A five-year-old [Australia] girl shocked teachers when she showed her class how to make a bong out of a Coke bottle during a "show and tell" session.

Well, of course they were shocked. She's already working at an eighth-grade level...

Text of Charlton Heston's acceptance speech for receiving the Charlton Heston Award from the American Film Institute:

Ladies and gentlemen, we live in difficult times. Times filled with waffles and tasty, tasty syrup, made from the blood of young Christian children. Mr. President, I implore you: Where is my underwear drawer? In the potato? In the potato!

How many hookers must a man launch into space before you call him a man? I once saw Jack Lemmon and Larry King in the gym shower, and it sold me a house. [unintelligible] bath soaps from the future. What? Never! Something something, all my troubles seemed so... flammable!

And so on for about four hours, before stripping nude and mooning Martin Scorsese.

Question: Why is it called "Special K with Red Berries" instead of "Special K with Strawberries"? I smell conspiracy.

Mark my words, this is going to turn out like when McDonalds was using kangaroo meat...

Just got a call out of the blue (and after business hours) about some technical writing work. The guy sounded grumpy from the start, but I heard him out. He described the job, and then just stopped talking. I could be mistaken, but I'm almost certain there was no question posed. He just stopped. I stumbled for a bit to figure out what he wanted me to say, but then he accused me of attempting to "spar" with him. I tried to be as conciliatory as possible, but he continued to respond to this with near hostility, and the accusation of sparring came up again.

At this point, I was fed up with the guy, but I pressed on, because work is work. Then he gave me this: "Do you always answer a question with a question?" Well, yeah, when I don't understand the question. What I said to him was, "I'm not sure I understand what you're looking for from me here." (Which, technically, isn't a question.) I don't think any reasonable human being would see that as being argumentative, merely confused. He finally offered me up a solid, recognizable question: "Does this sound like something you're interested in?" I didn't even have to think about it. Not if it means working with you.

(Actually, what I said was, "I don't think this would work." Which was far more polite than I wanted to be, and nicer than he was giving me.)

The job, technical writing for a construction company, probably pays well, but you know, money just couldn't make up for dealing with this jerk on a regular basis...

According to the US Census Bureau, the fastest growing segment of the population? Hot young, manmeat-hungry teens.

Okay, my local cable company (Comcast, for those of you keeping track) just ran a commercial for the 2003 Emmy Award coverage September 21st on E!

Can you say "Asleep at the Switch," boys and girls? Good.

I got another one of those zen spam e-mails with the subject line "You are great" and no contents. Or maybe I just have a fan who can't find the words...

For the man who has everything (else).

From the How's-That-Listed-In-The-Phonebook-Again? Dept.:

For the safety of your soul, do not be tempted by the lure of impulse rock chip repair from strangers in parking lots. It may say free, but it could cost you your soul! If you need your windshield fixed, go to a qualified Christian repair shop.

Well, duh...

Just got some spam with the subject "hug by super huge cock". What the hell does that even mean?

I see that the "twist" on the new season of Joe Millionaire is that they're lying to with non-Americans this time.

So we've moved on to disappointing and humiliating other cultures, I guess.

Went to Kinko's, as per my usual Sunday night ritual, and the bill was $1.80. I gave the kid a twenty. He gave me $19.20 in change. I pondered this for a moment (really, just that: a moment) and gave him back the dollar.

Now, does this put me in line for some good karma or what? Or does asking for it negate any such payoff?

Inquiring minds want to know...

Other movies I watched recently: The Terror of Tiny Town, the first (and, far as I know, only) all-midget Western, and Inventing the Abbotts, about the connection between two small-town families in the Fifties, one rich and one poor. Tiny Town is, obviously, laughable. I rented it as a part of an attempt to find bad movies throughout history, and I succeeded. IMDB users have seen fit to rank Tiny Town as the worst film of the 1930s, and it's not hard to see why. The plot and script are hackneyed (interesting when you consider that the film was produced in the 1930s, and Western conventions were already well established), the acting laughable and the concept so completely odd that I have to wonder what on earth possessed the studio to think this was a good idea. I suppose that Hollywood was still young and hadn't quite perfected the formula for crap that will put butts in the seats. (That formula still isn't perfected, but it's getting tweaked and improved upon daily.) The absurdity of Tiny Town wears off in about ten minutes, and you still have the better part of an hour to kill.

