d i z t o p i a

Happy Hallow's Eve Eve Eve

Boo! Veddy scary, yes? Not quite Halloween even, and yet the camera captured this supernatural entity lurking around Midtown, leering demonically while contemplating its next meal of succulent human life-force. Only joking! I think it's cute actually. Cute as a button. Really! Uh, let's move on. Here's your goodie bag of link dumps, guaranteed one (1) embedded razor blade per batch.

In the fine and previously mentioned musical-animal tradition of Hatebeak and Caninus, may I present Litterbox, a death-metal band fronted by an angry kitty. (via)

This has NOTHING to do with ANYTHING, but: I've always liked Box, the robot from the original Logan's Run. Classic retrobot design! Protein from the sea! Even considered Box for this year's Halloween costume, then shook off the hypno-germs.

Is it possible to get enough of these Photoshop contests? No, I answer, it is not. Herewith, enjoy movie posters with the titles replaced by literal descriptions of the movie's apparent content, and pretend Asian products with Engrish labeling. (via)

A perfect example of how cute and pathetic are often seamlessly intertwined, Testy Copy Editors is a bitchboard for journalism's underclass. I edit copy myself, and I supervise copy editors, I like copy editors, some of my best friends are copy editors (though my sister didn't marry one, thank God). But you know what I don't ever want to talk about unless I'm getting paid to do so? That's right. Copy editing. Coming soon: Testy Garbage Collectors. (via)

And here you have about 380 tons of high-octane nightmare fuel: The Evil Clown Generator. (via)

I was lookin' round the house the other day, and I says to my roommate, I says, "Are we out of beetle-cleaned goat skulls again?" She hollers back, "Frozen Critters is plumb out." Well dang. Fortunately, they still stock "frozen raw goat heads for the skull collector who wants to do the cleaning". Thass right. You ain't gonna cheat me out of my goat-head meat scrapings, you beetle bastard. (via)

This game is pointlessly easy and crudely made, but I simply admire the can-do spirit behind it. C'mon kids, it's time to Find Hitler! Or if you prefer, just squint and try to detect a roomful of tiny, tiny men. Zoom if you must, Mr. Magoo. (via)

Absolutely NSFW and an old joke anyway, but I have to give props to this as the most comprehensive collection of porn movies with titles created to mimic non-porn movies. What dynamic, exactly, is supposed to be at work here? I suppose when presented with a sea of identical smut, the porn-hound will be instinctively drawn to anything even remotely smacking of the familiar. Or just smacking. (via)

There's some kind of alchemy at work in this Flash game that merely simulates the act of throwing paper wads into a trash can. Somehow, the paper-wad game, itself a sign of deadly boredom, becomes new and exciting and an end in itself when represented virtually. Don't forget to turn up your speakers for the satisfying "thunk" of victory. (via)

It's goopymart! It's a collection of absolutely useless and endearing Flash toys and cartoons! Poodle Spider is my favorite, I think. (via)

Ah yes: First photo of an Abu Ghraib hooded prisoner Halloween costume! On a child! And many other delights. (via)

Hard to believe this is real, and then instantly hard to believe it took this long to become real: Fight Club for Playstation and Xbox. Does the game allow you to wrestle with your own imaginary id-based doppelganger that has assumed its own identity and occasionally takes control of your body? Will you be able to have raunchy sex with Helena Bonham Carter? Well, the first rule of raunchy sex with Helena Bonham Carter is that you ... eh, finish it yourself. A man-tittied Meat Loaf really does make an appearance, if you can believe it. (via)

Why do all those bad men in wheelchairs keep trying to kill Chompy the bear? Just because he keeps tearing off and consuming their limbs? What kind of world is this? Oldie but goodie. (via)

So the Bush administration is opposed to human cloning, eh? Then how does the Bush administration explain .... THIS? Har har! Too funny. Rueful grimacing ensues. (via)

This person has produced a work of beauty. It's a Dick Cheney speech with Al Pacino as Scarface (and Pacino's grafted-on mouth) doing the vocal work. His bandwidth is already gone (I first saw it earlier this morning) as a result of wide linking. Mr. Chet is generous enough to host it for the moment, but consider yourself warned. I sure as hail ain't hosting the dang thing, you greedy bastards. Back! Get off my porch or I'll blast ye! (via)

Wet Cold American Autumn

Ah, the joys of prewar-apartment living! No hot water this morning. I'm no Lady Macbeth, mind you, but I must MUST have a shower in the morning. Else I not only feel sleepy and dirty and gross, but also unclean deep in my very soul, and that soul-filth is so exposed, so obvious to all that I cannot bear it. Heat up water on the stove and wash from a sink, you say? Tried that. Been there. Does not suffice. It's the equivalent of taking a big slurp of fine, hot coffee, sloshing it around in your mouth, and spitting it out. Now you have coffee-mouth, but no caffeine, and no more coffee. Same with the sink-bath.

