squidbag

Take It Up With Management

Right now, a couple of storm systems are tear-assing their way through the Southland, dropping tornadoes, flattening houses, flooding spaces, knocking down trees and killing a couple of hundred people.  I'm not looking to make light of any of that, except for the things that are inherently funny, like when someone parks their expensive cock of a vehicle inadvisably under a tree and ends up with a front seat of destruction and pine needles, or when Donald Trump gets the breath sucked out of his useless lungs by a tornado and is then sucked away into the whirlwind void and deposited upside-down and naked in a hole full of badgers and razors.  Stuff like that.

I am, however, going to take issue with a couple of other things, because it's what the fuck I do.  The first one is tree mourning.  I don't get this.  Okay, sure: If a group of assholes is stripping a piece of land down to the dirt with yellow heavy machinery and internal combustion equipment, then, yes - that's lamentable, due to it being stupid, arrogant, unsustainable, unnecessary, ugly, and preventable.  We should kick ourselves a bit when that happens.  But when a totally natural event, like a tornado, rips down that century-old tree you're attached to?  Perhaps unfortunate, but give me a break.  The tree doesn't know it's 100.  Nobody cares but us, and that has more to do with our resistance to change than anything.  If you're going to miss the birds or the shade, fine, but going around whining about something nature did to nature is bothersome for the rest of us.  Quiet down now.

Then there's all the praying.  "Pray for the South!"  Okay.  First off, the South has major difficulties, and has had, for a long time, that have nothing to do with the weather.  Poor literacy rates, bad college attendance and graduation rates, rampant conservatism, institutionalized racism and homophobia, too many churches, too many guns, anti-intellectualism, inbreeding, feuds - the list just goes on and on, and yes, you can contend that many of these problems are caused by the other problems, but it just gets so damned hot here in the Summer that no one does anything but sweat, drink sweet tea and say "My, my," and the inertia's hard to overcome to get anything done.  But while you're praying, for all the good it does, why not pray about some of that stuff?  Why not just throw the South on your prayerlist and leave it there?  Is it like a playlist - you get tired and have to delete some stuff until there's tornadoes and you can put it back? "Ooh, I haven't prayed about the South in a while."

Also on this point: Isn't praying for people affected by tornadoes kind of like Monday morning quarterbacking and making fun of your boss all wrapped up in one metaphysical burrito of sheer uselessness?  In your philosophy, I think, God sent the tornadoes, people used free will to try and avoid them, God knew they wouldn't, people had damage, hardship and death visited upon them by God, God chuckles at your prayers to ease the pain from stuff he did in the first place.  Kind of like begging the shark to ease off on the vig, yeah?  Good luck with that.

Obama to Birthers: STFU

This morning, the White House released Obama's "long form" birth certificate in the hopes that the "birthers will fuck directly off with this bullshit."  That's not their quote, but it's one I heard inside my headspace this morning, and it seems equally valid.

This will not work.  No crow dinners will be consumed.  Many of these Birthers passing for people believe all kinds of things more or less at random, and swing through the trees of life whipping fecal outburts at the facts and ignoring logic like it wasn't even there.  For months, Birthers have been asking why the President doesn't just produce this document and put an end to all the speculation, as if that would actually happen.  As if anyone in American public life at this point is capable of backing down, admitting that they were wrong, or acquiesing anything at all, ever.  

Obama hopes that this will quell this ridiculous argument, but that's the biggest problem with Obama: hope.  All this hope is unjustified.  There's no reason to hope that others will be reasonable, that people will listen, that an argument can be settled by facts.  I could have video of Obama exiting his mom's birth canal surrounded by hula dancers in front of the backdrop of Pearl fucking Harbor, with Danno doing the delivery and Don Ho singing "Tiny Bubbles" as a soundtrack, and birthers wouldn't be convinced, instead contending that the whole thing was done on a soundstage in Kenya.  

Cause those Kenyan soundstages are world-renowned, you know.

Photo comes from here, via here.

The Clinical Study

A week ago last Friday, I drove in a thundering rainstorm from Murfreesboro to Nashville to visit Vanderbilt University's Psychology department.  I had decided to participate in a clinical study involving DNA markers, circadian rythyms, chronic disorders, and how those things influence things like depression and mania and other stuff.  I found out later that I was getting paid - $155.  It was an interesting week.

First I sat in a room with a total stranger and answered probing questions about highs and lows in my life, my interactions with other people, and the most horrible things that have ever happened to me.  True story; she asked me if I had ever "impulsively risked my life, been put by someone else into a life threatening situation, had a friend or close acquaintance suddenly die or commit suicide, or been involved in a failed business or natural disaster."  Yes.  Moving into explaining that I had been involved with all of these required a whole extra sheet of paper.  The head injury question was even funnier.  