My brother, upon hearing that I planned to view this film, informed me that a neglected 16mm version of this was the party movie of choice back when he was in high school. Apparently, it's perfect for getting stoned to, and the copy at my high school was totally worn out by stoners looking for something to laugh at between runs to Taco John's. Sadly, I chose to watch this without any sort of herbal accompaniment, and I have no plans to repeat the experience, with or without mind-altering substances. (Good God, watching that on acid could very likely make your brain explode...)

Inventing the Abbotts was a welcome relief after that, particularly since it co-stars Jennifer Connelly, who could be in every movie ever made and I would never complain. The story, about two brothers who get involved with a trio of rich sisters, was sweet and more complicated than other movies of this genre (in a nice way), but by virtue of that complication, the central element of the story had a tendency to get lost, that being the main character's on-again-off-again relationship with the youngest Abbott, played by Liv Tyler.

It was the second movie in recent memory starring Joaquin Phoenix that I've seen in recent memory, the other being the Army black comedy Buffalo Soldiers, and he's gone from the creepy little punk from Gladiator (a movie I hated) to a decent leading man in my mind. He carried both films quite well, though it didn't hurt that both films had decent eye candy in the wings (Anna Paquin played the romantic lead in Soldiers).

None of the films I've seen recently, though, have really blown me away, or even come close. Everything seems to wind up being passable or slightly above passable, even so-called classics like Harvey. I suppose it's the writer's instinct in me, where I keep seeing parts and things I would have written differently. What I'm longing for is the kind of movie where I wouldn't have done anything differently, but where I also leave feeling like there's no way I could have done what they did in a million years.

In other words, the kind of movie that can make my inner critic shut the hell up.

Dave Matthews, from Blender magazine:

"We used to say to my mom, 'Mom, would you eat dog shit for a hundred dollars?' No. 'Would you eat dog shit for a thousand, million dollars?' She said, 'I won't do anything stupid for money.' That would be my response as to whether or not to be on 'American Idol.' I wouldn't eat shit for any amount of money. I might like to be on 'Fear Factor,' though, because I think I could eat anything."

In my continued attempts to take Netflix for everything it'll give me, I watched two movies today and a pile over the past week, too. Tonight's fare was RKO 281, the story of the making of Citizen Kane, most of which I'd already seen on HBO (I'd rented the flick so I could watch it from the start and finish the rest). I know the story of Welles and the making of Kane fairly well already, though it was interesting to see the chronology of it laid out like it was. It was a solid film, but I was distracted by the fact that I knew most of it. I probably would have enjoyed the experience of 281 more if I'd seen it all the way through instead of piecemeal.

I also watched Henry & June, the story of Anais Nin and Henry Miller, as told by Philip "The Right Stuff" Kaufman. I found it solid and involving in parts, usually the parts that didn't involve Uma Thurman, paradoxically, since she was my main attraction to the film. I found her performance and accent grating, although for all I know, it could be completely accurate to the character for all I know. Even if that's the case, the movie failed to explain why both Henry and Anais were so drawn to her. The story of the Anais/Henry relationship was more interesting and involving, though the film often drifts into lyricism and has an atypical structure, it's solid enough to warrant sitting through, though not as good an erotic study as The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Prior to that, I watched Talk To Her, the latest from Pedro Almodovar, which I made the mistake of buying from the local video store as a part of their "2 for $20" sale on used DVDs. I just couldn't find anything else to go along with the other DVD I wanted, and since I really loved Almodovar's Open Your Eyes, I figured I'd want this one as well. Well, I was wrong, but the DVD is still wrapped, so perhaps I can exchange it. I mean, it racked up all sorts of awards, dinnit? If that's not a guarantee of quality, what is? (That's sarcasm, folks.) Talk To Her just proves that the Academy always gives out those damned Oscars for the wrong film. I thought it was interesting and involving, but also pretentious, flawed and ultimately unsatisfying. It also didn't help matters that it was a completely different film than I was expecting.