So even though it was quite chilly and I was in no mood, I took a cold shower. First of the season. Hot water deficit probably happened four or five times last winter, but I had high hopes because we have a new super -- Gino, a brusque and severely competent Maltese gentleman. And, we supposedly got a new or drastically refurbished boiler. (That's right, no steam heat either, though it's not really too cold outside yet.) Anyway, this morning's cold shower was as bad as any I recall. I spent lots of time tap-dancing around the tub, nearly slipping and cracking open my brain at least twice. And the whole time I was panting and gasping, with additional strangled curses every time I ducked under the nozzle. I'm sure my roommate thought I was arguing with my dark side and/or masturbating furiously.

And now I have to go into an afternoon meeting, which means you are stuck with this dreck rather than the finely crafted and urbane prose I had planned. Oh well, at least you get more link dumps tomorrow. Don't drop the soap.

Election 2004: The Children Pretend to Vote!

BUSH CHILDREN ARISE!

Nice fascist theme going here. The girl on top left looks positively radiant; less so the girl on top right. Both little boys look positively psychotic.

KERRY CHILDREN STRIKE BACK!

Here, the senator appeals to children first as Godzilla, then as rock star, then as edumacational photo-op participant. But I'd be remiss if I didn't point out the spooky, sad little girl in the bottom right corner of the second pic. Yikes. Someone didn't get her napsies! Or: Someone still beweebs Iwaq had weapons of mass destwuction!

Why this focus on child politics, you ask? or would ask, if prompted/ordered? Two different presidential polls that plumb the unformed minds of America's children have yielded opposite and incompatible results: Nickelodeon says Kerry, but Weekly Reader says Bush. Both polls have respectable records of infallibility: Nickelodeon has picked the winner since 1988, and Weekly Reader has picked correctly since 1956! Of course, this assumes they're actually predicting the electoral outcome, because otherwise both polls were wrong in 2000 if you considered the popular vote. Ha ha! But never mind. One of these undefeateds is getting a swirly on Election Day.

Preliminary analysis of poll soundness gives the edge, I hate to admit, to the Weekly Reader poll, which at least has the tiny, hairless cojones to post their results. Nickelodeon just gives you a big ol' smilin' Kerry head a la Teletubbies. There's some wonderfully meaningless conclusions just waiting to be mined in those Weekly Reader results. For Example! The poll claims to cover grades K-12. I'm happy to give kindergartners (perhaps, ONLY kindergartners) the right to vote, but note the precipitous drop in number of votes after fifth grade. In fact, more third-graders (57,802) voted than all of grades 6 through 12 combined. Damned sullen, apathetic pre-teens and teens. Or perhaps they're not as into Weekly Reader when they get pubic hair and learner's permits? Over three thousand 12th graders participated in the poll though. It's a fair bet to say they were all in band and/or on the yearbook staff.

Anyway, CNN reports that the Nickelodeon poll surveyed "almost 400,000 children," while the Weekly Reader poll totals up just over 300,000. Weekly Reader gave the election to Bush with 60% of the vote, which seems bizarrely wide a margin even if he does win the real election. Nickelodeon doesn't tell us any statistics, so who knows what Kerry's margin is among dedicated cartoon watchers. No data is available on how many poll respondents voted for cookies, etc., unless that's covered under "other."

One thing is clear. For too long, we have neglected the considerations of the nonvoting in determining how voters will vote. Pollsters have run out of people to poll, and so they have begun querying children, immigrants, and non-U.S. citizens to find out how they would vote, if they could. To help gather more useful data for discussion in the national dialogue, I polled various inanimate objects in my office as to who they would vote for:

Stapler: Bush

Staple remover: Kerry

Pile of rubber bands: Bush

Halogen torchiere lamp: Kerry

Coat hook: Bush

Empty Coke bottle: Undecided

Stack of stationery: Bush

View of parking lot: Nader

Food for thought! Edge to Bush among nonsentient office supplies. No surprise that stapler and staple remover have their differences, and halogen torchiere lamp has obvious French influences. View of parking lot still clings to an idealistic vision of participatory democracy, but admits that it will be voting largely as a protest of too many cars and not enough trees. And I think we can expect empty Coke bottle to be heavily courted by both candidates in these last days of the campaign, as they speak to voter concerns of returning to fullness, recycling fears, and backwash issues.

