I'm gonna have fun with this shit.

So, since yesterday I've been having something of a semi-hostile e-mail correspondence with Lee of Right-Thinking. I won't get into it too much, except to say that Lee keeps missing the point of what I'm saying, since he keeps posting defenses of himself like this "So, what has changed? Has it been my core beliefs?", when I've pointed out about a thousand times that that wasn't my criticism of him, nor do I believe it would be at all an accurate criticism.

Anyway, I mention this because as I was typing up my last response to him a thought occurred to me. Back in Spring my Anthropology professor made a pretty good point. She asked the class which gender we think of as being more emotional, and of course in unison people said "women." Then she went on to point out, "What about anger? Don't we consider men to be angrier than women? But, isn't anger an emotion?"

My point here is that emotion taints reason. A display of anger, genuine or feigned, adds an emotional imperative to a statement that has nothing to do with facts. Back when I used to read Right-Thinking more than any other blog, I used to completely overlook that. After all, that was (at first) before I started college and had to actually form arguments for papers and whatnot. The sad part is though, I actually picked up on that mentality, and used it in other internet forums, including this blog. It isn't debate, it's a dick measuring contest.

When played off with a sense of humor the Angry White Conservative persona can actually be pretty entertaining. But when the persona becomes a mechanism of actual arguments, well basically you have the masculine/testosterone version of "Won't somebody please think of the children?!" Thankfully a substantial percentage of my ideological brethren see through that, as is evidenced by the fact that Michael Savage and Ann Coulter were voted among the most hated conservatives on the right by right-wing bloggers.

I know Limbaugh can be a windbag, but one point he repeatedly makes that I think he is dead on about is that you can't win elections on anger. He is usally referring to left-wingers when he says it, but I think it can apply just as much to right-wingers, and I think may have a lot to do with why incumbants so often win reelection (the out of power tend to show more outrage). Fectin and I once talked about on this blog how supporters of the party in power are usually the group accused of being the ignorant masses, and I speculated that it was probably an attempt by the out of power at making excuses for their failure. I think that kind of falls into the present topic.

Anyway, expression of outrage is always an emotional appeal, always. Now, we all make emotional appeals from time to time, and it's not an invalid method of argument, but it can easily distort facts. History is loaded with examples of the passionately assertive confidently leading large masses of people down a horrific path. In light of this, it's amazing to see so many debates online where one side (or both) declare victory, or proclaim an "ass-whooping" without either side being in any way convinced of anything other than what they went into the debate believing. I don't engage in arguments on the internet as often as I used to, because I became disillusioned with the realization that most of them weren't real debates. I'm not interested in a one-sided political circle-jerk, but that's probably better than lying to yourself that you and your gang are the biggest bunch of bad asses on the internet, and others are just afraid to confront you.

Lastly, I don't usually put any kind of restrictions whatsoever on the comments to posts on this blog (nor have I even bothered with even looking into how to moderate posts on HaloScan) but I will politely ask that nobody mention Lee in the comments to this post, since he will use it to try to argue that everybody else is obsessed with him (as if our combined posts about him could even stack up against his own shrine to Michael Moore).

UPDATE: In Lee's new post, he claims I pasted a quote at the beginning of this thread that was never in the e-mail he sent me, but if you click the link I pasted right before I quoted him (the link is not carried over in his copy & paste of my post), you can find the post from Lee from his blog that I copied & pasted that quote from. As for his other criticisms of me in this post, I'm not going to respond, and I'm not going to offer a reason to respond. I just want to suggest that you keep Lee's post here in mind for at least month (it probably will only have to be for a day or so, but just in case). Don't forget it. If you do, I'll hold on to the link, so you can come back here and ask me for it.

John Hawkins of Right-Wing News has a list, voted on by different right-wing bloggers, of their least favorite people on the Right. Hawkins exempted the truly horrifyingly dispicable people like David Duke, and the often misidentified Democrat, Fred Phelps, figuring they would clutter up the list.

