeless classic of bad poetry, the limerick.

The Man From Duluth
by Schuyler

There once was a man from Duluth
In his mouth he had only one tooth
So he couldn't eat apples
or peaches, just scrapple
And his neighbors thought he was uncouth.

Poetry Thursday

Scots, Wha Hae Wi' Wallace Bled
by Robert Burns




Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour,
See approach proud Edward's power—
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in ev'ry foe!
Liberty's in ev'ry blow!
Let us do or die!

The TSWG Answers (#2)

So, here's the next question, or questions actually, that I received:

1) perhaps you explained this in an early post, but for those who tuned in recently: What's the 'brick' theme all about?

2) what influences do you credit (/blame?) for your brand of wit and general perspective on life?
3) what's the coolest thing about your wife that others might not know?

I'll take these, SURPRISE!, one at a time.

First question: The brick thing has never been explained. When I started this thing a few months ago, I wanted it to be called "Anthropomorph," but that name wasn't available. It doesn't mean anything either, I just like the word. Actually, I had a dream of starting a full-fledged web-magazine called Anthropomorph about a year ago. I was going to have all sorts of people write for it, maybe some cartoons that friends drew, but that didn't work out. Since my first choice was shot down, I sat around for a few minutes trying to think of another cool name, and I came up with "A Ton of Bricks," as in "it hit me like a ton of bricks." There is no rhyme or reason behind the name. I just thought is sounded cool. As to referring to people as "the brick______" well, I got that idea from a certain Mr. Simmons at ESPN.com. He calls himself The Sports Guy and refers to his wife as The Sports Gal. I kind of took that and ran with it. Finally, if you can think of a cooler explanation for the brick thing, please let me know so I can start telling people that.

Second Question: It would take forever to document every influence I've ever had, but I will throw a few out there. For my cynicism, I credit/blame the brickfather. When we were trying to figure out what the brickbaby should call his grandparents, we decided that my dad would be "Grandpa Cynical." For my general positive outlook on life, I mainly credit my wife. For my excessive/obsessive worrying, I blame, um, no one really. As to my very derivative "wit" and self deprecating style, I admit that I have mainly copied it from other internet writers. Specifically, the writers at Black Table, most particularly Will Leitch. For my love of that lowest of forms of humor, the pun, I blame my mother. My love of the absurd has developed over many long years. I might be able to pinpoint its genesis in the 4th grade when I met my friend Ben. My wife doesn't necessarily share this love, though. Which is why I like Homestar Runner and she doesn't. Those are the influences I can think of right now.

Third Question: In college, she worked at the Burke Museum of Natural History cleaning and documenting all kinds of fossils. I think that's pretty cool. Plus, for two years, she organized Dinosaur Day. There're even pictures of her on the internet at Dinosaur Day.


Well, those are today's answers. Remember, if you have a question, email it to twentysmthingwhiteguy(at)yahoo(dot)com.

List Tuesday

10 2-word Google-defined Searches and the Number of Results

1. Uppity Northerner: 688
   


2. Redneck Southerner: 43,300


3. Sanctimonious Koalas: 72


4. Postmodern Disestablishmentarianism: 36


5. Heterogeneous Maladroits: 4
   


6. Undiscernible Recompenses: 27
   


7. Screw You: 18,500,000
   


8. Unfettered Polyandry: 211
   


9. Mythically Visceral: 373
   


10. Lollygagging Xenophilia: 1

Twenty-Something White Guy Answers (#1)

Well, let's get started.

Yesterday, I received the following email,

So, um what is your most embarrassing moment?

-a fan

Good question, fan o' mine, and here is your answer.

My most embarrassing moment happened just over five years ago. It is not a traditional most embarrassing moment in that I was not humiliated in front of a large group of people. Nor did I make an idiot out of myself on TV. Instead, I totally emasculated myself in front of the one person that I wanted to think I was manly: the brickwife, though she was just the brickfiancee at the time.

