squidbag

Brand New, You're Retro

Stolen from AKA Binsk (pictured), here are the first lines of the first posts of each month this year.

January: Holiday Road

I am sitting in the office of my house typing this while my family is asleep in the next room.

February: Literary Consumption & Digestion

I have had, like a lot of Typepad users, a little booklist on my blog since 2005.

March: Sick

I fucking hate being sick.

April: The Danger of Nipple

I don't know if any of the rest of you are concerned about this, but Portuguese fashion designer Fatima Lopes has the power to overthrow governments, collapse capitalism, and crush rational debate and human interaction underfoot with her newest creations.

May: Little Sunday Drive

Sunday, as it turns out, is a good day for an NPR listener to take a road trip.

June: A Farewell to Sense

One of the interview subjects in Michael Moore's film, Fahrenheit 9/11, is suing him because the clip used of him makes him appear to be anti-war, and he's not.

July: Stones - 24 Hours a Day

Last night driving into Nashville from P'cola, I was pulling the last part of the stretch, and surfing between whatever stations I could get at the Alabama/Tennessee border for about 100 miles.

August: Oh, the Places You'll Go (virtually)

Everyone else does this now and again, where they put up an entire entry of just links you ought to go see.

September: Open Letter to Warren Jeffs:

Mr. Jeffs, My congratulations to the Nevada authorities who have, at last, apprehended you.

October: A Simpleton's Faith

My chief objection to funerals has, in the past, been that I don't really see the point in sitting in a (usually consecrated) room while some pastoral functionary who may or may not have even known the deceased tries his level best to make everybody cry, like there's a quota, like it's Amway, like it's a personal challenge to fill the house with damp and weepy eyes.

November: Rock the...Whatever.

I remember a time - back in the late 90s I think it was - when I would bitch endlessly about my government until I was blue in the face, often with a bottle of something # Proof in my clenched fist, and often addressing (directly or otherwise) some asshole or another in an official position of authority.

December: Seriously, though?

Under the category of "All Fundamentalism Breeds Humorless Insanity," we have this guy, Muslim cleric Abu Bakar Ba'asyir, recently released after being held in connection with the 2002 bombings in Bali, which resulted in the deaths of a couple of hundred people, so I hope his "involvement" is tangential, and not that someone made a clerical error.

See you in 2007, all.

Boxing Day Filler

From Kat's Blog, because she always finds this stuff before I do.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: His Noble Excellency Squidbag the Perplexed of Throcking in the Hole Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I went and looked up "throcking," which unfortunately doesn't mean anything. I think I would have preferred "bockwursting."  I hope you all have a lovely Boxing Day.  Throw out some boxes, kick them to the curb.  Or punch somebody in the face.  Or give your servants some stuff you don't want.  Or the day off.  Or, I suppose you could punch your servants in their collective face, while throwing out some stuff you don't want, provided it has six sides and is squarish.  You don't like it?  Throck you.

On Skepticism

And yes, I know what day it is.

Simply put, this keeps coming up in conversations, and so seems worth mentioning now (as, presumably, the only Christmas message you're going to get from me) whether or not it appears to be a kind of redundant slam at the particular season in which we're currently embroiled.  See, I had an epiphany a while back that I neglected to share.  The epiphanic (for me) observation I had was that, in sharp contrast to most people of faith with whom I am (voluntarily or not) affiliated, it's not that big a deal when I turn out to be wrong.  I try not to be, and will vociferously defend my "unique" P.O.V., but averages alone will dictate that I will be often wrong, and it doesn't bother me overmuch when it happens.  Part of being a skeptic by nature is not having faith in much of anything, and questioning everything, including your own observations.  (I was going to say "conclusions,"  but I try not to make those as often, since they sound too finished, and I'd like the opportunity to go back and varnish them with another coat of information at some point in the future.)  Indeed, I often preface myself in such interactions with "I could be wrong..."  It's just not that Earth-shattering for me when it happens, because I (for the most part) don't have a whole lot riding on it.  By comparison, those around me whose observations - and more often, bloody-minded conclusions - are based on faith, and often faith alone, well, for them to be wrong?  For them to be wrong represents a foundation-rattling event, a paradigm shift, a sea change in thinking.  If they admit that they were wrong, more often than not it requires a complete re-evaluation in thinking, a 180 turnaround from the present path.  I could point this model at a great many people - my mother-in-law, the President, the Pope - and I very likely will.  Or, I already have. Or both. I don't want to jump out there and make the heavy-handed assertion that all people of faith have to live some part of their lives in denial, because to really admit major fault, especially that based on internal drives, mores and ideas, would shake them to their core and leave them as flawed and vulnerable as the rest of us who have only logic and science to guide us and not the purity of heartfelt feeling which runs so many of their motors of destiny.