Honorable Mentions: George Voinovich (4), Arnold Schwarzenegger (4), Ralph Reed (4), Mitt Romney (4), Kevin Phillips (4), Bob Novak (4), Trent Lott (4), Rush Limbaugh (4), Katherine Harris (4), Tom DeLay (4), Duke Cunningham (4), Tucker Carlson (4), Michael Bloomberg (4)
16) Debbie Schlussel (5)
16) Michelle Malkin (5)
16) Dennis Hastert (5)
15) James Dobson (6)
12) Ted Stevens (7)
12) Olympia Snowe (7)
12) Bill Frist (7)
11) Andrew Sullivan (9)
9) Bill O'Reilly (10)
9) Chuck Hagel (10)
8) Jerry Falwell (14)
7) Lincoln Chafee (15)
6) Ann Coulter (17)
5) Arlen Specter (19)
3) Michael Savage (22)
3) Pat Robertson (22)
1) John McCain (26)
1) Pat Buchanan (26)

An impressive showing by Pat Buchanan, who managed to tie with McCain for first. I'm surprised Bill O'Reilly isn't higher, since every right-winger I know can't stand him. I'm also genuinely suprised George W. Bush didn't make at least an honorable mention. Other than that, I would say no real surprises. Lots of bona fide A-holes on the list, like Falwell, Savage, and Coulter. I can't really think of anyone off the top of my head who would have put on the list that isn't already on there, at least who is still alive (though I'm sure I could come up with some if I racked my brain). Well, maybe a few Ohio politicians, but I wouldn't expect them to be well-known enough to make the list. (h/t Free Will)

*sigh* Here's to another year of "God, why didn't mom and dad get an abortion?"

Far from it.

But I have a great deal of sympathy for them when some asshat uses an op-ed in the NYT to call them the "most dangerous company in America." It's not really that they published something against business (the NYT biased against large corporations? Nevar!), but that even in an op-ed, they published blatant falsehood and ad hominem attacks. That's like the WSJ publishing an op ed stating the Hillary Clinton is a satanist and eats babies. It might possibly appeal to their core readership, but reputable journalistic outlets simply do not do that sort of thing.
Anyway, GM's been buying up adspace and pointing it towards this. Make sure you check out the back and forth emails linked about halfway down, those are extra fun. Also, as a related but separate thing, the last entry on the page is about the electric car program and the death thereof; something about which I've wondered for some time.
It's worth looking at a measured response for once, instead of the insta-lawsuit, or even just plain namecalling. I'm not about to give up my car anytime soon, but now I sort of have warmer, happier thoughts about GM. By contrast, the Times particular tinge of journalism looks a hint more amber.

I am curious though, if the other alchemists agree with me on this. Am I way off base here?

All I got left for the summer semester is an 8 page term paper for my ethics class, and then I'll have that last arts & humanities credit I need for my associate's degree. I finished my Macromedia Flash class with a B, thanks to some generous leniency on the part of the teacher (it was a 5 week class, and I let myself mostly blow it off for the first three weeks), though I almost certainly have As in my other two classes this semester, hooray for me! I'm planning on making an animated Angry Stick-figure Man flash cartoon, I have an idea planned out already for one, but unfortunately none of the stuff we learned in the class helps very much with animated a figure with arms and legs, and making him move naturally while keeping his parts connected together. All of the projects we did were geared more towards Flash Web site design and logo/ad banners. Not that it didn't help a lot in getting me acquainted with the capabilities of the program, and how to use the different tools it has to offer, but it looks like it's going to take me a good deal of practice to make entertaining cartoons for you loyal readers who have been holding out for a new AS(f)M cartoon for a while. I know not too many people have experience with making Flash cartoons, but if anyone out there has some experience with this stuff, I'd appreciate any advice.

Maybe it's self-deception on the part of the parents and other believers, but I can't help but find this story utterly amazing.

June 30, 2005 -- Six decades ago, a 21-year-old Navy fighter pilot on a mission over the Pacific was shot down by Japanese artillery. His name might have been forgotten, were it not for 6-year-old James Leininger.

Quite a few people — including those who knew the fighter pilot — think James is the pilot, reincarnated.

James' parents, Andrea and Bruce, a highly educated, modern couple, say they are "probably the people least likely to have a scenario like this pop up in their lives."

But over time, they have become convinced their little son has had a former life.

From an early age, James would play with nothing else but planes, his parents say. But when he was 2, they said the planes their son loved began to give him regular nightmares.

"I'd wake him up and he'd be screaming," Andrea told "Primetime Live" co-anchor Chris Cuomo. She said when she asked her son what he was dreaming about, he would say, "Airplane crash on fire, little man can't get out."

Reality Check

Andrea says her mom was the first to suggest James was remembering a past life.

At first, Andrea says she was doubtful. James was only watching kids' shows, his parents say, and they weren't watching World War II documentaries or conversing about military history.

But as time went by, Andrea began to wonder what to believe. In one video of James at age 3, he goes over a plane as if he's doing a preflight check.

Another time, Andrea said, she bought him a toy plane, and pointed out what appeared to be a bomb on its underside. She says James corrected her, and told her it was a drop tank. "I'd never heard of a drop tank," she said. "I didn't know what a drop tank was."