On a non-child-related note: Look at this girl's horny expression! I swar, the things one finds when trolling Yahoo news photos. I bet they had to pry her off the presidential package moments later. Bush appears to be administering a left hook to her loser boyfriend (already on the floor by the time the shutter clicked). And so the Sex-Machine-in-Chief claims the spoils of victory, dragging the compliant wench back to his Republicave for a lusty night of uniting, not dividing.

Welcome to the Hoedown

Down, ho! I kid. Everyone knows that only talentless pop-tarts still engage in hoedowns. The above photo is a coupla performers at the Stardust in Las Vegas, dancing in a show I've never seen. I use it above because it's the lead on one of five more Vegas articles I wrote for MSNBC.com, which has quickly become my favoritest freelance client. Who cares if they're evil? Microsoft money spends just like any other money, and there's more of it.

Anyway, if the last batch of these wasn't enough for you, I encourage you to brace for trenchant, sharp, incisive, and other bitey-sounding words in relation to service-journo takes on the Vegas centennial, Vegas celebrity weddings, Vegas for non-gamblers, launching an entertainment career in Vegas, and the Vegas ultralounge fad. I'd like to point out that these articles mark my first foray into Celebrity Journalism (caps mine), especially the celeb-wedding opus, which required two post-pub corrections to keep track of Britney Spears's wedding license and Nicky Hilton's annulment. So enjoy my recycled waste products! Real blog entries return tomorrow! Or maybe not! Assuming they were ever here!

Lyle Lovett as Seen from Space

Or at least as seen from the high, high seats we had at the Lyle Lovett / John Hiatt / Joe Ely / Guy Clark show on Friday. An awesome performance. The four guys played acoustic with no band, just lined up in a row on a bare stage, each with a guitar and mike. (John Hiatt took out a harmonica brace at one point, then thought better of it and put the harp away.) The performers simply took turns playing a song apiece, sometimes with occasional guitar or vocal backup from one of their neighbors, usually supplying a little relaxed stage banter. Very homey. All joined in for Lovett's "My Baby Don't Tolerate" from the eponymous album which is a year old and I didn't even know about because I am foolish like that.

The foursome also united for the finale, a highly customized version of "This Land Is Your Land," with each performer providing his own verse. Lovett's was inscrutably weird, even for him ... something about not going back to the place where the women dress like men? or vice versa? I dunno. God, I love that guy. Maybe even too much. But not in an OJ way. Anyway, great show. A real throwback to when country music was worth a damn.

Before Regurgitating, First You Must Gurgitate

Much to do today, so let's get right to it, shall we?

Care to be a tourist in the heart of darkness? Then go for an Apocalypse Now sightseeing expedition. Note that you are not actually allowed to "zap 'em with the siren" or "drop the bomb, exterminate them all." And surprisingly, Charlie does surf. (via)

Forgot that busted promethium jive. For an update on the true elements of the universe, get yo self to the Periodic Table of Funk. (via)

Three words, and three words only: glowing toilet seats. SH, now you can finally replace that Karsten-era mistake that gives your toilet its unseemly underbite. (via)

As noted by others, the weirdness in watching this little Flash toy is seeing a few hundred invisible hands deconstructing each other's rude attempts at language. I was never able to successfully spell out "Derrida." (via)

Pennsylvania may be a battleground state and John Kerry may have a slight edge in remaining campaign cash, but that doesn't mean George Bush can go around robbing banks. (via)

Cute and surprisingly hard (and violent) Flash game: Alien Hominid. Bite they little heads off. (via)

Meet your new bessshhtest buddy: the Internet Cocktail Database. Sure it's been done before, but this one is mo'better, because it has the Mixilator. Can't wait to try out my "Gutierrez's San Francisco Kutenai Special."

