Thursday, August 28, 2014

Making Time For Important Things

I often don't do it. Sometimes I forget things are important. Often, other things are more important in the moment. So we'll just call this a small victory, the more so because it ends that short time of the year when we're the same age. And even more because BFF crosses the Rubicon of age 55 today, the gnarly old fuck. Amazing that he and his can stand to be around him, really. Although he's probably less grizzled than I am, because I am given to understand that vegetarian feeding makes the long pig more tender. But I digress.

You can say that he's a dupe, he's a rube, he's a grifter (for attention, not for money, which makes it perfectly okay and then some, and you and I are, after all, the ones clicking the mice). I've said all of those things about him and to him at times or others through the stations of life, and other things far less kind, some on point and some not so. But he's my dupe/rube/grifter, I've been there for every black helicopter and startled epiphany and morbid fuck-me jig and for things incalculably more important than those bits of inexplicably MoCo lives. And while I remind you here and now, explicitly, as I do every year, that this makes me better than you, it has also made me better than me.

Expressing myself once a year about my nearly lifelong friend (John the Daftist, the She-Nurse of the SS, and 32-Ounce are the only humans with longer tenure, and theirs is biologically asserted) is a little maudlin, but it's easy. This part is hard:



Okay, that one's not hard, I do it every year. Ritual is important. Just ask Bam-Bam. Let's do a couple more reruns:





Damn, when I'm tired of that, I'll be dead. Makes me want more.



It's never as fast as I remember it being.

Thoughtfully not rerun? Naked Bong Girl (nsfw). Not appearing in this film? The worst Kate Bush song ever, in the face of stiff competition (though I'll admit that she was quite attractive when we were young--and she's only a tiny bit older than us).

And finally, because a birthday should involve an actual present:



So, y'know, happies and suchlike.

Friday, May 02, 2014

So There Was This Guy

There still is, actually. And he's old. Today. It is the day when he is older. He used to not be older. We used to be young. And skinny.

The first time I saw him, he was the very last guy on the Ricky Monkey basketball team's bench. We mocked him. He got into the game. He took a set shot. I don't remember if he made it, but I like to think so. I had no idea on that day that he would become the Hamster. Our Hamster.

See BFF. I can't top that. However, I did get candids.

You might think he's not really that scary. I am here to tell you that he is. Oh, yes. He is.
You don't want to know what those little paws just touched. Oh no you don't.

Not much is known of Our Hamster's leisure activities. So, we speculate:

That's right. Cosplay. We went there. That just happened.
You might confuse hamsters with other small furry creatures. This may be helpful:

Sensory whiskers. Chix dig it.
Our Hamster? Has a very long tail. Oh yes he does. If you knowhumsayin', and I'm pretty sure you do.

Happy birthday, Hamster.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Whack This Mole

Olsen on Boswell: "He could talk a dog off a meat truck, that guy."

I have to admit that's quite excellent. Fire Saint Benny anyway.

In other news, why the fucking fuck haven't I read yet that Adam Oates is fired? I mean, seriously, why didn't I read this two days ago? What the fucking fuck, Leonsis? I mean, based on what amounts to gossip*, I've mutated to the point where I won't mind if I read that you fired George McPhee, but I'm counting, Teddy Internet, and the number of days between last Sunday and the day you fire Adam Fucking Oates is no less than one half the number of days between the next time your team is playing hockey and the time I give you a fucking dime, you lying sack of dissembling horseshit.

*It is said that the Caps are on many players' "Please Massa don't trade me there" lists based on GMGM's allegedly draconian policies toward players and their agents. I have no idea whether it's really true, but based on some stuff I read and Leonis' recent publicizing of the Caps' policy on player-agent contacts after games, the story has the sweet stench of a relationship with reality. Given that GMGM has spent years walking a fine line because those years embodied his wandering horseshit on the player acquisition front (this year was the potentially saving exception, imhoe), he is no longer endearing. But Oates first, last, and always, though it pains me to say that of a guy who brought RPI a national title, even though he has no personality and no passion, and very clearly dyes his hair.**

**You may or may not recall, because you were or were not in the room***, that the first words out of my mouth after the horn for the first intermission of Adam Oates' tenure were, "Fire Oates."

***Or on the phone.

UPDATE: United news, while I'm here today (courtesy of Goff):

-Chris Pontius and the Hamstring of Doomitosis:
In his absence, United (2-2-1) has utilized Nick DeLeonDavy ArnaudLewis Neal and Chris Rolfe on the flanks and relied on secondary forward Fabian Espindola to influence the attack. 
Fucking shoot me. Pontius, on whom the club has staked the future for I've lost count of how many fucking seasons now, is going to be playing in a fucking wheelchair soon.

-Bill Hamid's big toe, Chris Korb's knee injury (who the fuck cares, other than Korb and his girlfriend?), Luis Silva's giant Latin tonker (or maybe his ankle).

-Fucking shoot me some more:
With a victory Saturday, United would equal last season’s win total. Last year the club needed 22 games to achieve that — and then didn’t win again. Success in Columbus, though, does not come often: four consecutive defeats. A victory, combined with other results around the league, could also thrust United into a first-place tie in the Eastern Conference.
For 10 minutes. Fucking shoot me, again and again and again. People ask me why I gave up my season tickets. Check the last four bolded names in the Pontius blockquote. There's your fucking answer. Goddam team full of number twelves (which was once a badge of honor, but no more--in fact, the last honorable true Twelve went off to coach the fucking enemy). Am I fucking shot yet?

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Autism Awareness Day

Yup. You aware? Good. Vaccinate your children. If you think that's a bad idea, then shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children. If you're not willing to shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children, shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children. Then shut the fuck up some more and vaccinate your children.