Neither come close to this, though:

"Have you ever seriously contemplated deliberately hurting another person?"

Thinking that everyone has done this at one time or another, I guess I answered a little too flippantly: "Heh. Sure!"

Slow glance upward from the interviewer: "Have you ever actually deliberately hurt another person?"

"Well, yeah."

Long, silent awkward moment during which interviewer almost imperceptibly moves her chair away from mine.  I think I learned more about her than she did me in that moment, to be honest.

Over the course of the week, I had to take about an hour and half's worth of written and online surveys, which doesn't seem like much until you're taking them and trying to fit all of your life experiences into a 1 to 5 rating scale.  I can see myself during the next really fun time: "This was a total five, guys - thanks for coming out."  On Wednesday through Friday, I had to collect a lot of my saliva and urine.  Now, I'm sure lots of you have given over pee - getting a job, health insurance, certain kinds of nightclubs - and the Friday morning sample they asked for was totally like that.  But Thursday; Thursday I got to experience the joy of a 24 hour urine collection, which is essentially filling a weird brown jug that looks like it's farm equipment while feeling like you have a dark secret. 

Saliva collection sucks.  All of the moisture out of your mouth.  It's terrible, it's like those things they loaded Brando's mouth with before they shot Godfather.  I don't recommend that.

And then there was blood, and more questions, and this odd conversation with the study people about questionable and unethical studies throughout history.  It was kind of fun, and well outside my comfort zone, which is why I did it.  So yeah, next time you want to give fluids, answer questions and talk to strangers for a couple of bucks, why not try a clinical study?

Don't Call it a Comeback

"aaaannnd we're back.  Whoa, that was weird.  I have NO interest in doing that ever again.  Whoof!  Stiff, too.  OOOOOOHHHH, yeah, some stretching'll do it; give the old back a pop.  (cracks neck) There we go.  Okay, I had a bunch of followers, like 12 guys, they should be waiting for me right outside this tomb, yeah?  I SAID I'd be back, and they're a solid group, yeah?"

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"Hellooooo...?"  

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK

"Hey!  HEY!  GUYS!  It's me!  I'm back.  ...  Anybody?  Shit.  Fine, nobody's out there, big fucking rock - I guess I have to do it ALL BY MYSELF again, just like old times...need food?  Oh, I'm on that.  Ran out of wine?  I got it.  No, that's cool, really - I can heal all these lepers and shit and knock demons out of a little girl; YOU GUYS KNOW I DIED FOR YOUR SINS ON A ROMAN FUCKING CROSS, RIGHT?!?  But nobody's here to help the J-Boy move the heavy fucking rock.  No, no - I got it."

(dusts off hands, blows on them, briefly fascinated by the new whistling sound this makes, moves the enormous rock out of his way using magic Jesus powers)

"Okay - there we go; oh, hey, Mary.  Awesome that you're here; I'm going to guess you couldn't hear me trying to pound my way out of the grave after I died for your sins and came back from Hell and death and stuff, and - hey!  Where the hell're you going?  I'm back from the dead - I COULD USE SOME CLOTHES!!!  Damn.  Looks like I'm walking into town. (dusts off shoulders) I guess I'll just make some clothes for myself - 'Oh hey, Jesus - what?  Oh, you need clothes?  Your anointed grave wrappings are just not going to do it on the streets into town?  Well, can't you just MAKE them?' Yep, let me just miracle up some clothes out of the thin air.  (does this)

This is going to be awkward, what with the denying me and all the craziness, and Judas dying two suicides and all the crying and them thinking I'm a zombie - but I can talk and there's no talking zombies, so I should probably say something right away - great, more speeches - 'Hey, everybody, the carpenter from Nazareth's making another speech with the parables and stuff - maybe he'll feed us again!'  Yay, can't wait.  Should be a good time.  There's no way I'm hanging out down here for more than say, a month.  40 days, tops.

Hey - a bunny!"

A Lady Gaga Miracle

The Nashville Tenneseean, in an amazingly irresponsible use of headlines, is reporting today that a woman died, and was then "brought back to life" at last night's Lady Gaga show at the Bridgestone Arena, the home of the Nashville Predators.  Wow.  Anything to pimp the paper in the age of Internet, I guess, but what a fucking headline.

And what press for the obviously press hungry Lady in question, yeah?  A resurrection at the Easter fucking weekend show?  What the hell?  A little Lady Gaga miracle?  "Apparently, Jesus is in favor of gay rights, that's why he brought that woman back from the dead at the Lady Gaga show.  There's no other even remotely plausible explanation.  From my read of the facts."

And what are the facts?  Well, apparently Crystal Thorton, 33, suffered a heart stopping seizure that left her without a pulse for five minutes, the definition of death used by medical personnel, and quoted in this article.  The guys on scene whipped out the defibrillator and kept her going until she could be shipped over to Vanderbilt and cooled against the possibility of brain damage.