It was July 2000. I think. The first season of Survivor, which we were addicted to at the time, was just wrapping up. Anyway, we were at the beach in Washington State on a fishing trip with my parents and my younger brother. Quick story about that: My dad and my brother love fishing. Me? Not so much. How ironic (truly) that the two of them that so loved fishing were the two that spent the whole fishing boat trip throwing up due to seasickness. My mother, of all people, caught the biggest fish in town that day. Anyway, the night we arrived at our little cottage by the sea, the fiancee and I decided to take a walk around the cute little coastal town of Westport. We enjoyed our stroll, relaxing in each other's company. All of sudden, I hear a loud barking sound. Both of us glance up at the next block and see a couple of dogs. Let me rephrase that. She glances up at the next block and sees a couple of friendly dogs coming to greet us, tongues lolling. I see a couple of hellhounds set on devouring my flesh. The fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and I decide to abandon all pretense and turn tail and run. Every man (or woman) for himself. Maggie will also be happy to point out that, not only did I turn and run, leaving her unprotected, but I also screamed like a little girl. Now the dog did chase me, but only because I ran from it. It probably thought it was a fun game. And from that moment on, I've never been able to put on a tough demeanor without Maggie knowing that it's probably a charade.

And that, dear readers, is the most embarrassing moment of my life.

Ask A 20-something White Guy

I've decided to start a new feature here at A Ton of Bricks: Ask A Twenty-Something White Guy.

I've come to realize that my writing may have led some to believe that I am an angry, scarcastic, and annoying dude. While this is mostly true, there are other aspects to me. To that end I've decided to start answering random questions about anything. Well, not politics, but anything else. So, if there's something you want to know about me or about how I feel on certain subjects, send the question to twentysmthingwhiteguy(at)yahoo(dot)com. I'll try to answer it with as much candor as possible and as soon as possible. If I don't get any questions, well, I'll just never do this feature again!

It's That Time Again!

That's right folks, it's time for another lazy random thought post. You should try it sometime. It requires very little effort but it's guaranteed to get a good response. Sure, I could take the time to write out a whole post on each thought, but who has that kind of time? My time is precious. If I wasted all day writing on here, how would I ever have time to be bored to tears sitting at my desk???


Why weren't busses evacuating people before all the flooding happened.

Once, when I was at Disneyland, I was talking on my cellphone trying to find out where the brickwife and her sister were. At the same time I was walking in a really crowded area. Since my phone was up to my ear, my elbow was sticking out. I totally clocked some little kid in the head with my elbow when I turned around. I felt bad.

I forgot to say, last week, that at our wedding reception, Maggie and I danced our first dance as a married couple to Led Zeppelin's Thank You, off of II. It was the only part of the wedding that made her uncle the wannabe rock star cry. Also, we didn't get the CD back from the DJ, but that was okay because we both owned it. See? We were made for each other.

Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you.

I think that high-heeled shoes are stupid. I mean, they're so uncomfortable, yet I feel that I am required to wear them. Stupid stilettos.

If wishes were fishes.......Umm, what? Does anybody know the second half of that saying? If wishes were fishes than I would live in an aquarium? If wishes were fishes I wouldn't do the dishes? Help me out here.

This blog is unbelievably vain and poorly written, yet somehow she got a book deal. This just reinforces my decision to never, ever write a book that started as material from my blog. That is for hacks and narcissistic hosers. Sorry, but that includes you too James. If I'm going to write a book it'll be some post-apocalyptic survival tale about hedgehogs. Publishing companies: if you like that idea, let me know. I'll need $500,000 up front though. P.S. Stephanie Klein, please don't sue me.

Do you think airline companies will ever have a fare system that makes sense? I mean, I feel like trying to by a ticket is like playing roulette!

I wish you could buy stock in things like "Rabid anti-Bush people will blame the hurricane, flooding, and looting on him."

Sometimes, at work, I like to take Scotch tape and wrap it around my fingers. I have no idea why I do this.

If I had a dollar for every time I had sixty cents, I would be Canada.

Why do gas prices rise so much so quickly? Doesn't it make more sense for them to rise whenever the station gets a new shipment of gas? I mean, they already paid for the gas in their storage tanks, so why do they still charge more for that stuff?

Tadabor Day is a Labor Day.

I've had my watch for almost three years and the battery still hasn't died! I'm pretty happy about that.

Do you ever get the feeling that, in the corporate world at least, deliberate obfuscation and reliance on excessive prose are the hallmarks of "good," "professional-sounding" writing?

Once, when I was in kindergarten, I was playing on the balance beam after a rain storm and I fell off and landed in the mud. I was really bummed that my favorite maroon corduroy pants were unwearable for the rest of the day. My mom was probably bummed that she had to come to my school to bring me new pants.

So, for Levi's baptism, several of my in-laws are coming out. It should be fun, but I don't know what to do with a couple of old weirdos. Maybe I'll just leave that up to Maggie and her sister.