Some of this stuff, maybe all of it, can maybe be chalked up to hopeful misinterpretation, but there is an unbelievable amount of oddness with this situation.

Trail of Mysteries
Over time, James' parents say he revealed extraordinary details about the life of a former fighter pilot — mostly at bedtime, when he was drowsy.

They say James told them his plane had been hit by the Japanese and crashed. Andrea says James told his father he flew a Corsair, and then told her, "They used to get flat tires all the time."

In fact, historians and pilots agree that the plane's tires took a lot of punishment on landing. But that's a fact that could easily be found in books or on television.

Andrea says James also told his father the name of the boat he took off from — Natoma — and the name of someone he flew with — Jack Larson.

After some research, Bruce discovered both the Natoma and Jack Larson were real. The Natoma Bay was a small aircraft carrier in the Pacific. And Larson is living in Arkansas.

"It was like, holy mackerel," Bruce said. "You could have poured my brains out of my ears. I just couldn't believe it.

James 2 = James M. Huston Jr.?

Bruce became obsessed, searching the Internet, combing through military records and interviewing men who served aboard the Natoma Bay.

He said James told him he had been shot down at Iwo Jima. James had also begun signing his crayon drawings "James 3." Bruce soon learned that the only pilot from the squadron killed at Iwo Jima was James M. Huston Jr.

Bruce says James also told him his plane had sustained a direct hit on the engine.

Ralph Clarbour, a rear gunner on a U.S. airplane that flew off the Natoma Bay, says his plane was right next to one flown by James M. Huston Jr. during a raid near Iwo Jima on March 3, 1945.

Clarbour said he saw Huston's plane struck by anti-aircraft fire. "I would say he was hit head on, right in the middle of the engine," he said.

Even relatives of the real James Huston are convinced this kid is the real McCoy. There's another story about it here. Apparently Jim Tucker, of the University of Virginia, is a child psychologist who wrote a book out this surprisingly common phenomenon (read an interview with him here). There's apparently been over 2500 kids like James studied, almost always with the memories beginning at about age 2 or 3 and the kid forgetting them at around 6 or 7. There've been plenty of reincarnation memory hoaxes in the past, usually with hypnotists or some supernaturalists coaching the person, but here are some officially documented cases of kids who (at least to me) seem too young to coach so convincingly. And they all seem to fall under the same or similar criteria. In addition to the above mentioned similarities, 70% of these children have memories of some kind of violent death, often with phobias attached to the method of death (for example, drowning death memories in kids with a fear of water).

I don't mean to sound like I'm trying to sell the supernatural angle here, I am not one of those people who has a need to believe in all these paranormal and spiritual phenomena, but James Leininger's story just floored me, especially on learning that it isn't unique (though I assume James's example is one of the more striking, as it seems to have gotten the most media attention). This kind of supernatural speculation is particularly compelling, because science can really say so little about self-awareness and consciousness, and we have no way of measuring the metaphysical. We don't actually know what happens with the energy in our brain when we die. There's also the fact that while reincarnation is considered a fairly odd belief in the West, in the East it is almost universally accepted, and there's more of them than there are of us. Whose to say they can't have it right? Anyway, fact or fiction, I am very interested in reading Tucker's book now.

Air conditioning is responsible for the downfall of western civilization.

DC was an impossibly unpleasant place originally, which I feel to be a note of sheer and unadulterated brilliance on the part of our founding fathers. Nothing drives home serving your time and getting out like malaria and unliveable summers. Think about it, with that environment still there, and congress not able to adjourn before passing a budget, would you ever see fiascos like happen now?
Also, filibusters would be much more effective.
MAybe we could reclaim that effect by releasing tarantulas into House, but it seems like that might be difficult, and probably not worthwhile.

On a tangentially related note, I visited several people in the DC area. Friday I spent with friends from Case who got jobs at Mantech (Yes! that's actually the name of the company!) One is doing work on the replacement for Nighthawk 1 (which is pretty cool) and the other is doing something with planes and carriers that he can't actually say much about, but is really, really cool.
So then I went and saw a friend from model UN. It's not often I think I've gotten a raw deal in anything, (because I haven't) but one time in high school I did see a recruiter and was told asthma disqualified me. Well, it turns out that the Navy is awsome and I am missing out. My friend hit about four different ports in two months on the Ronald Reagan's maiden voyage.
I dare you to come up with something more awesome than that. No really, just try.