After all, I could be wrong.

Oil Change Theatre & Travels

Before we left for our cross-country holiday trek, I had our oil changed and our tire pressure checked.  These are just some of the piddly errands you have to do before leaving town; shipping packages, paying bills, buying proliferate amounts of animal feed, laundry, dishes, leeches, smack.  I had meant to see a mental health professional about my ability to perform behind the wheel, but there wasn't time.  You can't do everything - you know how it is.  The stalwart guys at American Lube Fast have a vocal cadence to their call-and-response that would shame a short order cook and make a tobacco auctioneer weep over his gavel.  They shout at high speeds about the services to be rendered in such a way as to make their words into a sort of 3000 mile maintenance poetry, the sound of language transformed into information of another kind, impenetrable by outsiders.  I pulled into the place at the same time as a 28 foot Oldsmobile stretch limo; he was Bay 2, I was Bay 1.  The funniest moment came when one of the oil change guys, a black guy, asked for the keys to pull it in.  The limo guy's response?  "I don't think so."

The oil change guy:  "Man, that's cold.  That's profiling, that's what that is."  Also amusing was watching the huge guy brag about his "28 footer."  If cars sub for dicks among emotionally retarded men, (as the assumption goes) this guy has issues that would outnumber National Geographic's.

Before we could escape completely, we spilled a soda in the car.  A sudden braking precipitated a horizontal Diet Coke incident, and we stopped at the last Dollar General store in Florida (literally within view of the State Line sign in Flomaton) for some paper towels.  It was like shopping in a drug addict's garage.  Shelves of random crap, some of it priced.  Things on the floor, dangerously narrow aisles.  Shuffling people, one of whom wanted to know, "How's yer mom?"

"You don't even know me."  After the mumbled apology, I got my paper towels from their logical home right next to the peanut butter, stood in line with the junkies, and spent the next six hours or so traversing the wonderful state of Alabama.  We are taking bad home video of this trip, and if you get the chance, you should ask us for the video of the baby falling backwards into a soda can.  Good parenting and good video!  You can't beat it with a stick!

We are in Nashville now, with plans to hang out with the Guys, Shannon, and over at my mom's house (she's fine, thanks) for the fudge and the sausage balls and the gifts and the whatnot.  We are temporarily escaping all of the recent unpleasantness - that associated with Pensacola and otherwise - and have resolutely committed ourselves to having a good time on this trip.  We are not taking calls from anyone difficult, and we are not doing any business or errands, unless they be directly connected with the holiday season.  If all this makes me sound disturbingly like Clark W. Griswold, then you are right to be disturbed.  That which gets in the way of my fun fucking holiday will be annihilated.  We have a zero tolerance attitude towards the unfun.  So - if you plan on being non-diverting, less than entertaining, or putting your mark in the negative fun column, stay out of our way on this trip.

Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you.  Happy end of December fest.