My dream job would be to move back to the pacific northwest and open up a craft brewery in the mountains. How sweet would that be? Anybody want to join me?

My second dream job is to be a Major League Umpire.

I want to learn how to play the piano, anybody want to give me lessons? And buy me a piano?

I'll never be really good at the piano, though. Or the guitar for that matter. My fingers are too fat and short. I'm serious, ask me to show you some time.

Burning Man has to be the all time stupidest waste of time and money ever. Just because you drive into the Nevada desert, do drugs, walk around naked and burn stuff does not make you any less of a corporate drone.

This weekend, I'm making some really awesome chicken wings for a party. I don't mean to brag, but they are the best wings ever.

I love pizza Friday!

I bet the world's first fly swatters were nothing more than some sort of flat striking surface on the end of a stick.

Once, during the summer before seventh grade, my friend Ben and I thought it would be a good idea to lay on the roof of my family's shed and get a tan. Instead of tanning, though, I got the worst sunburn of my life. It hurt to wear a shirt.

It is impossible to talk about the Lord of the Rings trilogy without sounding like a total nerd. Watch. "So then, Gandalf the Wizard rides his superhorse Shadowfax across the realm of Gondor to Minas Tirith. When he gets there, he can see that Denethor, the steward of the king, has lost his mind due to the influence of the evil lord Sauron. Meanwhile, back in Rohan, the horselords are preparing to ride to battle against an army of orcs." I mean, I can see the room I would have in my parents basement. If my parents had a basement.

Here is a list of things I did my senior year of high school in no particular order: started dating my future wife, went to my first formal dance, starred in my schools version of The Crucible, got mono, was named a National Merit Scholar, applied and was accepted at only one college, stopped playing in the marching band, acted as the student body treasurer, did the announcements over the intercom at school every day, almost played varsity tennis, got grounded for going to the annual Walk for Life, went on a trip to Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, scored a higher combined total on my IB tests than anyone in school history, learned how to play Dust in the Wind on the guitar, stressed so much about a test that I got sick, participated in the Apple Bowl, and graduated as valedictorian. What. A. Nerd. Good thing I have Maggie to tone things down a little.

Look at that smug little nerd. "Ooh, I'm so smart and I wear stupid ugly clothes to look even dorkier." Sometimes I think that if I could go back in time, the first thing I would do is punch the younger me in the stomach and tell him to shape up.

Random Picture Friday

When I see stuff like this, I never know whether to laugh or cry. So tell, which should I do?

Dark Darkness and the Dark Men that Write It

This post is all about lyrics from those masters of the macabre, those demons of darkness, those bizarre Brooklynites, They Might Be Giants. Since none of you care about this, you can go ahead and stop reading. Or, if you want to see how much of a dork I can be, please, by all means, read the whole thing.

"What," you might think. "Since when have TMBG written dark-themed lyrics? Aren't they the ones that sing that Particle Man Song?" Well, I'll tell you; apparently since the beginning. It seems weird to me, too, but it's apparently true. I was just listening to some this morning. And it's extra weird in that their darkest and most unsettling songs are always set to really upbeat music. It's really easy to sound angsty, suicide-chic and evil when you're playing, like, heavy metal or punk or something, but do sing words like that when you have an accordian and a glockenspiel in the arrangement? I'm not sure I've ever really thought about this before, but today I did some research that I will present to you. Below are lyrics from each of TMBG's albums (sans the kids ones) that are archetypes of the style I have described.

From They Might Be Giants

I Hope That I Get Old Before I Die
It's a long, long rope they use to hang you soon I hope
And I wonder why this hasn't happened
Why why why
And I think about the dirt that I'll be wearing for a shirt
And I hope that I get old before I die


From Lincoln

Where Your Eyes Don't Go
Where your eyes don't go a filthy scarecrow waves its broomstick arms
And does a parody of each unconscious thing you do
When you turn around to look it's gone behind you
On its face it's wearing your confused expression
Where your eyes don't go


From Miscellaneous T

I'll Sink Manhattan
I'll sink Manhattan
I'll sacrifice friends
I think they'd understand my plan
I'll never be sure

I've got a message
So before I get through
I'll find your answering machine
And I'll sink it first

Burn your forget-me-nots
Admit that true love can die
No, I won't apologize, my love, just kiss me goodbye


From Flood

Road Movie To Berlin
We were once so close to heaven
Peter came out and gave us medals
Declaring us the nicest of the damned

Time won't find the lost
It'll sweep up our skeleton bones
So take the wheel and I will take the pedals


From Apollo 18
This album is so dark, I had to print several songs.