Anyway, I was thinking about aircraft carriers a bit over the past couple days. I recieved this a couple months ago, so it wasn't exactly a shock to me that the US is awesome (I don't think that includes the Reagan either), but look at this:

"The carrier battle group, operating in international waters, does not need the
permission of host countries for landing or overflight rights. Nor does it need
to build or maintain bases in countries where our presence may cause political
or other strains. Aircraft carriers are sovereign U.S. territory that steam
anywhere in international waters — and most of the surface of the globe is water."

I pulled that off the Navy's website and added the emphases myself. Think about it.

Anyway, this is a little less coherent than usual, so I'm going to postpone further blogging until later.

I was originally going to make this an update to my previous post, but it turned out to be pretty lengthy, so I felt it deserving of it's own post. Anyway, read on, and be weirded out.

Okay, I'm going to try to describe a weird dream I had, probably about two weeks ago. It requires some back story on my life first, for which I hope you'll forgve me for being overly indulgent. When my mother died my brother and I didn't have anyone to stay home with us when school was out, so my dad would send us to summer camp during the day for a few years. I have probably mentioned this before on AfD, but "summer camp" was not like the outdoor canoeing and archery and sleeping in bunks type summer camp like you see onTV shows all the time. That was just a nice name the city government used for using the gym and music room of the upper elementary school as a day care center for puberty-aged kids, run by jockish college students who enjoyed pantsing 12-year-olds. Summer camp is where I met the Holy Tard, one of my three oldest friendships that I am still occassionally in contact with. Now camp was split into two groups, rec camp and sports camp. Kids who were uncoordinated wusses, like myself, were all in rec camp, and only got to use the gym when the sports camp kids were outside. Of course, the best par of camp was when we first got dropped off, and when we were waiting to be picked up at the end of the day. The reason for this is because these were extended hours, before and after the scheduled activities the camp couselors had set up for us, that were for the benefit of parents who needed to drop off and pick up kids before and after the normal camp hours. It was during these periods that the shackles of the tyrannical counselors were thrown off, and we were given free reign of the gym.

Anyway, during one of my earlier years at camp, first or second I'd guess, the Holy Tard and I would hang out with a kid named J.R. The only thing I remember about J.R. is that he was a tall, thin kid who was probably too cool to be hanging out with me (which also describes the Holy Tard fairly accurately), he owned an Atari Lynx (or possibly it was a Sega Game Gear) with a TV receptor, and also the following story. See, during those wonderful periods of youthful freedom where we could use the gym freely, J.R., the Holy Tard, and myself had this weird game where J.R. played the Predator from the Predator movies, and the Holy Tard and I had to "kill him", with the gym equipment filling in for imagined weaponry. Sadly, this went on for many, many days, with J.R. always explaining in What-The-Fuck?-style reasoning why our assaults failed to kill him. This dragged on and on, with us tediously launching entire nuclear assaults directly on his person, which he always survived through some kind of Preadator power that was previously completely unknown to me. You know how critics of Superman complain that he always seems to come up with some new super power that we never saw him use before, like the ability to blow ice breath or to fly around the planet backwards so fast that time is reversed? That was J.R.'s Predator. Eventually the game that started off as a plot-device for throwing balls at each other turned into complex debates of twisted twelve-year-old logic about what could kill a Predator. And, as I've mentioned, this went on for days. At this point we'd half-heartedly pelt J.R. with a kickball, and were pretty much like "yeah okay, whatever" as we witnessed another half-assed tactical assault fall apart against the relentless onslaught of Predator logic. One day, in a triumphant anti-climax, J.R., probably because he was finally sick of this shit, conceded that our strategic application of concentrated and prolonged ball-pelting had felled him, with no explanation for why this assault was any different.

So that was about a dozen years ago, half my lifespan to date. And about two weeks ago I have a dream that I'm being kept in a basement by an alien that largely resembles the Xenomorphs from the Alien series of films. In fact, the only noteworthy difference I can recall is that this alien spoke english in an American accent, and... er... wanted to role-play that the house was a spaceship and I had to escape or defeat him through some sci-fi fantasy method in order for him to let me be. I'm kind of vague on my memory of the details here, but I remember running and being chased all around the house, and always being caught and being put back inside the basement. And, like J.R.'s Predator, every tactic I used to escape or defeat the alien (which I often, when caught, had to explain in retarded fantasy logic) was met with some retarded logic giving science-fictiony reasons for why I failed.