That's about all I have time for this year. Last year. 2012. 2009, and 2008. The boy? He's awesome, and I love him more than breath its own self. Yeah, he's still autistic. Whatever. Love to Kimmah and Sam and Swami and Max and to you, whoever you are.

In news of very nearly equal importance, the Maryland women are returning to the Final Four. I would say this at any time of any day of any year, but more pointedly this week, at every moment of every day: Fuck Notre Dame. Fuck UConn. Fuck Stanford (special for His Wiseness: I actually rooted for you last night).

Peace. Unless you're Notre Dame, UConn, or Stanford, of course.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Hey You

Because you're not 21 until I say you're 21, kid:

 

 Because I think it's awesome:

 

 Because not everything can be They Might Be Giants:



Because you know why:



Because this is what happens when you do too many fucking drugs and make sillyass Star Trek allusions:



Yeah, take that, Planet's Daddy.

Okay, fine, go be 21 now. Happies, with all the love ever.

 Uncle Weird

This child grew up to tell me "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes." Life doesn't get any more fucking awesome than that, bitchez.


Tuesday, February 18, 2014

By Jingo

I have a hard time with the Olympics. Some of it is just fucken cool. But it's painfully obvious that, while most of the athletes are there for the best of reasons sincere (if nationalistic), the thing is a boondoggle that's not of any real value to improving the world condition.

Unfortunately, so's the World Cup. So suck it. Bring on my bread and circuses.

There are some things that are self-evident. One is that my local nation is better than yours. It just is. Especially, in this season, if you're my friend from Canada, for whom I shall not make up a name, so that when Purple sends him this post through the Faceybookz in an obvious effort to discredit me and Obamacare, I can pretend that I have lots of friends from Canada and it's not actually about him.

Another piece of self-evidentia is that even though my local nation is better than yours, especially if yours is Canada, other nations are not to be disrespected (unless they're Canada). For example, the skip of the British womens' curling team is pretty hot, as are a number of Russian women hockey players, some Italian skater chick I happened to notice because Ilse is obsessed with figure skating in all its forms (a million deaths are not enough for Porcelain Face) in addition to unicorns and the Olympics in general, and, also according to Ilse, Henrik Lundqvist and some guy on the Norwegian mens' curling team. Note the absence of anything Canadian on my Hot List. And hers. I said note it, bitchez.

By the way, if you're concerned that I'm not getting to the point, don't be. There isn't one.

Specifically not to be disrespected: the Russians. You wouldn't know it from watching the endless American rainbow fairy tale that is NBC's coverage of these Olympics (and every Olympics), which spent the entire opening ceremonies telling us how Russia equals Soviets equals bad and brutal and horrible and Stalin, and did we by the way mention Stalin? Of course, they did a really shitty job of reconciling that to guys in spiked coal-scuttle helmets who torment Russians, as well as reconciling math concerning a certain major conflict between said guys and Russians. Nor would you know it from the world journo community, which appears to be convinced that Russians are shitting in its water and feeding it cockroach borscht.

I thought the Russians did a really cool pageant about their history and culture. Was it an obscene waste of money? Of course it was. See Rule One. But their pageant was every bit as awesome as every other country's Olympic opening pageant, and a damn sight better and more entertaining than the pasty white (and Anglo) pageants thrown by the last two pasty white (and Anglo, despite the vague mists of froggification and First Nationsization that Vancouver 2012 tried to pimp, and you are totally not getting a break from me at all in this post, you fucking Canadian fucks) nations to throw such galas.

Full disclosure: Tschaikovsky innately trumps anything Anglo. Suck it, we lose.

I've been fascinated by the Winter Olympics since I was a kid. Especially the hockey, which was my first true sports love. So I have this jingoism problem. You see, in a hockey sense, I really, really hate some other countries that, on the face of it, probably don't deserve it. I'm looking at you, Sweden. And you, Finland. The very notion of disliking Sweden or Finland for any reasons beyond spoiled fish in skunk mustard sauce or their craven national behaviors in the aforementioned major conflict should be a pretty serious clue that I have a serious need for antipsychotics here (and in case you don't know: Sweden was a neutral that profited from sales of war materiel to both sides, while Finland sided with the Germans, because they were terrified of the Soviets, until the Soviets kicked their asses and made them change sides).

Subsequent Olympics have only exacerbated the problem. When Vladislav Tretiak was revealed as one of the torch-lighters in Sochi, I recognized him and almost involuntarily hissed, to Ilse's great puzzlement (fucking GenXers, and fuck also my generation's upbringing with hammers and sickles populating our duck-and-cover dreams). I cursed vividly when I saw today that the Czechs (minus the Slovaks) will be the United States' opponent in the quarters. And you will have no trouble guessing who I detest first and best among hockey nations.

This is difficult, because who I detest second and second-best among mens' hockey nations this time around is us. There are maybe 6 guys on the US Olympic hockey team who don't make me want to slit my own throat in disgust. But my country's laundry is what it is. Contrast Sweden, whose hockey team I've hated since I was about 7; it includes three of my favorite Olympians (Backstrom, Marcus Johansson, and the aforementioned suave, debonair, and blindingly awesome King Henrik Lundqvist, if you're curious).

It gets worse. Of course I despise the Canadian mens' team. But I reserve the most spittle for their womens' team, who fundamentally cheated to beat the US women in group play (which doesn't matter--the final will be US-Canada). It appears I have a bit of a problem with Canadian women playing goal-scoring sports. But I'll just try to stick to nationalism here without hauling out the misogynist artillery.

Friend Jim has done his best to provide fine and healthy counsel on my larger sports hate problem (but ask him about Duke). My jingoism transcends even my routine homerism. Therein, of course, lies the rub when I try to make sense of the Olympics. Best for me to just eat the bread and roll with the circus, I think. And to play Civ V or FM when my television is showing Ilse her tiny ice ballerinas.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Another Bad Day In Paradise


 Pete Seeger, dead at 94.