Prior to that, I watched two old classics, Harvey and Arsenic and Old Lace. Harvey, one of those films I'd meant to watch for ages but haven't gotten around to until now, was wonderful, but not quite as laugh-out-loud as I had been led to believe. The humor is there, I suppose, but it's more situational than dialogue-based, and as it was left a little to be desired. I particularly disliked it when the rabbit was given physical presence. I would have preferred it to remain up to the viewer as to whether the thing was just a figment or a real, honest-to-goodness pooka. Additionally, the film sets up some fascinating questions, but never quite moves to resolve them. Another flawed but interesting film.

I wish I could say the same for Arsenic, the cover art/poster for which misleadingly leads you to believe it's a Philadelphia Story-type romp, but it's a disorganized black comedy instead. Cary Grant is decent but goes completely over the top too often, and the script never quite pulls together in the end. (It also betrays its theatrical roots, something that Harvey nicely evades.) I suppose, at the time, the plot of two senile old lady serial killers would have been quite the shocker, but it seems so tame and the plot so predictable that it just doesn't work for me. In the hands of Billy Wilder instead of Capra, it could have been brillian instead of just barely passable. However, I did enjoy (as I almost always do) Peter Lorre.

It's my goal with this Netflix thing to watch as many films as I can, in an attempt to drive the price-point down to near zero for each DVD. The way I see it, if I watch two films a weekend, that's about 6 bucks in rental fees saved, for a total of about 24 bucks each month. Since the membership costs me $20, I am saving money (in the same manner as a woman buying shoes because they're on sale saves money, I suppose), and the more movies I watch and return, the more money I "save." This week alone, I think I've watched six movies or so. Average that out over a month and that's about 28 movies, or about 72 cents a DVD. Factor in postage costs and I have no idea how this company stays in business.

Actually, I do: It's a variation on the old health club business model. Sell a lot of memberships to well-meaning customers and count on the fact that most of them won't use the things, or at least not with any regularity. There are some weeks when I'm far too busy to watch 6 movies, and some months where I don't even manage half that number. Averaged out, they probably make a profit on me, but I'm bound and determined to win out in the end.

Plus, I have like 500 movies in my Netflix queue, I really need to get moving...

Researchers diagnosed Kohler with Random Occasional Nonspecific Pain and Discomfort Disorder (RONPDD), a minor but surprisingly pervasive medical condition that strikes otherwise healthy adults.

Yeah, I think I have RONPDD, too. I wonder if I can convince my doctor to give me a prescription for this Sucrosa. I bet it'd go good with some Dihydrogen Monoxide.

From this week's Savage Love column:

Studies have shown that somewhere between 2 and 4 percent of women have had sex with animals (the numbers are higher for men), and most, like you, were messing around with family pets during their formative years. While the percentage may sound small, it actually represents a huge number of women—somewhere in the neighborhood of 4.5 million in the U.S. and Canada.

Okay, if that's true, y'all are some sick bastards.

It's not a total surprise, though. My brother is fond of telling the story of his friend who liked to put peanut butter on his penis so the family dog could lick it off. But still... 2 to 4 percent?!? That means that, if there are hundred people in a room, chances are, at least one of them has done something filthy with Spot. Think of that at your next company picnic...

From the AP: "Researchers say they have found fossils for a 1,545-pound giant [rodent] that thrived millions of years ago in a swampy South American forest."

New Yorkers, upon hearing the news, want to know what the big deal is.

It appears that the object of my current romantic intentions is making herself unavailable. As I was brushing my teeth, the old saying about how there's plenty of other fish in the sea occurred to me, but then I thought, "Yeah, but so many of those fish are stupid or ugly or high-maintenance or stuck-up or seeing a lamprey on the side or..." And that's when the metaphor started to break down.

Got this in my inbox a bit ago:

Dear David Hasselhoff webmaster,

After I did did visit your David Hasselhoff website at http://www.gernworld.com/24.html I wanna ask you if you could place a link or box to our David Hasselhoff e-card service.

Er... no.

Wait, there's a David Hasselhoff e-card service?

I should mention that the new Metallica album, St. Anger, is really great for when you're pissed off. Nothing like a song that ends with James shouting "KILLKILLKILLKILLKILL!"

You know, until about 4 o'clock today, I was having a really great week. I had put the finishing touches on two big projects (as well as one smaller one), one of which was about six months old, another which was more than a year in the making. That they got wrapped up is utterly fantastic, that they finished within days of one another flies in the face of all probability.