Now, let me interrupt my retelling of this dream to talk about some obvious complications in remembering dreams, which will hopefully make sense when I explain them (let me know if it doesn't, because it's pretty complicated to describe). Specifically, as far as I can tell, you don't remember a dream remember a dream unless you wake up during that dream. However, in the case of this dream and another recent dream that I believe to have been reoccurring, the final dreams I had that followed those events I awoke during, but I feel like they were each a part of a reoccurring series of dreams. It's hard to say if certain events happened all in one dream, but it feels like they were sequels to earlier dreams had been completely expelled from my mind until a new dream (one that I actually woke up during) followed the same line of events, even referencing specific minor events from the previous dreams. The last dream in either series is the only one that I have a reasonably vivid recollection of, maybe I was just remembering earlier events from the same dream as being more distantly in the past, but I feel fairly certain that within those last dreams I was actually remembering events from past dreams I had completely forgotten upon waking up.

So, going back to the alien dream, as I remember this was a reoccurring dream over the course of several weeks or so, and it was one of those dreams I suspect everyone has (I seem to have them a lot, often involving being chased all over the goddamned place) where you're engaged in some reptitive and futile (and usually retarded) activity that becomes more and more frustrating as the dream goes on (just like the Predator game from camp). Finally, in the last of these dreams that I recall, I made a run for the main floor of the house and ran out the door, hoping to get away from that pain-in-the-ass alien. He sees me and chases me outside, finally catching up to me and catching me. I realize that, since the alien has proven to be physically much stronger than me, my only hope is to conjure up some retarded Predator-logic style reasoning that suits the alien. So, on a total whim of my subconscious, I explained to the alien that I had escaped from the spaceship into an atmosphere of pure "Grayon" (yes, I honestly came up with the "scientific" name of a purely made up poisonous gas in my sleep), and thus his lungs would be collapsing. The alien was startled by this, and attempted to rebound from the shock of my "logic": "But... but... that means you would be poisoned, and die too!" On another whim of my subconcious: "Yes, but I've speant my captivity in your 'spaceship' eating nothing but concentrated Grayon, and thus have built up an immunity!" Alien: "Nooooooooooooo!!!!" (Yes, he actually screamed that in my dream). At this point I was slowly fading into consciousness, but took this as a concession of defeat on the part of the alien, and haven't had a similar dream since. Upon waking up and reflecting on this, I actually kind of laughed out loud in bed at the simultaneous brilliance (especially considering I was using my unconscious mind) and retardness of the ending of that dream. Anyway, it's definitely a dream like no other I ever had.

Does a judge have the right to order you to receive treatment you don't want? At least one judge seems to think so, and he's willing to subvert the will of the patient as well as his supportive parents. It's bullshit, if you ask me. How do justify forcing intrusive treatment on people (save in cases when they're a threat to those around them) that they don't want?

I had no idea that Bruce Dickinson, singer for Iron Maiden, was a qualified pilot. I also had no idea he was sort of a superhero.

So, among the other bad habits I picked up while on walkabout from AfD was a penchant for Model United Nations. It made for a fun and nearly sleep-free weekend once, and an annoying one the second time.
It also renewed my contempt for the real UN.
I have the long version up elsewhere, and will post it here if there's a demand, but I can summarize how the first one went. First, a bit of background:
Normally in MUN, you are placed in a committee. Then, you talk for a while using parlimentary rules (approximately Robert's Rules, but with the chair holding more power). Then, out of many partial scraps of writing, you assemble a resolution. This resolution is one big happy sentance, with two primary parts. Here's an example:

The AfD special branch of MUN
Recognising the importance of blogging as a medium for change;
Appreciating the humor displayed at KalliniBros;
Noting the plight of children worldwide;
Cognisant of the dangers of poverty;
Recalling Article 4 of the Treaty of Versailles;
Commends the maintainers of KalliniBros;
Calls for wider review of their work;
Recommends that the link be moved to a more prominant position;
Calls for the condemnation of all critics.