This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender
I cannot describe how saddened I am by this. Not even bunnies can fix it.



Not. Even. Bunnies.

Friday, December 27, 2013

The Surface

On the theory that it is prudent, once in a while, to emerge into the light and gobble air, I offer this:

"...TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"

MY POINT EXACTLY.” 

(Terry Pratchett, The Hogfather)


I'm done judging what you think. Even if you're an idiot. Which you may well be. Merry Fucking Christmas.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

All the Colored Girls Go Doo De Doo Doo Doo De Doo Doo de Doo Doo Doo De Doo

Damn. Lou Reed, dead at 71.



Hey sugar, take a walk on the wild side.

The wrong Beatle keeps dying.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Whoa, I'd Better Hurry Up and Get This Shit Posted

I just woke her up a few minutes ago, and this really needs to be up on the internetz before she gets to a computer, y'know?



Ilse: still legal after all these years. Happy birthday, honey, even though you let those fucking parasites into our house. The fuck's up with that?

Friday, September 27, 2013

Oh. That.

It's apparently Google's 15th birthday. This required some research, since whoever designed today's Doodle didn't bother to do a little bit of Javascripting to include mouseover text. So as an actual Web guy, let me just say this:

Fuck You, Google. It is your good fortune to be only slightly less evil than Apple, and about precisely as evil as Microsoft. Comparative analysis aside, Fuck You, Google.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

The Figure 5

So BFF posted about the incomparable William Carlos Williams, whose birth anniversary was yesterday. But he left out the part that's about me. What a fucking number 12 wanker.

The Great Figure
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
fire truck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city

A print of this used to hang on my crackhouse wall, click to DeMuthanize*
Fin.

*All hail Phil Plait.

Monday, September 02, 2013

Labor Day

So, I'm actually working on Labor Day, but as always on Labor Day check out Loomis at LGM, and backtrack, because for Loomis every day is Labor Day and he's the most outstanding populist labor historian I know of.

It seems that we missed Labor Day last year, although we made it right shortly thereafter. We did not miss in 2011, and I can't figure out what the YouTube-dropped video is. 

Finally: today's xkcd transcends all. No, I mean all. Holy fucking shit.

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Oh, Fuck Me

Yesterday was his 54th birthday. I missed it because I had a bad day, then I had a worse one that further devolved into chills, fever, cramps, and some really unpleasant other stuff. So it's 2 AM, and I'm sweating like a pig, hopefully because the fever is breaking.

And so...happy belated fucking birthday, BFF.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

My Dream

I was rooting around in my bag and I found a pack of cigarettes and I was upset because they were shorties instead of 99s and then I remembered that I was lucky to have any cigarettes at all and I was happy. And then I knew the dream was over because I woke up and BFF was pointing and silently screaming while Digby and Atrios raped Glenn Greenwald while Obama held Greenwald's head, snarling, "Take that, Kitty Genovese," and I wasn't racist because Obama's cock was white. And then things got really weird because there was litter so I cried.

Friday, August 09, 2013

An Ending. I Think.

It is to be fervently hoped that the cigarette I just finished was my last. We shall see. I am hoping that there is some value in admitting this in public, to my very limited public. Value to me; I don't give a fuck about its value to you (and therein may lie some of the problem, I suppose).

I have been smoking regularly for something like 38 years, though my first was longer ago than that, probably at summer camp when I was 14. I honestly don't remember, but it seems by far the most likely beginning. It was a beginning to my life as a pointlessly punkass contrarian, a thrill-seeker, a counter to sensibility and propriety. I had been, until that moment, a violent anti-smoker, and I was intellectually well aware of the health risks. I recall freaking out when I was 7 and my parents--both essentially non-smokers who could, back in the 60s, smoke an occasional cigarette socially--lit up after a dinner in a restaurant. My change became complete when I started swiping Larks from my father's parents--both of whom smoked until they were in their 70s (my grandfather, the Original Recipe John the Daftist, smoked until about a year before his death from COPD).

For a long time I smoked two packs a day, Winstons by choice, Marlboros sometimes and then always when I succumbed to the peer-pressured notion that Winstons were pretty freakin' gay. Then the world stopped letting people smoke at their desks, and rightly so, and I cut it to a pack of Camel Lights a day because the Marlboros (along with a steady stream of marijuana smoking) were making me noticeably unhealthier.

I quit for nearly a month almost 10 years ago. I had a heart attack, and was mildly impressed by that, and stopped, aided by a common smoking-cessation antidepressant I won't name. It made me itch. It made me insane. The drug, I mean. I had the heart attack the weekend before Thanksgiving, and I don't think I stopped right away--I think I waited until just after the holiday. I spent Christmas Eve with my brother and his family; my mother was visiting them. I bought a pack of smokes on the way home.

My bout of pneumonia, accompanied by the worst cough ever, chest pain that is at best musculoskeletal (and we are now fairly certain that it is), some potentially rather dire potential diagnoses from various test results, and the prospect of prematurely and irrevocably leaving Ilse, Bam, and I suppose Databoy, the lights of my life, has thoroughly frightened me, for reals, my genuinely risk-humping nature laid open, the frontier of risk aversion now discovered (in my personal life--professionally, it's more calculated, by many more orders of magnitude). Boy, do I feel like a pussy. Seriously. 38 years of the Devil may care, and now this, simpering about the game clock, veering away from the head-on. The only thing I can think of that would be more shameful would be acquiring formal religion (and in a way, my frenzied dash to perceived safety is a rejection of my previously established semi-formal secret religion). I'll get over it.