Which, unfortunately, she experienced anyway, having had her sense of fucking perspective obliterated by her brush with the Great Beyond.  This is demonstrated by her statement, "I am so mad that I missed the concert."  Really, Crystal?  No one's mad at you for missing it because you had the best excuse for missing something going: "I was dead.  I was dead, so I missed the Lady Gaga show."  Most resurrected people wouldn't be mad, either.  Most people would be cheerful and happy in the realization that they were five minutes dead but now, thanks to the intervention of total strangers, they aren't.  I mean, I can be hard-boiled, but I'm pretty sure I could find the joy in that, if only long enough to talk to the newspaper guy about it.  But not Crystal.  Pissed that she missed the show.  I bet Gaga will comp you, Crystal.  You're going to be great for future sales: "Lady Gaga KILLS in latest performance."  "Gaga will knock you DEAD."  "If you have a weak heart or are in any way medically unsound we recommend you skip the next Lady Gaga concert."  Ticket sales are gonna be through the roof, and Gaga'll be able to buy more meat-and-broken-glass bustiers.

Maybe she'll even spring for a perspective transplant for Crystal.  If it works, we start forcing them on most of the American public.  "It's either the transplanting or a Bockwursting, your choice."

The Trifuckta

I don't know, man: I went 'round and 'round on the title of this one - The Tridiots?  The Three Moronteers?  Three Cads in a Fountain?  I could go on, but I leave that to the more gifted punsters amongst you.  I prefer the title I've chosen - The Trifuckta - because of the inherent gamble our governance seems to imply lately, and because it incorporates the word 'fuck,' which longtime readers will note: Always a bonus at the Squidbag.  Simple pleasures and all that.

Perhaps to be filed in the category of "the leaders we deserve," (which is not actually a category I have, now that I look) we have two relatively recent developments in the world of politcotainment: First, Gary "I'm not brain damaged, I'm a melon" Busey announced to the Today show (reported here by McPaper) that Trump would be an "absolutely good" President, which seems to imply some sort of apotheosis, I guess, which in Trump's case, would almost assuredly be gilded.  Anyway, Busey's saying this after being booted off that Trump "You're Fired" show, so maybe he's trying to get back in, or maybe he's just vying for a future Transportation Secretary job so he can push everyone's right to modify their brains with high impact asphalt.

And Sheen's on board FTW, too!  Winning?  Whatever - after having his kids taken away by the courts last night, Sheen attacked Obama's citizenship and decided being a "birther" was the way to go.  And Carlos Erwin Estevez has nothing to hide, you know - having been born in New York and all.  So yeah - the Dems may have a lot of milquetoasty wimpy types milling around and trying to figure out how to affect change, but the GOP's got actual fucking crazy people with brain damage and rights restricted by the court pulling for their imaginary candidate with a TV show.

The big question here?  If you factored Palin into this equation, what would she do to the mean IQ?

Robert's Discount Auto

I DVR Diners, Drive-ins and Dives off Food Network later at night so I can watch it while I make dinner the next night. Typical scene at my house: My son is finishing his homework at the dining room table having an apple in the late day sun while I get dinner finished up, my daughter is playing computer games or with the dog, and I've got Triple D on the TV, which is visible from the kitchen.

This commercial intruded upon my late afternoon splendor today and scarred my forebrain, so now I share it with all of you, much in the way someone insists on trotting out their ugly surgery scars, ugly relationship stories or ugly pix of relatives at a social gathering.  Welcome to the bad local advertisement for Robert's Discount Auto Repair, which begins pretty mundanely, with Robert reading from the cue cards.  Then Robert lets you really know what he's all about, by displaying the huge American flag wall behind his TV customers - which is great, actually, until it's juxtaposed with Glenn Beck's flapping maw on the big screen, and now the message has changed.

The spot reaches its high point then, with Robert's misspelled declaration that he proudly "employees" Christian technicians in his shop.  Frankly, this would make me fear for my vehicle.  I think I'd rather have repairs than prayers.  (Reprayers?)  If they do a little body work, does it scar in one of those little fishy patterns?  Do they wash 'em in holy water when they're done?  Do they anoint my car with oil?  Does my cap runneth over?  Surely, do goodness and mercy follow me in my rearview mirror, and can my car dwell in the garage of the Lord forever?

"Hey, my car won't start."

"Probably a demon, right there under your hood!!"

"...You don't think it could just be the starter?"

"DEMON, COME OUT OF THIS VEHICLE, IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST THE LORD!!!  That'll be $500."