Here are the key features you should notice: Terrible grammer. Why? Because that's the way they roll over at MUN. Random references of two types, obscure and dumb. The obscure ones are because noone is going to bother looking it up. The dumb ones are because noone wants to be "that guy," the one who came out against children. That bit was the preambulatory section. It should run about half a page, but I'm fresh out of BS. For the second half, you should note that there are no active clauses there. That is because only the Security Council can actually DO things, everyone else can just whine. For example, you'll notice that I didn't actually condemn critics, I just want someone else to. This is approximately as effective as a dozen Hollywood celebrities getting together and forming the league for the abolition of dirt, except that Tabloids don't take pictures of UN delegates nearly so often. Also, whereas the MUN delegates are motivated by have a drop-deadline in about three days, and Hollywood celebrities are motivated by strange but genuine sympathy for those who have to encounter dirt on a daily basis, actual UN delegates are motivated by staying in high end New York hotels on someone else's tab, and are most especially motivated by not having to go back to Tzudzikistan and its interminable wars with Yoghurtania. (Perhaps more impressive than any analysis in this entry will be that the previous sentance was not of the run-on variety. Don't believe me? Check.)
But I digress. I wasn't doing any of that. I wasn't even in a UN committee. I was in a special assembly to generate a treaty on Unilateral Acts of States. Specifically, I was in the enforcement branch, which in practical terms meant everything but definitions (which was another branch). There was also a third branch, applications, which was meant to check that what we did wasn't stupid, kind of like a supreme court to our congress. The upshot is, TREATY. That's a legally binding document that lays out actual responsibilities and procedures and such, right?
So, the first session everyone sat around and tried to figure out what was going on. I was half of Egypt (I had a partner who was a godsend), so my strategy was uniting the Arab nations behind me, and possibly also the African nations. About three different groups started writing resolutions (not treaties) and Syria sort of tried to get us onboard. But, since I'm a bastard like that, I pretended I was overwhelmed by my first conference to buy time while caucusing furiously. At the end of the session, someone got in a crappy resolution that basically went, "We, remembering all these things; think unilateral acts are bad." That sounds like a treaty, right?
So, while I was caucusing my partner lost control of our document. That's bad. You always want to be the person who does the writing, because then you have final say. Cynical, but that's politics. Anyway, he lost it. That's okay, because it was also a crappy resolution. So I got an hour of sleep that night and wrote the middle, important portions of a binding, legal contract. These were the parts that established a system for dealing with unilateral acts both normally and as emergencies. I was going for shock and awe, and I got it. Everyone who saw it had their eyes glaze over and sort of cringed (except for one girl from Germany, who read it and liked it, but she was studying to be a lawyer). It eventually died because the chair sat on it for a whole day, so I was going around saying, "We have an awsome draft that you can't see yet." It was nearly as convincing as a secret plan to get us out of Iraq. Eventually, we passed a document that was frankenstein of feel-good thoughts and half-baked ideas. Aside from doing nothing, it didn't even get enough signatories to enter into force. This didn't stop the chair from holding it up as a shining success. Like I said, if there's a demand for details, I'll post them, otherwise that's plenty.
So, like every good story, this can end with some lessons.
1 You can claim anything as a success.
2 Flirting will get you everywhere.
3 Caucusing gets things done and writing dictates policy, but speaking is what gets you acclaim.
4 Syria is sexy.
5 The chair can kill you faster than anyone else, or help you more.
6 Name calling works.
7 Be polite to the other delegates, even the deliberately obtuse one.

Post about any weird or interesting dreams you've had, that you're interested in sharing, in the comments to this post. Then we'll all psychoanalyze you and tell you how and why you're crazy.

UPDATE: You can now read my own weird dream here.

School's been out for a bit, I'm on co-op until December, and I'm starting to feel that old political vigor come back. And so I return to my crazytarian ideas incubator, AfD.

This summer I'm working at Philips Medical devices debugging CT scanners. That's a lot of time to think each day, which leads to crazy ideas like an essay in praise of tyranny. Tyranny, you see, is a government that improves over time, where a deomocracy degrades. Prove me wrong!
Yeah, I'm not too convinced either, but it does tie into a lot of nice talking points.
Philips is actually out past MA, near the theater at which the infamous explosion poisoning occured. Everyday, I think I should stop in and say hi, but terrible, terrible things happen to cars that contain more than one member of AfD. Perhaps my long absence will mitigate this though.

And now, just to get back into the swing of things, witness my astute analysis of Isreal vs Some Uppity Arab Country:
SUAC: We will fight them to the last, should they invade! Our numbers are greater and our spirit is stronger! In hand to hand and swordsmanship, we have no equal!
Isreal: You guys... you haven't really been paying much attention the past few centuries, have you? We use guns now. And planes.