I hasten to add that while the dire stuff is not ruled out, it now seems far less likely, based on a visit to my newest doctor, a pulmonologist. Part of how we rule it out is for me to stop smoking, and we have created a cunning plan that includes nicotine replacement, a therapy I had not previously considered. I hasten slightly less hastily to add that it's not like I actually hate Databoy. He's just a thought-provoking series of questions, is all. I am a 53-year-old long-time smoker with cardiopulmonary issues. I don't have the fucking energy for thought-provoking series of questions.

So there it is, on the Web, my hope, my innards. I accept your good wishes for this enterprise whether or not you express them, and honestly, I'd probably prefer that you didn't, with one exception, because my contempt for you does not extend to actually wanting to disappoint you in some meaningful way. I am genuinely sorry to tell you that the exception is almost certainly not you; she is a visitor of delicate and extreme rarity, and there are very, very good reasons that she is the exception, in that she is the one human being on this planet from whom I will tolerate, unconditionally, any wee dram of optimism. And three of you just figured out that math.

And don't ask. I'll fess up if need be, or maybe, if need be, one of the local denizens who knows me in real life will attempt shame as a tool. Ask the She-Nurse of the SS how that works out. A tubercular cigar brothel/butcherteria in Tegucigalpa, to make an educated guess. In fact, the one person out there in the world who absolutely does not get that it's not okay to ask--the farthest thing from okay, in fact--is the She-Nurse.

The header quote stays. Only years will tell if it's applicable, and chances are it is, whether or not I stay quit. You really don't smoke for 38 years without shortening your life in some measure, even if you luck out and that measure is small. There's some magical thinking that only compounds the shame, hmm?

Goodbye, smoky treats. I will do my very best to never speak of this again.

Saturday, August 03, 2013

Why I Hate My Futbol Team Even Though It Just Went Up 2-1

I would have, by now, been demanding the firing of the last two DC United coaches. In fact, I did, long before now, at points where the team didn't suck nearly as bad as this one does. And you might well accuse me of hero worship for this. "Look at that dumbass Landru," you say to yourself right about now. "He's so blinded by love for Saint Benny the Lionhearted that he can't bring himself to call for the dumb fuck's head."

To coin a meme: Sadly, no. 

I'm not bothering to demand the dumb fuck's firing, because it's pointless. There's no way the cheap cocksuckers who own this team are going to buy out Saint Benny, as hapless as he is.

It's hard to hate on Benny Olsen, true enough. Heart of a lion, tears of a clown, and all that. And there's certainly something to the notion that the cheap cocksuckers Thohir and Levien aren't giving him much to work with. But that's not all of it, and Benny's not working with what he has. He has a fucking retard in a chess helmet in central defense, and he traded his best central defender to Jason Kreis for semen on a cracker the other week because...I"m not sure why. Because McDonald looked at him funny in practice or something. It takes a genius at stupidity to think that Daniel Woolard is a better central defender than Brandon McDonald. It takes a genius at stupidity not to notice that Dwayne DeRosario is aging and counterproductive, and that even before the age really started to show this season, his arrogance and attitude doomed him to useless. It takes a genius at stupidity to bench the best goalkeeper in the league upon his return from a winning Gold Cup team, to play a fucking retard like Joe Willis--which almost cost them three points, as Willis let in a goal that I think would've been almost physically impossible for Bill Hamid to let in.

Sure, they made the playoffs last year on...what, adrenaline? Other teams' suck? Not on Benny's management skills, that's for fucking sure. I've addressed this for a long time now; see here, and scroll down past the two futbol posts I've made this year, and start reading. Or just read samples:

(11/4/2012) The last is, as always, uncomfortable for me, because he's a fucking saint. Benny Olsen is a terrible fucking man manager, just absolutely fuckawful. The team fielded 10 men for almost 25 minutes. Benny had two subs left. He didn't use them.
(10/20/2012) It makes no sense to backpass and then restart the advance at a pace that lets the other team catch up and repack the defense (and let's not even discuss the countless episodes of inept backpassing followed by stupid turnovers and goooooollllls). None. I screamed at Tommy Soehn about it, I screamed at Curt Onalfo about it, and it's only fair that I say this: Goddammit, Saint Benny, you stupid motherfucker, stop fucking coaching them to backpass and then build slow. What the fucking fuck is wrong with you, other than that you learned this fucking repulsive horseshit from Soehn and Onalfo? Didn't Saint Piotr learn you better? Can't you fucking stand there, far closer to this abomination in the sight of the futbol gods than I am, and fucking learn from this? Wake the fucking fuck up, dood. I really, really want to believe that you're not still, after two fucking seasons, in way the fuck over your incredibly short head. I really do. Do please provide countering evidence. Soon.
(8/12/2012) Part of the thing here, and it's a part we're loathe to admit, is that Benny is a really, really fuckawful in-game coach, and a poor tactical manager. Can this improve? Maybe. Given time, he'll improve more in a year or two than Tommy Soehn or Curt Onalfo will for the rest of their lives.Will he get time? Will he deserve it? Beats the fuck out of me.
(5/28/2012) Fuck You, Chester, Pennsylvania, and Fuck You, PP&L Park. It'll be fucking cold day in Hell when I spend money in your city, or your stadium, ever again.
Oh, wait. That last one's not about Benny. But I stand by it anyway.

So as I've typed this, DCU actually managed to score a clincher and win the game 3-1. Our friends on Comcast, including the formerly discommendated but no longer uniformed and maybe forgiven, I can't remember, Santino Quaranta (but not sainted Terps coach Sasho Cirovski, who's been studio-commenting for CSN and appears to have either smartened up or taken a timely vacation--and look, at I typed that, my teevee flashed up an utterly bullshit commercial about how excited I should be about the giant clusterfuck rape that's going to be Maryland football this season, yay!), are just creaming themselves over this first home victory since...Jeebus...1492 or something. 