James E. Jones, 1942-2006

I have just recieved word from Costa Rica, via his family, that my good friend, Mr. Jim Jones, (pictured here with a one-month old Abigail) has died of a heart attack at a friend's home, aged 64.  My relationship with Jim has been one of the few positive things that I can point to in my Pensacola experience.  I met Jim in 2003 when we started his ultimately doomed campaign for County Commissioner in District 1 of Escambia County.  His constant visits to the shop and financial support were the only things that really kept me interested and afloat during Pinnacle's start-up period, and when we lost the election like we did, it really kind of sent both of us into disenchantment with the voters of District 1, who said one thing and did another.  After that, Jim and I became friends, sharing a mutual love of Chinese food and picking on Greg Fink.  When Pinnacle finally closed its doors, Jim helped me drive all my stuff to my house, and when Hurricane Ivan ripped down the fence and screens, Jim (with Greg in tow) helped me put the stuff back together.  Found me roofers, too.  We didn't always see eye-to-eye - on much of anything - but an atmosphere of mutual respect made disagreements palatable and even interesting.

Last year, Jim had a number of heart-and-lung-related episodes, and so decided, once freed from the care of people he came to regard as quacks at best, to quit Pensacola.  In short order, he bought land, a house, met a woman and fell in love, began conquering the language barrier, and moved to Costa Rica to live.  He bought a restaurant recently, Au Natural.  He claimed to be feeling great, and I know he was having a good time.  I think he thought he might be checking out soon and constructed things for his last grab at bliss before that could occur.  Enterprise, exotic lands, beautiful wife, etc.  The stuff Jim's dreams were made of.  He crammed a lot of living into his years; Army paratrooper, antique store owner, local politician, entrepreneur, police officer - amazing guy.  He loved me and my family, and we loved him right back.

We'll miss Jim.  He thought this was probably the funniest thing we ever did together , so I post it here again for your edification.

A Squidbag Christmas

Come and behold him,
Born the king of Squidbag.

O Come All Ye Faithful
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

I didn't even know we had a king.  I thought we had a sort of Executive Officer of the Week.

Silent Squidbag, Holy Squidbag.

Silent Night
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

There's just nothing true about this, is there?  An SBHS?  Silent but Holy Squidbag?

And so this is Xmas,
I hope you have Squidbag.

Merry Xmas (War is Over)
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

And I do.  I do hope this.  For all of you.

Hark the herald angels sing,
'Glory to the new-born Squidbag'.

Hark The Herald Angels Sing
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

Squidbag be praised!

Here comes Squidbag! Here comes Squidbag! Right down Squidbag Lane!

Here Comes Santa Claus
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

Sonofabitch, look out - MOVE!

Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and Squidbag reconciled.

Hark The Herald Angels Sing
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

No, but a nice idea, yeah?  I recommend going to this site and plug in any word, though I suspect "Squidbag" has some inherent funniness not present in other words.  I imagine "dung"  "tacos" and "sasquatch" might work, though.  Eric will especially like this just because he gets to repeatedly push a button marked "SING!"  Kind of.  I guess.  Shut up.

I bring you tidings of comfort and Squidbag.

Reading History

From Michelangelo and the Pope's Ceiling, which I am currently reading:

"The Roman carnival that took place in February of 1510 was even more jubilant and unruly than usual.  All of the familiar entertainments were on show.  Bulls were released into the streets and slain by men on horseback armed with lances.  Convicted criminals were executed in the Piazza del Popolo by a hangman dressed as a harlequin.  South of the piazza, races along Via del Corso included a competition between prostitutes.  An even more popular attraction was the "racing of the Jews," a contest in which Jews of all ages were forced to don bizarre costumes and then sprint down the street to insults from the crowd and sharp prods from the spears of the soldiers galloping behind.  Cruelty and bad taste knew no bounds.  There were even races between hunchbacks and cripples."

Why do we read history?  Perspective.  Next time you think Miss USA, American Idol, the Biggest Loser or even pay-per-view boxing is all that bad, think again.  Now, this is not to say that we might not be circling back in this direction - I bet you could televise death row right now to big ratings - but knowing shit like this used to happen should goddamn well give us pause next time we think about pushing the envelope a little more for our entertainment value.  How far apart is this season's "Segregated Survivor" from a "running of the Jews," anyway?