See, the Palestinians haven't really got their game plan down yet. Let's look at this loosely in a chronological fashion. First, Palestinian terrorists who are to closely tied to the government to disown and too loosly tied to control go to kidnap some of those infidel jews. They kill several israeli soldiers and then kidnap two arabs. Let's put this in perspective: Canada picks a fight with the US. After a normal border skirmish, they kidnap and torture Jim Carrey and Keanu Reeves (both canadian). After doing this, the Palestinians taunted Israel into invading them. Again, Canada is a pretty good parallel, only the Palestinians are less well equiped. Finally, after the Israelis do invade, the Palestinians bomb Safed. Now, Safed is sort of your one stop Kabbalah shop; basically it's entirely full of hippies. The parallel here is that after we go to Canada to get Jim Carrey and Keanu Reeves back (no, I don't know why, just go with it, okay?), Canada starts shelling Woodstock.
If you were at war with the US, can you think of a worse thing to do than shell Woodstock? It's dumb on so many levels! Though they also did bomb Haifa (read Silicon Valley) so they're not entirely incompetant, just... mostly.
Now, while the Palestinians were bombing hippies (increasing Israels ability to make war), the Israelis were bombing roads. And airports. And seaports. Now, not only is this strategically sound, it also means that Palestine will be busy for the next few years working on Not Being In The Stone Age, which means they'll spend less time mouthing off (Canada again).
Finally, because they managed to kidnap and torture Arabs, Palestine currently enjoys the support of... Ready for this? Its a long list: Syria. Not even Saudi Arabia is standing behind Palestine on this one. Heck, not even IRAN is really behind them.
Ahh, Palestine, you are so silly.


Finally, as clearly revealed in the lyrics to Electric Six's "Naked Pictures (of your mother)," there is a traitor from AfD:

I dropped the bomb, on Japan;
I was a hostage in Iran;
I'm The Ugly American;
And I'm a government man
a government man!

I knew it was you, TUA. You broke my heart.

finis

I love the barbershop I go to. It's so contrary to the cheesy yuppie-poser or geriatric hippie vibe that infests so much of Austin. Just real guys with real straight razors waiting to scratch your neck and no political bumper stickers or conspicuous-consumption luxury salon products. The shaving cream they have on the shelf for the razor cuts is what I used to use when I didn't have a beard, regular formula, with no Dead Sea salt-infused century plant blossom extract nor exotic aromatherapy oils.

The barbers are all Mexican-American guys who don't mind cutting your hair the way you tell them to, the place is paneled in seventies wood paneling, and there are nudie mags on a rack on the wall. There's another rack with FHM, Field and Stream (or something like it), some hunting magazine "(Modern Hunter?" "American Sportsman? I can't remember the damned name), and a Bible.

No one and nothing there is going to try to sell me a highlights job or a bikini wax, nor try to separate me from God, Guns, or Boobs. Which is how a barber shop should be, and why I go there to get my Ollie North haircuts a few times a year.

I watched Six String Samurai a few times and started to write my observations - shallow yet long winded - but couldn't get back to it while work SUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKED and my computer came home with another venereal trojan that made it unable to boot for several days. In the interim I had already been downloading Red Elvises MP3s off their web site at work so I could have something to listen to that would keep me from having to start pounding people at random.

The "Six String Samurai" concept, then, seems much to derive from crossing the central themes of Jeffrey Falcon's career as a westerner doing martial arts movies in Asia with the schtick of The Red Elvises, a band kind enough to put up a variety of MP3 files for your delectation. You have a chimera of a film here, with martial arts action films fusing with buddy/travel pics and, simultaneously, evoking spaghetti western tones; and infusing into this mixture kitschy elements of a caricature of the Cold War. Since Jeffrey Falcon co-wrote the thing, one may assume the concept joins interests of his, combining the art he produces (action films) with the art he may consume (music).

This movie proceeds from an archetypical plot (which differs from a "formula" plot in the sense that a tradition differs from a habit) where a warrior must travel to achieve his personal mission but finds himself distracted by attachment to a companion he must protect, creating tension between his goals and his true character (what you might call a conflict between the emotional appeal and the ethical appeal, or maybe the logical gets thrown in there somewhere. Beware triune divisions of philosophical or metaphysical concepts which may, in reality, have blended like chili ingredients in a slow cooking moral stew).

Some things I miss in this film in its clear intent to serve as a cult classic; one angle being the bad taste that either comes in as a deliberate and central element (Peter Jackson's early work, like "Meet the Feebles" or "Bad Taste;" or the first dozen or so years of John Waters films). This element isn't necessary to make this film work, but it helps make any piece of work pass the Three Trashmen Tests (A suitable work must be stupid; it must be loud at any volume; and it must be annoying to grown-ups). I could have used more of the Red Elvises myself - the inspiration for most of the themes of the movie - since some elements of their concept would have added to the movie (the Vegas glam plus Soviet kitsch chic plus mullet-head vulgarity work together as a synthesis larger than the parts that make it up).