You know what? Fuck this, I'm tiring myself out. Have bunnies instead.


Yes. Yes, they will.
Stump Bunnies

Yes, that is seriously Shakira with a bunny.

Yes, that is seriously some naked broad I don't know, with a bunny.

Gaymo bunnies are still my favorite.

Yeah. I feel better now, don't you?


Sunday, July 28, 2013

Why Blogging Sucks; or, You Kids Get Off My Web

BFF's recent experience and the accompanying performance art have inspired me to explain things to all of you in the most condescending manner possible. So here we go.

Actually, no we don't. I need to explain the condescension. I am, as the tag says, an actual communications professional. Now, what I really am is a corporate management tool. But my background is in databases and Web, and one of the jobs I do, amid other toolish professional behavior, is manage a group that operates a passel of Web sites for your local Federal government. The other toolish professional behavior consumes a nontrivial amount of my time, because small businesses that suck at the teat of your local Federal government take people like me and stretch us out over a ridiculous number of businesses and people and groups and teams, and make us manage them, and then stick ice picks in our kidneys until we accumulate more businesses and people and groups under our personal aegis, except that's a lie because they never stop fucking sticking ice picks in our kidneys.

But I digress. The point here is that Web is my home. It's my yard. And you fucking bloggers are taking a shit on it. I'm a modern and sensitive guy, and I'm going to try to be kind about this. And I'm going to try not to be too condescending and to keep this shit simple, because who has time for me taking a dump all over the Internets? To the extent that simplicity, in your personal case, is condescending, I apologize.

There are a number of ways to produce a Web page. One is to just take your text, fit the appropriate HTML (or XHTML or XML or some other Markup Language) around it so that it looks like a Web page and not a ransom note, and slap that puppy up on whatever part of the Web you happen to control (your domain). You absolutely must view everything that follows this paragraph through this filter: I am a fucking dinosaur, and producing Web pages any way other than this is newfangled horseshit that leads to deviant behavior, alternative religions, hippies fucking in the streets, the fiery, painful, screaming downfall of all that is decent and pure, the utter defilement of sainted mothers everywhere, and hemorrhoids. I would cheerfully scoop up all of you fucking bloggers into my giant, dripping, gaping, blood-stained maw, and devour you whole, ignoring your pathetic and inconsequential screams. But I can't, because my little Trex arms are too fucking short.

Your HTML may just create the way the page looks--this is like using the Bold or Italic or font commands in Word--or it may use a style sheet (CSS), which is like using Word styles to mark a block of text as Heading, or Body, or something else. HTML or CSS code, wrapped around your content (text) and presented to a Web browser through the holy mystery that is Internet telecommunications, governs how a page looks when you call up that page in your browser.

Another way to produce a Web page is to use software to do it. These methods usually rely on the Web content (your text) being stored in a database, and being served up to browsers through the holy mystery, & c. At the popular level--i.e., blogging--these methods are called Web Content Management Systems (WCMS). Blogger and WordPress, for instance, are populist WCMS writ large. A populist sort of WCMS is how you deliver blogging functionality outside of an organizational setting (a WCMS that is less populist is still necessary to deliver blogging functionality inside an organization, the implication here being that organizations have well-developed IT, software, and Web content development/delivery processes and systems that may not need to be as friendly as Blogger or WordPress or BlogFrog or OhFuckMeInTheAssItsMoreFuckingBlogware).

Did I spit enough when I said "populist?" Because I meant to.

In a WCMS, populist or otherwise the CSS that governs how your blog pages look is usually called a template. And that template is what you choose when you set up your blog, or in the case of my beloved BFF, every 20 minutes when you get bored and decide you need a change (which is the Web equivalent of dying your hair pink). The template is designed for the WCMS in which it operates; it is a package of code--mostly CSS, but some other stuff too, depending on functionality--that takes your content and pretties it up in the way that you specify. All the bells and whistles that you want on your fucking blog--blogrolls, sidebars, lists, calendars, labels, and whathefuckeverelse--have to fit into that template. A user interface between you and the template--in Blogger, it's your dashboard--lets you make those selections, and writes code to fit all that shit into your customized version of the basic template.

Over time, Blogger or WordPress or FuckYouBlogware needs to make changes to the underlying WCMS. Sometimes they're small, sometimes they're total overhauls. Google seems to overhaul Blogger about once a year. Every time there's a major overhaul, God kills a kitten. No, wait, that's not quite right. God kills some templates. The underlying WCMS can still render pages in the coded template, but it becomes much harder to customize the old template by automatically writing code from the user interface. And it's not worth it to Google to update the old template, because it's fucking free, so why the fuck should they, when you, and not just you beloved BFF, but all vanity Web presences, are so fucking fickle? Easier, and more cool-sounding, to give you new choices.

And that's how BFF's blog got fucked. He is not particularly comically inept, from my jaded and tiresome perspective. He does have somewhat unrealistic expectations, but excuse me? Are you new here? Have you met my friend? Fucking English majors.

Maybe more later on browsers and their peculiarities, or on domain management. Or maybe not. Right now, I have to go dump my older kid at a transportation terminal and tell him to follow the guys in the furry hats.


Saturday, July 27, 2013

BFF

BFF has managed to lose his free domain name associated with his free blog management software. I have never heard of anyone having a whit of trouble with Blogger, but apparently he feels he has been exiled (and assures me that there is an army of Blogger-disenfranchised out there beyond my horizon).

Now, the President himself landed a black helicopter in my yard and promised me that this difficulty--which I say in all seriousness as an actual Web professional, no one in the entire human universe could possibly deliberately replicate--is because dogma-N (and yes, this kind of stuff is exactly how he got that name, lo these 30 or so years ago) likes Brad Manning and Ed Snowden. Then he fired a drone at my neighbor. So I guess it's real.