Shit was, as they say, gettin' done. I was feeling good, damned good. I'd even gotten an e-mail back from a girl I'd been flirting with whom I had about given up on. (Actually, I think I probably had given up.) It's not a date, but it's better than having to start all over again.

Another project that I'd managed to put off for ages was writing the editor of the local newspaper's opinion pages and asking him for "an informational interview," which is code for "schmoozing." We met on Tuesday afternoon. He had some very flattering things to say about my writing samples, and while he didn't offer me any immediate work (not that I was expecting it), he did provide me with a few names of people I could hit up.

And then there was the interview... A small job at a small magazine published in Lake Oswego, a suburb of Portland, who shall remain nameless because I'm not quite that pissed. Yet.

The whole thing was highly unusual in so many respects I hardly know where to start. One thing that sticks out in my mind more than others is the blatant sexism coming from the only man on the three-person staff. He seemed intent on feeling me out as either an ally in the War of the Sexes or an enemy. He asked me whether one sex was more heroic than the other, meaning he wanted me to say that men had the guts and women were inferior. He asked me when was the last time I had been called a sexist pig. And on and on. The women regarded this with rolled eyes and playful laughs, and I played the fence, though I probably leaned further over to their side of the fence than his. What can I say? I like women, and my momma raised me right. Plus, one of the women was hot, and I didn't want to alienate her before I even started the job.

The publisher, the one making the actual decision, seemed to regard this interview as a formality, and barely seemed to gave it half her attention. She too flattered my writing abilities, which was all very nice, but didn't ask me much in the way of questions. In the previous interview she had remarked that I was probably "overqualified." That's just code for "we're worried you'll get frustrated or bored." And, sure, that might be a possibility, but jeez... Isn't that better than someone who isn't qualified enough and can't do the work?

However, the big sticking point for me remains her assurance that a decision would be made by the end of the day Monday. However, Tuesday rolled around and it quickly became apparent that what she meant was that a decision would be made, but that didn't necessarily mean that she would be informing me of it.

Lovely business etiquette, wouldn't you say?

So Tuesday afternoon, I sent an e-mail. Nothing. I gave that one a day to ensure that she had ample time to reply, even with just a simple "We went another direction." No such luck. Finally, pissed off and fairly certain that I hadn't gotten the job, I called the office and she informed me that they had indeed gone another direction. Caught off guard and at a loss for words, I thanked her (?!?) and asked if she'd like me to write something for the magazine, which she seemed very eager for me to do. Absurdly so, in fact. And also completely unaware that she had treated me unfairly. (I probably could have driven this home a little better.)

So now I am left at a crossroads. I feel like I have been insulted and treated like I am either beneath concern or too terrifying to approach (the latter of which seems laughable to me), and yet in order to have this rectified, I run the risk of burning a bridge that I could very much use in a number of ways. And yet, if this is the sort of treatment that I am going to get, I am really not sure I care to cross that bridge again. (Man, this metaphor is getting worn...)

Basically, I'd like to know why she didn't feel it necessary to inform me of her decision. And I would want to know before I decide whether or not to deal with her or her magazine in the future. Friends that I have told of this situation have told me quite emphatically to not to push the issue. "Forget about it," they say. "No good can come from it." I don't agree, obviously. But I can tell that I am too clouded by emotion right now to really have a proper perspective on this.

I am reminded of a common situation on The Sopranos, where some character feels insulted or dishonored somehow, and demands to be compensated or at least apologized too. I always found myself laughing at those goombahs, so wrapped up in their customs and sense of honor rather than the greater picture. And yet, here I am, very much in the same position and foaming like a mad dog.

The best thing to do would be to sleep on it, but being the impatient bastard I am, I want instant results, immediate satisfaction, dammit. And there is just no way I am going to get it. But until I manage to get some answers or clear my head of the issue, I don't think I'm going to get very much else done, save some rather furious stewing.

A good deal of why this seems like such a slap in the face is that it comes on the heels of very similar treatment by a previous employer, not to mention yet another disappointment a year filled with little but disappointment. I was starting to think, with my great week and some promising developments, that things were finally starting to turn around. I'd like to see this rejection as just another temporary setback, but that's getting absurdly difficult. After all, get enough temporary setbacks and they start to add up to permanent setbacks.