Anyway - Robert ends up with a promise to beat the dealership on price and service...which is no big deal - dealerships largely suck on both counts unless you have a luxury car.  I can't think of any reason to recommend Robert's Auto, but I don't feel too bad, since I have it on good authority that A) There's no such thing as bad publicity, and B) Robert's required by his mechanics' faith to forgive me.

Beware My Power...

So, ComicBookMovie.com released pictures of Ryan Reynolds all Green Lanterned out for the new movie.  First off, when up against Thor, Cap, and X-Men: First Class, and coming off of Jonah Hex, I understand the need to whip up some interest in the new outing, and DC's run into a lot of flak about costuming lately, first with the prelims on this thing, and then with the initial WW designs.

But - he's naked.  As a wise man once said, "You can't be a hero with your schlong hanging out."  If ever we wanted to settle the conversation about women heroes vs. men heroes in skintight costumes, now we're done.  And I get it.  Ryan's ripped since Amityville or Blade 3 or whenever, and that's a big draw.  But naked hero?  Dude.  I can see Ryan's toes.  Notice how the crotch area in all the promophotos is blacked out in shadow?  Without that, I suspect, Ryan Lantern here would be a sundial.  And what's he doing with his other, ringless, hand?  Fisting?  'Cause he's naked already?

Look, Hal Jordan - pictured on the left - is a test pilot.  You know any test pilots who would pick this uniform given the opportunity?  Even after the Rebirth event, when they gave him the overhead projector, he still looks better than this.  I think that because the suit is supposed to be made of the stuff/energy from the ring, that's why they made it a skin-tight fiber optic unitard, with the empasis on tard.  But this is supposed to be an unstoppable energy weapon that taps into one of the deepest universal wells of power in the known universe and is limited only by the wearer's imagination and intellect - and this suit makes Ryan look pretty fucking limited in those departments.  You couldn't think up some boots, Ryan?

They keep having this thing, this assertion that comic book suits don't translate well to the big screen.  And yet, Chris Reeve.  Tell that to Iron Man.  Tell that to Spider-Man.  If you must change things, change them for the better, and don't give us the emperor's new Green Lantern suit.

Sidney Lumet 1925-2011

I was sitting in the finished basement living room of my dad and his third wife's house in 1992 working on a stupid project for my high school Spanish class.  I needed to do well on the project - a pinata - because I sat in the back of the language class I was forced to take and read science fiction novels and comics the whole time.  I was up to my elbows in papier-mache, and growing weary when I took a break and flipped on the TV.

I had missed about the first five minutes of 12 Angry Men, but was captivated by the performances and the nuance of the argument.  The sheer drama of watching Henry Fonda bring everybody around was so powerful, and the tight little jury room, the unchanging backdrop to the meltdowns, considerations, arguments and flow of humanity; Lumet captured sweat, toil, hate and virtue, squeezed it out of Rose's play and made it into my favorite movie of all time.  I have enjoyed some of Mr. Lumet's other pictures, but none has been the experience for me that 12 Angry Men was.  No, not even Serpico, or Dog Day Afternoon.  

Good-bye, Mr. Lumet.

Fuck Walgreen's

Like, six months ago now, I bought a box of sandwich bags from Walgreen's.  I don't remember doing this, it was so long ago.  The box claims that there were 150 of the fuckers in there, but I'm pretty sure they're self-replenishing.  Sandwich bags are one of those things I would never be without, as I put everything in them; sandwiches, sure, but also snacks, vegetables, herbs, leftover blocks of cheese, toys, screws, change, scraps of paper, pens, and the various debris that accumulates when one has two kids, and now - a dog.

I don't put my dog in the bag.  You know what the hell I mean.

Anyway, right on the box, it says: *Compare to Glad®. Well, first off, I went looking for the footnote denoted by the *, and I found it right on the bottom of the box.  It's pretty boring stuff about Glad being a registered trademark of the Glad products company.  The bottom of the box also says that when I write to the company, I should destroy the box and send pieces of it to Walgreen's like I'm a kidnapper cutting off fingers and demanding a ransom.  There are also instructions for how to use the product, which is a bag, but I won't even get into that tangent here.

My biggest problem with *Compare to Glad®, however, is that it represents just another instance of the MAN keeping me down.  Fuck your "*Compare to Glad®," man!  You can't tell me what to compare my bags to; I'll compare whatever the hell I want in my kitchen!  I might compare them to Ziplock bags or burlap sacks or a sleeping bag, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it, Walgreen's!  Yeah!  Say I want to compare these bags to a glass of orange juice and pronounce them not as delicious?  I can do that shit, you know?  I'm going to compare them to a recent novel I read, a series of Facebook comments, some roasted potatoes, and the smell of fresh cut grass, too.  BAM!  Comparisons - all over!

Fuckin' Walgreen's, thinkin' they're better than me.  You're not the boss of me, Walgreen's!!