Anyway, he's here for now. I've whacked him from the rolls until he settles, because I'm not going to change it every other day while he gets it resolved, and because I'm not sending you to the fuckware site at which his domain name presently resides.

Update: BFF correctly corrects me in comments. He paid for the domain name. So like his theorizing, my mockery is misplaced. Fine metaphors, as someone says, abound.

This is not to say that Google should offer domain names through cheapass nobody low bidders. And trust me on this: I know from cheapass nobody low bidders. But it's not uncommon or unique to Google. I just had a similar, much lower-profile experience with another IT leviathan whose productivity software you are forced to use--a black hole between a big name and some schlubs to whom they outsourced a chunk of human interface, in this case their e-store.

Which cycles us back to this: trust no one. Which is a highly synthesized, overly simplified, and completely useless version of BFF's point.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

The Decline of Honesty

Others, including Himself, seem to agree that George Zimmerman can be both legally not guilty and morally totally wrong in the matter of Trayvon Martin's death. I think this is pretty clear. I ignored the contemporaneous trial coverage, which would have required far more time and energy than I had available or willing, but what I've read in the aftermath--at least, that which seems trustworthy and not overly afflicted by obvious agendae--seems to support a conclusion that the prosecution didn't do Trayvon Martin any favors, the defense didn't have to work very hard to create reasonable doubt, and the judge's jury instructions left them very little, if any, room to convict Zimmerman of anything.

Now let's be honest. I'll go first. George Zimmerman is, in fact, a creepy ass cracker, a cop wannabe who deliberately stalked Trayvon Martin because he was a young nigger in a hoodie, and at the least, deliberately provoked a situation where he was able to gun Martin down. Of course that's not a statement about the law, and if you try to answer it with a legal argument, you're not being honest.

Here's a statement about the law: It's unfortunate, to say the least, that the state of Florida was unable to come up with a charge to fit the crime, or to competently try the charge that it chose (I mean manslaughter, under Florida law--I don't think they ever had a chance of convicting him of second-degree murder). And it's really bad that while our nation's legal principles and George Zimmerman's rights as a defendant were upheld, justice was not, in any way, served. You might be honest if you answer that with a legal argument. Maybe. That won't make you right. But I titled the post the way I did, didn't I?

Let's discuss some people who really aren't being honest--or, if they are, they're so ignorant and/or prejudiced that their views on this case aren't worthy of the public discussion. Let's start with CNN's vaunted juror number B37. Here are some (admittedly selected) samples of her patter:
"I think all of us thought race did not play a role," the juror said . "We never had that discussion."
...
 She believes he thought Martin was suspicious because of the way he acted. "Anybody would think anybody walking down the road, stopping and turning and looking -- if that's exactly what happened -- is suspicious," she said.
...
Juror B37 said Jeantel was not a good witness because the phrases used during her testimony were terms she had never heard before. The juror thought the witness, "felt inadequate toward everyone because of her education and her communication skills. I just felt sadness for her."
...
The juror said she did not think the term "creepy ass cracker" was a racial statement. The juror said this was the way Trayvon and Rachel spoke to each other, "I think it's just everyday life, the type of life that they life and how they're living, in the environment that they're living in." [My note: she didn't say "Trayvon and Rachel." She said "they."]
Holy crap. Okay, I'm willing to concede the possibility that Juror B37 is honest. But if she is, she sure is one ignorant creepy ass cracker. Race didn't play a role? Suspicious? "The type of life that they live"? "Creepy ass cracker" isn't a racial statement? Holy fucking shit. Actually, it's that last one that strains my capacity for belief in Juror B37 most of all.

Look, in addition to the top-line reasoning--bad prosecution, adequate defense, judge's instructions--do we seriously believe that this verdict has nothing to do with the jury being composed of six white women? I mean, aside from known problems with verdicts in six-person juries (Google it), a racially and gender-homogenous jury? In Florida? And race didn't play a role? Oh my paws and whiskers, it strains credibility to believe that this woman is honest, but sure, it's theoretically possible. I didn't hear all the evidence, what the fuck do I know?

Let's move on. I was sitting in a doctor's office--and, full disclosure, my pneumonia is weakly relapsing and I'm doing another round of medical shit and another round of heavy fucking drugs and another round of attempting to rest, this attempt much less successful than the first, but I just started that, so cut me a break, but the point is I'm in a really bad fucking mood, and I'm not really predisposed to give anyone talking about this any more than reasonable doubt as to their honesty, so it's really kinda surprising that I went so light on such a disingenous piece of shit as Juror B37--actually, it was the radiologist's office, and CNN was on the big teevee in the waiting room, tuned to CNN, which is actually how I even heard any of Juror B37's line, because I would ordinarily and otherwise ignore CNN fapping. Anyway, it was whatever CNN polished media tart comes after the Noon of the Wolf, and she was talking to the President of Morehouse College, and some media blonde who founded the Daily Download and now whores for the Daily Beast, and Emily Pinchface-Whitebread, who is as I understand it the head of opinionation for the Washington Moonie Times, who argues that obviously Zimmerman was innocent, Florida should never have charged him, of course Trayvon Martin was a brutal criminal, and the President is a nigger. She cut off the President of Morehouse College, called him irresponsible for even discussing race in this context, and blasted the Daily Beast broad when she accused Ms. Pinchface-Whitebread of not discussing the matter civilly.

Okay, now I'm cherry-picking obvious examples of extreme dishonesty. Kinda like every fucking creepy ass cracker who's reading about one low-grade near-riot in LA and screaming, "Look, niggers are violent, we told you so!"