Dig My Grave
Dig my grave
Dig my grave

Every time I look in your eyes
I see St. Peter wave

Dig my grave
Dig my grave

Every time you call my name
I hear the angels say

"Dig my grave"


Constellation
I lay my head on the railroad track
Stare at the sky all painted up
Your train is gone, won't be coming back

Turn Around
We were waving our arms out the window
Of a fast moving passenger train
Acting in an irresponsible fashion
Until the engineer whose back had been turned
And who we thought would find us highly amusing
Quickly swiveled his head around
And his face which was a paper-white mask of evil
Sang us this song

Turn around, turn around
There's a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
It's a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around


From John Henry

Stomp Box
Stomp Box, voice of fear
Pour the poison in my ear
Kill Kill Kill Kill
Kill me now
Free the demon
Hear the ceaseless screaming
Little Stomp Box
Tear it from my heart


From Factory Showroom

Exquisite Dead Guy
Exquisite dead guy
Rotating in his display case
Exquisite dead guy
Swear I saw his mouth move

Exquisite dead guy
Outside my high rise apartment
Exquisite dead guy
Hanging from a skyhook


From Mink Car

Cyclops Rock
I'm sick, like Chuckie was sick, my defeated heart keeps beating on,
I won't die, like Chuckie won't die, but I'm not here to socialize,
Gotta find a new place to hang out, cuz I'm tired of living in hell.
I'm a mess since you cut me out, but Chuckies arm keeps me company,
I'm a fright, with my tombstone smile, all the children run away from me.
Gotta find new friends to hang with, cuz you're all afraid of me.


From The Spine

Thunderbird
Before you fall, you have to learn to crawl
You can't see heaven when you're standing tall
To get the whole sky
On the ground you have to lie

I remember now
I remember now
Why they called it Thunderbird
Why they called it Thunderbird

We like fun, me and my girl
We'll have fun fun fun until
T-bird takes her dad away



Holy crap! You stuck around til the bitter end! Well, I hope I've proved my point. Yay death! Yay drunkeness! Yay disturbing imagery!

Ah, the return of the college students. One of the metro stops I frequent, Tenleytown, is the main stop used by American University students. This means that the trains are a lot more crowded now than they were all summer, but that's okay, because it also means the return of the escalator-top musicians. Most days, it seems, there is a duo playing various types of music at the top of the long escalator that feels like a ladder bringing you slowly, oh so slowly, out of the bowels of hell. I'm assuming that the musicians are AU music students since they were there in the spring, gone all summer and are back now in the fall.

Last week, the musical duo consisted of a violinist and a bass player. Mostly they played classical standards. I can't name anything specific, sorry. As far as metro musicians go, they were pretty good, though the violinist played most of his long notes about an eighth of a tone flat, which grates on my ears. Still, who am I to criticize? I can't play a note on the violin.

Yesterday, however, things were different. The bass player was back, but this time he had a guitarist along with him. As I was walking up the escalator, I heard them playing Take Five, which was originally recorded by the Dave Brubeck Quartet (Holy cow! My History of Jazz class did turn out to be useful!). That, in and of itself, is not weird. What is weird, at least to me, is that it was the bass player that was playing the main melody. I guess I don't usually think of the bass as anything but a rhythm instrument, and I guess I've been selling it a little short.

Bad Poetry Thursday

Since I've recently broken with tradition, in that the last "Bad Poetry Thursday" poem was not penned by me, I will scoff at that tradition and post some bad poetry that is so bad I could never hope to write anything approaching it.

The Fear
by Jim Morrison

Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial and jail seem almost
friendly)

a Kiss in the Storm

(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
scape populous & arching
coolly)

A barn
a cabin attic

Your own face
stationary
in the mirrored window

fear of restroom's
Tragic cold
neon

I'm freezing

animals
dead

white wings of
rabbits

grey velvet deer

The Canyon

The car a craft
in wretched
SPACE

Sudden movements

& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless
Night

The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker

Afraid of wolves
& his own
Shadow

Poetry Thursday

This was a toss up; Should it fall under the "Poetry Thursday" title or the "Bad Poetry Thursday" title? I decided that it is well enough established to go here, whether I think it's good or not, so...

Excerpt from Howl
by Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,