Oh god ... well, it's not as brain-rotting as Bananaphone, but it does make very clear that someone loves eggs. Twisted genius of hypercutery. (via)

Awkward conversation starring videogame characters: Nintendo Cartoon Hour. May contain violence, dancing, and tuxedo cat surfing. (via)

Heeeeey ... he's Asian. And hairy. Very, very hairy. Go to the pictures. I'm looking at you, Wander Woman. Say hello to your new love-master. (via)

It doesn't really settle the pivotal issue, but Lindsay Lohan's Boob Song claims that LL's breasteses must indeed contain mul-tit-udes. Ha! Can you BELIEVE you get this level of comedy for free? (via)

Why would you want to shake and slap this baby? Eh, why not? Still got ten minutes for lunch. (via)

Priceless new Lileks exhibit: The Unbearable Happiness of Being in the Ice Capades. Shiver, and not from the cold.

For a further Lileksian exhumation of vintage instructional tomfoolery, see How to Make Friends by Telephone. Glub-glub-mo-blon! Can you hear me now, ass-face? (via)

Another Fark Photoshop contest, this one consisting of suggestions for the cover of Bill O'Reilly's new book, given his recently revealed naughty predilections. (via)

And to "finish off" with a "happy ending," get this before all the servers crash: Triumph the Insult Comic Dog in Spin Alley at the last presidential debate. Approaches the brilliance of his infamous mass slaughter of Star Wars geeks. "Oh, you'll take eet, beetch!"

Red Sox Celebrate Pennant Victory With Man-Love

The Boston Red Sox cornholed the Yankees last night, as even Osama is by now aware. I'm a very slight Yankee fan simply by virtue of passing their stadium on my commute, but hey, the Sox deserved the win. Plus, lookit them puppies leap. We could all do with a little more rambunctious masculine affection in the public sphere. C'mon fellas, let's all jump and straddle! It's OK if you like it in your secret parts. Lots of guys do. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Not to be outdone, Derek Jeter swoops down from the rafters (if there were rafters) upon a terrified Orlando Cabrera, a levitational attack that, while impressive, could not save Jeter's team. Better luck next time, you attractive and personable young man!

The Supreme Mohney Will Now Hear Your Pleas

Spent the past weekend in our nation's capital. Hadn't been there since I was 13 and visited for a junior-high junket. On that trip, we stayed at some Holiday Inn variant. Our surly group of preadolescents encountered another surly group of preadolescents. One guy in our group starting talking to a female from the other tribe. An alpha male from the other tribe then challenged the suitor, and harsh, preteen insult-words were exchanged. The end result was that the other guy decked our guy very adroitly, sending him to the pavement. The two tribes separated in hasty confusion. Even though I didn't like the guy who got punched, our tribe convened a revenge council and began plotting. Then, an adult from the other tribe somehow tracked us down to our hotel room and gave us the business. Apparently the assaulter was a junior Golden Gloves boxing champ. The implication being that we could suffer a serious whupping if we challenged him. Then the adult added on some halfhearted bloviating about how we shouldn't be fighting anyway blah blah blah. But it was obvious he was there more as a heavy than as an after-school-special intercessionary. Strange that no adults from our own cadre came in to speechify too. Well, screw this guy, we thought. We were given pause by the boxing prospect, but now it just meant we'd for sure jump the pugilist en masse. Which was probably what we expected to do anyway. I didn't want to get punched at all, even by someone without training. Still don't!

We never successfully assembled the posse back then, and I'm happy to say that this past weekend's visit was violence-free. DC is an interesting town, but now more than ever with all the batten-down-the-hatches antiterrorist fortifications and street closings, it's a pain in the ass to get around anywhere near the capitol grounds. Once you get away from that stuff, it's weird how the city transforms into a typical midsize Southern metropolis with a couple university districts. And the fact that none of the buildings in DC proper can be higher than nine stories gives it an even more bucolic feel. More Louisville than Atlanta.

Anyway, here are some photos. Remember, don't touch the box.

Getting the Axe

No no, not I. Someone else in my little office-burrow was shitcanned on Monday. This Individual was possibly my least favorite person at the orifice, and that's saying something given the troop of howler monkeys that I "work" with here. This Individual was a venal, vengeful, spiteful little gossip-weasel, and the fact that This Individual spent most of This Individual's time kissing boss ass made it all the more ironically appropriate that the boss had been planning for months to eliminate This Individual's job entirely.