But wait, there's more. And no, I'm not going to start talking about Edward "I Am Not An Attention Whore" Snowden, famous attention whore, or Glenn "I Have Never Been Wrong and You Are Morally Reprehensible For Disagreeing With Me" Greenwald, famous Brazilian correspondent for a famous British newspaper known for its unerring accuracy (okay, you got me: actual British people mostly refer to it as "The Gruniad").

Yeah, fine. Cheap, tangential, opportunistic, and a little dirty. Like I said, bad mood. Sincere sorries.

But there really is more. Loomis, who some of you don't actually understand, some of you willfully so, points to Dick Cohen's breathtakingly racist column in YFWP. From Cohen: 

I don’t like what George Zimmerman did, and I hate that Trayvon Martin is dead. But I also can understand why Zimmerman was suspicious and why he thought Martin was wearing a uniform we all recognize. I don’t know whether Zimmerman is a racist. But I’m tired of politicians and others who have donned hoodies in solidarity with Martin and who essentially suggest that, for recognizing the reality of urban crime in the United States, I am a racist. The hoodie blinds them as much as it did Zimmerman.
...
Where is the politician who will own up to the painful complexity of the problem and acknowledge the widespread fear of crime committed by young black males? 
...
After all, if young black males are your shooters, then it ought to be young black males whom the police stop and frisk. [My note: This based on an NYPD statistic that 78 percent of shooting suspects are black.] 
Loomis' added value:

Where is the politician who will openly race bait? Where is the politician who will call for racial profiling? Where are our leaders in this time of political correctness, where blacks have everything handed to them on the plate? 
Yup. I think it's pretty clear that Richard Cohen is, in fact, being dishonest. Maybe that's his job. Loomis also hat-tips Atrios' previous ode to Cohen's racism. And of course, Cohen is a go-to for every leftish blogger who wants to talk about racism in media. Just being honest.

Let's sum: failing to acknowledge that race has a role in this discussion? Dishonest. Shut up and go away. A particular verdict was necessary or legal or correct? Dishonest. Shut up and go away. Zimmerman utterly blameless? Dishonest or ignorant. Shut up and go away. "I understand George Zimmerman"? Definitely too fucking stupid to opine, possibly dishonest. Shut up and go away.

I think there's plausibly reasonable doubt about most of the rest.

[Edited 90 minutes later to fix background problem in block quotes. Which were appearing as a total whiteout. Heh. I made a funny.]




Saturday, July 13, 2013

Me

No, really, that's about all, though you could meander over to bDr's joint for some blog holiday tunes, or you could take a trip back to this month last year, which I just tapped to see what I did for 52, and which, it happens, is pretty fucking representative of this blog and many of the things it stands for--peace, freedom, iconoclasm, hockey, and hating on sports figures and Republicans. Themes I missed that month include soccer and metaphorically buttfucking stupid fucking hippies, but y'know, it was still a pretty good month.

For the curious and the concerned: still coughing, but more energetic and essentially recovering. Not gonna dah.

For that one guy who thinks I haven't said "fuck" enough in this post, and he knows who he fucking is, if he's even fucking reading: Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck FUCK.

For Sasha: Yes. Ghostie. Sorry. Still hard to talk for more than 15 words in a row.

And for Herself: Get the fuck out of bed, go get some fucking eggs, and fucking cook my fucking breakfast. What the fucking fuck, honey?

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Information Free

Beloveds know I've been recovering from pneumonia for over two weeks now. Please focus on "recovering" rather than on "pneumonia." Thank you.

Items and judgments:

The Surveillance State: Yes. Of course it's bad. You think it's news? Holy shit, how do you keep from drowning when you look up in the rain?

Glenn Greenwald: Shut the fuck up and enjoy the Confederations Cup, you self-promoting bitch. Or the protests against it. I don't give a fuck. Just shut the fuck up.

VRA: Holy shit. What a pack of fucking tools.

DOMA: Isn't John Roberts a fascinating human being? Savior and tool? Jeebus.

That'll do. Vamos United.

Sunday, June 09, 2013

Attention

Hey Packer-lover, it took me three weeks to realize you'd gone all underground. Please email me at the blog address, or leave a comment telling me you're still undead and I should fuck off. Peace and thanks.

Thursday, June 06, 2013

Let's Remember the Eternals

Friend William Wallace, aka Dreamboat to Ellen the Hon, was born on this day in 1926, and I must say, he's looking pretty fucking spry for being 87 years old. You'd never know his prostate is the size of a baby's head and his bladder's the size of a walnut. Happy birthday, Kiltboy. I've got the teddycam set up for our wives' visit next week. Who knows what we'll find on the video?

Today is the 69th anniversary of D-Day. Go back to any old June 6th, and what I said then.

And for our final mathematical constant of the day: J.J. Redick still drinks his own urine.

Monday, June 03, 2013

No, Canada

I've made pretty clear that I dislike the Canadian national womens' soccer team, and despise their pig-ignorant fans. The team is, generally, both whiny losers, several of whom use their dual citizenship to play for their third-rate sports nation because they're not nearly good enough to play for the U.S. womens' team, as most Canadian women players show every time they step onto the field for a professional match in one of the womens' leagues we've enjoyed here in the last few years (I'll except Christine Sinclair, who I despise, and Diana Matheson, who I adore). There are no fans of the Canadian womens' national soccer team who I adore.

So the two teams played a friendly in Toronto yesterday, their first meeting since the afore-linked Olympic semifinal last year, in which the Canadians firmly established themselves as galaxy-class cheaters, whiners, bullies, and hallucinators. The U.S. women won, 3-0. This was uncontroversial. The game was at nils until the 70th minute, when the Canadians fell apart and let Alex Morgan rip them open. Then they did it again 2 minutes later, and that was about it. Except it wasn't.