No word on whether the hunchbacks were able to beat the cripples, either.

Merry Shut the Fuck Up

Oh, come on.

Apparently this movie, Black Christmas, is coming out this Christmas, and from cursory glances, has absolutely nothing to crow about, since it is exactly the same as all of the other shit movies being squirted from the anus of Hollywood in the last few years.  It's a remake of another movie, Black Christmas (1974), it's got a very standard plot, the stock characters (the credits list "Officer"), and the requisite teen screamers and gallons of movie blood and gore.  So why am I talking about it?

Christians are very upset about it, that's why.  You know, slaughtering co-eds and decking the halls with entrails apparently isn't very Christmasy.  There are wingnuts from the "Liberty Counsel" and "Operation Just Say Merry Christmas, you PC Jerks" who object to the use of nativity scenes and religious music in the film.  Folks, you can't have it both ways.  Do you want images and sounds of Jesus at Christmas or not?  You asked for it, you got it.  You wanted to keep Christ in Christmas, so his infant ass is in the film.  Second, they seem to be objecting to this just not being "in the spirit."  Two things about that:  First off, some motherfuckers (as Dimension Films points out in the press release quoted in the article) need this kind of release during the paralyzingly saccharine holiday season, and second, where were you pricks when this came out?  What about this?  Or this?  Or this, or this, or this?  Or this!  There's like, five of that last one!  All movies that happen at Christmas, assholes.

If I gotta tolerate the Nativity Story movie, you folks can suck it up this once.  Okay, probably not, but just be quiet.  That'll be your holiday gift to me.

Martin Nodell, 1915-2006

Martin Nodell, the creator of Green Lantern, has died at the advanced age of 91.  Nodell, despite having created a character and a mythology that would stick around for 66 years already, had only limited success in comics, and eventually left to pursue a career in advertising, where he was also one of the guys in the room when they came up with the Pillsbury Doughboy.  The original Green Lantern (pictured) was inspired by a railway conductor with a green lantern on a platform Nodell saw while working through a writer's block.  Alan Scott, the character, was the sole survivor of a railway accident, who was given his ring and powers when the wreck unearthed a mystical object of power and gave him his name.  The Lanterns got their spacefaring, universal cop motif a lot later, and eventually swelled to a corps of 3600.  Alan Scott is still around, though, in the pages of JSA, among other things, and is one of the oldest heroes there is - same age as Wonder Woman, two years older than Captain America; only Supes and Bats are older.

I hope you'll join me in the Green Lantern's Oath for Mr. Nodell, may he rest in much deserved peace:

In brightest day, in darkest night,
No evil shall escape my sight,
Let those who worship evil's might,
beware my power - Green Lantern's light!

An Obvious New Direction

The Monkeyface administration has announced today (sort of) that President Dubya Monkeyface has, at last, decided on a new direction for dealing with the war quagmire disaster complete and total clusterfuck in Iraq.  Proving that he can listen when all of Congress and the majority of the American people shout loudly enough about all the stupidity, death, instability and shattered lives that are his fault, and that it only takes a month for him to stop on a dime, fire some of the most visible people responsible for the problems, and bring on board a new and challenging plan for not really victory, mind you, just putting the puzzle back together.  The new idea is to funnel a lot more money into Iraq, to beef up the security forces, who presumably will still not be able to stop stuff like this, since that would take ages of ideological alteration in the minds of Iraqis.  It's that whole "please stop murdering each other over your sectarian differences" thing that a great many people find it hard to take onboard.  In addition, we are supposed to be sending more officers and advisors into the area, and having fewer combat troops there - maybe.  There seems to be some ambiguity on whether or not to reduce troop levels.  Regardless, there is a new plan coming out of 1600 Pennsylvania.

Dubya is now expected to announce funding for the construction of a time machine, so he can go back to late 2003 and implement this plan when other people said he should've, and more importantly, when it would have made a fucking difference for a lot of currently dead people.