I had no real personal run-ins with This Individual, as This Individual and I worked on opposite ends of the burrow, both figuratively and literally. But occasionally I was shanghaied into luncheons also attended by This Individual, wherein I was subjected to This Individual's objectionable, abrasive, reptilian personality and naive, incurious, scabrous worldview. No more. Apparently This Individual actually approached the boss on Monday with a list of demands regarding reduced workload, and instead was treated to a 100% reduction in workload. Today This Individual returned to clean out her desk and vent more sulfurous hate-gas, prophesying that another fearful employee This Individual happened to encounter (again, not I) was equally vulnerable to elimination. I don't know if it was a comic book or a movie or a novel or a play or what, but I distinctly recall some vanquished villain going down to Hell and "farting all the way to oblivion" or some variation on that phrase. Very apt.

Despite all the bile spewed above, I'm not dancing on This Individual's workplace grave. (much.) As far as I'm concerned, the sooner This Individual's institutional memory vanishes into the ether, the better. It will be as if This Individual never existed, and I can refocus on those nearby who are merely insane rather than actively malicious. Still, the point of all this is that I have not observed many firings in my career to date, usually because I was working at small organizations. In fact, at my last job, only one person was fired in the more than five years I worked there, and that was only after she stopped coming to work every other day, didn't respond to phone calls, relapsed into morphine addiction, had someone OD in her apartment, and had her voicemail fill up with alternating threatening calls from her drug dealer and probation officer (I think they were two different guys). It's a strange, comically funeral time when someone gets fired. People really take their jobs too seriously, which is particularly absurd in a cookie factory like this one.

Of note is how several of my coworkers run hot and cold between glee at This Individual's departure and highly suspect remorse at said glee. Good Catholics all. I never liked This Individual, and now This Individual's getting hooked off the stage. Too bad, I hope This Individual lands on This Individual's feet, etc. etc. etc. ... But ultimately, callously, truthfully, I don't much care. And I'm OK with that! And I'm not even on antidepressants. Fire us all, I say. Then we can booze up and riot in the afternoon just like God intended. There's a new bar across the street called "Study Hall," which has yet to be open when I'm still at the office. But want to shake the hand of a man who'd open a bar with that name next to a Jesuit university. That man is a visionary, and maybe he'll need someone to work a few extra shifts.

We Appreciate Your Letting Us Rob You Today

Boldest crook in the world indeed. Those bastards at the MTA want to hose me for another $14 a month? Assholes! I hope they choke on it. I'm going to be so angry now when I pay at the Metrocard machine. My anger will be so intense that it will make my debit transaction show up in boldface on the MTA's income statement. That'll show 'em as they roll around in their limousines made of hookers. I guess I'll just have to take my public transportation business elsewhere. I'm sure the MTA's competitors over at Night Train Express can help me out.

But then I'd miss the colorful life that exists underground. Why, just this week, a hobolicious gentleman sitting beside me took a long pull from his paper-sacked beverage and then declared "One thousand blubber hunters could find no oil anywhere." When I inadvertently caught his eye, he then smiled and said cheerfully, "We all gonna die."

Still unsure what to "Be" for Halloween? Then consider a jaunt through the Worst Halloween Costumes of All Time. I'm going to have to call a tie between Asteroids and the Village People Biker, though the Herve Villechez would be pretty sweet. (via)

Don't let autumnal crispness propel you into poncho purgatory. Don a warm, sleek, fashionable jacket made from living mouse skin. (via)

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Bananaphone! Oh yes, Bananaphone! Aaaaaaagh! Make it stop! (via)

Someday I would like to just send Manolo to Dutton's. Till then, I'll just live vicariously through Nick Nolte's diary. (via)

Poor phonesexy Bill O'Reilly! It may well be that the producer Andrea Mackris is a shakedown artist, but I can't wait to hear those tapes of O'Reilly's dirty talking. No-slut zone! (via)

A happy little story about Iraq from Seymor Hersh. Freedom is on the march! Watch your back, buddy. (via)

It may not be as entertaining as Motherload, but Shrunken Heads has a certain visual appeal. How come no one shrinks heads anymore? My head could use a good shrink. (via)

Oooo, Gawker Emeritus Primus Lizzie Spiers has fled print and returned to the safe cocoon of online-ism, becoming the new ed-in-chief of Mediabistro. Despite faithful years of scrounging their listings, two cocktail parties, and a few Benjamins for their Resume Revamp, Mediabistro has yet to place me in my dream job. No, I don't want to work my way up from copyediting, you ingrate! (hurls imaginary tea service at imaginary butler) I'm sure things will change for the better with Spiers in charge. And I'm glad she's surfaced again, as I was worried about her. (tenderly posts clipping to Wall of Stalking)