Late in the game, the U.S. brought in Sydney Leroux, a very, very good young player, a lovely and vibrant young woman. Who happened to be born in Canada, to a Canadian parent and an American parent. She played in the Canadian youth development system, and played for Canada at the national level in younger age brackets. Then, she figured out that she was good enough to play for us. So she did. This isn't a crime. We're better than Canada is.

I mean at soccer. Yes, of course that's what I mean.

Since then, Sydney Leroux has been subject to taunts and racial slurs from Canadian fans. Remember them? The polite ones? Yes, of course you do. In person and in social media, Sydney Leroux has taken a giant ration of shit, much of it unspeakably vile, from Canadian fans.Yesterday was no exception; Leroux was booed every time she touched the ball.

So in stoppage time, Sydney Leroux scored a goal to make it 3-0 USA. And then she kissed the badge on her USA shirt, and shushed the crowd.

For which she received a yellow card (justifiably, under the Laws of the Game, to which Canadians do not appear to refer very often). End of story, right?

Nah. Canadians are whinging. Again.

So let's get this straight. The Canadians start a fight, by thugging it up in the Olympic semifinal. It turns against them in the end. They whine. Their fans whine more.

The Canadians come into the teams' next meeting vowing revenge, seeking validation, &c. They get their asses kicked. I mean really, it was embarrassing for them. If I were a Canadian fan right now, I'd just shut the fuck up a whole lot and go hide in a ditch. But no. They wanna call Sydney Leroux "classless" and a "traitor."

Jesus fucking Christ, grow the fuck up, Canada. You're losers.

Look, I can manage to forgive most of the Canadian players, save maybe Melissa Tancredi, who belongs in prison. They are, by definition, world-class athletes, extremely competitive. It's hard for them to lose to a rival. The Olympic semifinal must've been difficult for them, though some (Sinclair) reacted badly. They didn't get ripped off; their coach gave them a bum steer, and it almost worked. Except it didn't, because they didn't have the resiliency to finish the job. Of course they were pissed. They wanted that game so badly they cheated to try to win it. And they failed. When you're that competitive, and you can't win fairly, and you can't even win by fucking cheating and getting away with it? Yeah, that's some hard fucking cheese.

Hey, you know who did a really fabulous job of keeping Sydney Leroux's abundantly justifiable celebration in perspective? Their asshat coach, John Herdman:
I didn't notice it, I think I was kicking a water bottle at the time," Herdman said with a laugh. "I'd love Sydney to be playing for Canada, wouldn't you? Imagine her playing up front with [Christine] Sinclair and [Melissa] Tancredi, that would make a big difference, but she's not. So I think we've just got to let it go. Let it go, let her enjoy her time in the U.S. and just respect her as a player.
Pretty classy, huh? No, seriously, really seriously. That's a very well-adjusted and professional reaction to a media frenzy. Good to know that some Canadians aren't total fucking shitheads, huh?

Oh, wait. John Herdman's from New Zealand.

The fans, though. Wow. Canadian fans have the unmitigated balls to call Sydney Leroux classless?

Fuck you, Canada. And fuck your sisters.

Oh, wait. You're already doing that.

Fucking losers.

Sunday, June 02, 2013

Happy Birthday

He's 13 today. Happy Birthday, Bam-Bam. You're still the one.

Monday, April 22, 2013

It's Not Johnny's Birthday



So, no one's actually Youtubed the song without doing something not at all cute to it. So instead you get a loop of a piece of it played backward, a weird little tribute to the flat Earth and weather balloons that look like space ships.

Why? Sheeya, right. If I told you I'd have to kill me. I may have to kill me just for doing this much. Don't ask. I mean, you can ask, but I'd have to kill me.

As for the mundane, uhm, well, yeah. Still not so good. Runnin' on Jackson Browne's farts. Mine smell better.

Thank you for accompanying me to this brief and insubstantial visit to the PoMo dojo.

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

Bam Sez Hi and So Do I


Actually, he's just pretty much flapping his hands. What the fuck, me too.

No time, see the previous, if you think vaccines are bad then go fuck yourself, and maybe life will lighten the fuck up by next April 2 so I can say something more substantive. Bless your little hearts.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

No One Has A Head

Rushed and brief, and thanks to her Daddy for reminding me to pull my self-absorbed head out of my ass long enough to not be a bad faux uncle, and see there (or any previous March 21 here or there) for the pics and vids, but:

Happy 20th birthday, Planet. Best not-actually-related younger person evar. Love always.

Also, and unrelated: Fuck Duke.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Hate Good

I am a man of peace, with exceptions. A horrible man. A spiteful man.


A not very nice man. After all, it's not this child-meme's fault that he has bad parents. Does this lessen the gladness in my heart tonight, or any night when this meme plays?

No. No, it does not.

But let's rewrite my spite, because hatred leads to bitterness, and bitterness leads to Jar Jar Binks. Let's leave that poor, possibly presumptively innocent child out of this. Let's go here instead.


Ratface, Chris Collins, and Wojo all facepalming to cover their tears. With an enraged Dookiegirl looking on. A little while ago, I raised with a fellow Terp the spectre of how joyful it might've been to bang UberTerp Bonnie Bernstein 20 years ago, when she was an actual Terp gymnast. This picture? Is even better.

Look, I've written before about my mitochondrial Terp love, my secret wish to have Juan Dixon's babies, my undying love for the Terp National Championship team of 11 years ago, my disdain for the post-Cole Terp teams, the ascendance of the Terp women, the thing that died a little in my heart when Gary Williams decided he was sick and tired of this shit.

That doesn't mean that beating Dook isn't fun. Rock on, Dez Wells.


Go Terps. Fuck Dook.

Also: J.J. Redick still drinks his own urine.