Nonetheless, this piece is quirky and entertaining even if it lacks the transgressive-transgender themes of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," the contrived vulgarity of "Pink Flamingos," the mind-rotting twisted glam and miscellaneous offenses against aesthetics, taste, and narrative cohesion of "Lisztomania," or the what-the-hell-is-going-on sensation evoked by parts of "Zardoz." It makes up for the fact that one could watch this movie without fear of being caught at it by the bluenoses among us by showing a healthy respect for rockabilly music, Eisenhower-era automobiles, martial arts movies, and the simple act of fighting commies just because they're there.

Excepting the dreadful "Crossroads," where Steve Vai and Ralph Macchio contend for priprietary interest in the human soul through competing to represent the soul of the blues - with classical music somehow pushing heavy metal off a throne nowhere near that target - I'd say in general principal that I approve of a movie where the protagonist duels to the death with an abstract concept using guitars as a weapon. I think a six string beatdown could have saved the abominable "Rocky VI," at least in the sense that an ending like a decisive, crisis ending guitar-duel - or one where the hero got to do karaoke with Meat Loaf in the credits - could wash away the bad taste of a bad movie or enhance the good taste of a good one.

But he's apparently already started playing, and it's like a 50 minute drive to the venue. Ah well, if I went and he didn't play 'Lipstick Vogue' I'd have been grouchy all night anyway.

Well, I'm enjoying a different Elvis now anyway. Actually, multiple Elvises. I found a bunch of free Red Elvises MP3s on their website, and I'm downloading a bunch now. Speaking of which, Murel, did you get a chance to watch Six-String Samauri yet? I wanna see your review when you do.

Lastly, I just heard that Blondie, fronted by the goddess Debbie Harry (God, I can't believe she's 61 now) opened for The Cars last time they were in town. Is there no justice in this world? The Cars should be begging to lick her heels!

Grab a notepad and pen, then click this link and follow directions.

Nudity! (Warning - contains nudity).

And there's me standing next to a big ass gun, looking kinda gay. Sadly, none of my pictures of the interior came out because I'm a moron and didn't use flash on my cheap, disposable camera.

Cats that look like Hitler.

So far this is the best I got, but expect more once I figure shit out. Maybe Angry Stick-figure Man will make the leap to flash, because I seem to have re-lost that black pen I use for those cartoons (some serious advances in pocket engineering by the textile industry are direly needed).

Does anybody have any experience with sound editing on the computer? I'm looking into buying a microphone and a sound editing program so I can make animations with sound effects and voices and all that.

*sigh* I've been depressed a lot lately. Somebody leave some amusing comments to cheer me up.

Here.

I went to a gun show today and actually bought a Springfield 1911. I had the case in my hand after my purchase, and people kept coming up to me and asking me what I had ("Uh... a gun."), and inquiring about it, and I had to feign a technical knowledge of firearms and try really hard to not look stupid in front of people who actually knew what they were talking about. Of course, I did look stupid because when I opened up the case to show a guy, the trigger lock and cleaning brush pop out, and I can't fit them back in well enough to get the case to close. So, as usual, I look like an ass. Now, the thing about me is that I'm the type of person who will lay down in bed at night and then all of the sudden think of the perfect thing to have said in a social situation earlier that day. If my brain worked faster than it does, I think I'd actually be a tremendous wit in social situations. But sadly, my brain tends to freeze up and chug along as bad as my Dell, especially when someone talks to me unexpectedly. If I were cool the guy would have asked me what's in the case, and instead of making it obvious that I was a clueless moron, I would have just casually said "My lunch," and strut off cooly, and maybe have had sex with a couple of the cute, bored-looking girlfriends who got dragged along by their right-wing extremist significant other, on my way out to the parking lot. Oh well, I guess I'm just lame.

Oh! Don't miss my post for the Kallini blog on Chairman Mao's Little Red Comic Book.

Hope you had a good one. Turn up your speakers.

June 6th was National Emo Kid Beatdown Day.

While you're over at that site check out the Hall of Douchebags. All it is is a bunch of publicity photos for unsigned bands, with usually really funny captions making fun of them.

Just in time for Independence Day!

• Being a patriot greatly reduces the risk of you ever seeing Cindy Sheehan naked


• Being a patriot provides wonderful opportunities to wear kewl flag shirts that violate flag display protocols


• Being a patriot is better than being a dick


• Being a patriot annoys hippies


• Being a patriot is easier than ever now that hating America just slightly less than some mentally damaged Marxist zombie wants you to will get you labelled an ultra-patriot


• Being a patriot allows you to imagine that hot middle-aged right-wing polemicists who may be she-males want to be your girlfriend