But back to the previous employer. The manager in question there also happened to be a woman (and I fear that the sum of both of these encounters could very well be turning me into a He-Man Woman Hater like my friend at the magazine...). Now, since I don't know the latest woman's motivations, I cannot be certain if this is part of a trend, but it certainly feels like one. And that trend would be the astronomical rise in passive aggression in the workplace. It is as if everyone became so damned frightened of some bastard coming into the office with a sawed-off that they treat everyone with kid gloves to their face and brutally fuck them over behind their backs. The last boss, whom I worked for through a temp agency (which itself is something of a nightmare scenario -- all the problems of regular employment and none of the benefits), apparently took issue with a few of my behaviors, but rather than confront me directly, she just called the temp agency folks and had them remove me. Fact is, none of these things were major in any way shape or form, and could have been easily remedied with just a word to me. They were little things like confusion over the company's definition of "flex time" and poor guidance on work priorities. But rather than address these issues and take care of them simply and quickly, she took the easy way out and had someone else do the dirty work. (Dammit, my blood pressure still rises when I think of it.) It was, in so many ways, a slap in the face that she smiled and made nice with me up front right up until the last minute, but apparently thought so little of me that I was considered disposable.

So now this latest issue with the interview seems to highlight much the same fear of confrontation or difficulty with dealing with the unpleasant that I have to ask, have we become a Nation of Fucking Pussies? It almost feels like a personal insult, because these people apparently have so little regard for my ability to take things like an adult that they instead treat me like a child who can't handle anything even remotely disturbing. Which is ironic because direct treatment would get my respect, but treating me the way I have been makes me far more furious.

If I were feeling brazen, I could even trace this tendency all the way up to our oh-so-lovely Commander-in-Chief, who wants the money for everything, but refuses to pose the possibly unpleasant request of making anyone pay for it. (Anyone living, that is.) We are, it seems, a nation of Buck Passers. And it HAS TO STOP.

Because, seriously, if this keeps up, it just will not end well. Someone has to pick up the bill eventually, and one of these days, it's going to be the guy who passes that proverbial buck. Pay now or pay later, it's your choice, but those interest rates are a bitch.

Consider this your warning.

Did you ever just spend a great deal of time doing grunt work when all you really wanted to do is settle in to do something else that isn't quite so essential, but still needs doing? That's my Sunday, essentially. All these things that are screaming out for my attention are drowning out the things that I really want to do. Last night, I made wicked progress on one of my projects for no one in particular, but tonight, I had to ignore that (and potentially derail my momentum) in order to tend to the crap, so to speak.

And I have to be up in 6 hours, too. Whee...

Oh, Those Wacky Lawyers: "Ms. [Jansen] has informed me that she was raped by you. If you should have any questions or concerns about any of the aforementioned, please do not hesitate to contact me."

Letter to editor: sent.

Praying: begun.

Went to bed, as normal. Woke up about ten minutes ago convinced that my bed was surrounded by spider webs and decaying corpses. Even when the lights were on, I wasn't convinced.

I seem to recall reading somewhere about a state of dreaming where one is not entirely awake nor asleep. I think this was that. Regardless, I am really starting to hate f*#^ing spiders.

Okay, I think I'm close enough. I've been working on this project since March, pondering it for who knows how long... I think I am finally ready to unleash it on the world, or more accurately, on the editors of the world. A lot of people have said some very nice things upon reading the materials I've been producing for the last few months, and I've heard very few negative remarks. Most of the ones I have heard have been limited. So I'm ready to move forward and take that nerve-wracking but crucial step. Time to see what I'm really worth.

Unfortunately, today happens to be, yes, the anniversary of those horrible attacks, and somehow it seems inappropriate to think that editors are going to be very receptive to my farcical musings today. However, perhaps that's precisely what they will be looking for.

The worst part of this is that my intended target declares on their website that it could take up to three weeks to get a response, if I get one at all. I am leery of simultaneous submissions here, but since the material could date quickly, I may have to consider that.

So I'm going to give everything one more close read-through and then hit the send button and pray. And then I have many other neglected projects to turn my attention to, including one "million-dollar idea" that hit me just as I was about to fall asleep the other day. Ought to be fun...

Things might actually be picking up, kids...

Ha!

Archaeology isn't all statues and fleeing Nazis, you know. Sometimes it involves unearthing a gigantic pile of crap. Literally.

"Is that black hole singing?"

"It would appear so, Ted."

Best news I've heard all day, possibly all year. What can I say? It's been a bad year.

So I was putting on my socks and I notice a spider run by the fridge. I go after him with a tissue but he runs behind it. I push the fridge forward and grab him with a tissue when I see ANOTHER bastard dash further under the fridge.

Add to this last night when I killed one running across the carpet and I have to ask... just how many spiders are there in here?!?

“I think a wise man once told me that no woman is more than five beers away from being a lesbian,” Goldberg says.

This is now the second article I've read on women's perplexion at male attitudes toward woman-on-woman action. (The first was in Salon, a reaction to the "Twins" beer ad.) Let me just say, as a man, QUIT IT. You're never going to get it, just like we don't get the whole shoe fascination, or why you find Enrique Iglesias so appealing. It's one of those things you're not supposed to get, because if you did, you'd be a GUY. (Or a lesbian.)

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus. Men like to watch two chicks go at it, women sometimes do that. It's a vicious cycle. If you want us to stop drooling over it, stop doing it. It's just that simple.

As a part of my quest to watch every ninja movie I could get my hand on, I viewed this last night. Apparently released as a five-years-too-late cash-in on the Police Academy craze, Nico Mastorakis, who also brought us Glitch! and .com for Murder, saw fit to put Ninja Academy on the screen. The movie flagrantly combines the wackiness of the Police Academy movies with the kind of judgment you'd expect from someone with advanced Alzheimers, not to mention one of the doughiest, most idiotic villains ever seen in a martial arts film. The movie has about the kind of humor usually aimed at second graders, but boasts too much nudity and dirty language to be shown to them. Which leaves me with the theory that this movie must have been created for adults with mild to severe mental retardation.

Fortunately, most of the people associated with this film have gone on to careers in the food service and janitorial industries, save Mastorakis, who inexplicably continues to receive funding for his films.

"Rapper Nelly will release the energy drink 'Pimp Juice' next month. The bright green drink is made from 10% apple juice and contains amino acid taurine, guarana. vitamins C, B, B12, riboflavin, niacin, and pantothenic acid."

Perhaps the other 90% is stuff drained from underneath that band-aid?

Got this from Zentertainment News:

According to The HOLLYWOOD REPORTER, Paget Brewster (Friends, Andy Richter Controls the Universe) will co-star with Hank Azaria in the two-hour SHOWTIME drama pilot HUFF. The pilot, which will be directed by Mike Newell (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire), stars Azaria as a psychiatrist going through a mid-life crisis. Brewster, who appears alongside Azaria, Ray Romano, and Debra Winger in the upcoming indie comedy EULOGY, will play the psychiatrist's wife.

For those of you paying attention, Brewster was the absurdly talented star of that wretched movie I worked on, Desperate But Not Serious, during my brief residence in Los Angeles. She certainly deserves better, and the fact that an excellent series like Andy Richter Controls the Universe gets cancelled while dreck like Still Standing lives on is one of the sure signs that we do not live in a just universe.

I just got some spam that had the subject line "You Are So Great," but the only contents inside the e-mail was a link to request that they stop sending me these e-mails. Now why would I want to do that?

Whew.

From Salon's article on the new collection of Lester Bangs essays:

Well, I'll tell you why you should care. Because Lester cared, goddammit. Lester believed music mattered, and even in this age of facile overproduced musical commoditization, of Britney Spears and Toby Keith and p-diddy-puff-daddy ludicrousness, of manufactured controversy and preprogrammed stardom, of music-as-fashion and fashion-as-cultural-critique, even now we should still be furrowing our brows and raising our voices and slamming our fists on the table and declaiming to anyone and everyone in earshot that music still matters. Sure, it might be harder than ever before to push our way through the shrouds obscuring us from the real shit, to try to pry out some sliver of authenticity from the truckloads and truckloads of odious stinking garbage that surrounds us at every remove, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't make the effort. And it does mean that now, more than ever, we need Lester.

Yeah, man. Yeah.