I'll Give You Sum'n To Blog About!

"There's no point for democracy
When ignorance is celebrated
Political scientists get the same one vote
As some Arkansas inbred
Majority rule
Don't work in mental institutions
Sometimes the smallest, softest voice carries the grand biggest solutions.

What are we left with?
A nation of God-fearing pregnant nationalists
Who feel it's their duty to populate the homeland
Pass on traditions
How to get ahead, religions,
And prosperity via simpleton culture."

~~ NOFX, 'Idiots Are Taking Over'



Wha'd you say? This is 'MERICA boy! And it just keeps gettin' better ever' day! HOOOO-EEEEEEE.



Alright, people. You're gonna love this. Which is sick, because you shouldn't. But GOT-DAMN, how can you resist an adorable 9-year-old girl with a gun?

HEEE-HAWWWW.



We interrupt this blog for a special news bulletin:

So I wanted to just link to this article, but the corporate pricks at the NY Times got greedy, and now it's $3.95 just to see an archived article there, because everyone wants to pay four times the price of the newspaper itself to read an out-of-date article, especially when any library will provide it for free.

But I've beaten them at their own game, because I previously copied and pasted the highlights in a secret e-mail to an undercover comrade, and thanks to the search power of G-mail, I was able to retrieve it just for you, lovely reader. SO FEAST, good friends. And feel the sweet pleasure of sticking it to the man.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog:



The Times article may be the greatest example of the fine line between comedy and tragedy I've ever seen. It was ridiculously long article about a man who has a very unique job: he gets paid to teach young children how to kill animals. The parents get to go too, boy howdy, but the idea is to get kids interested in what the adults consider a dying art.

So the article profiles a 9-year-old girl taking advantage of this fantastic program:

'She had won a "dream hunt" given away by a Vermont man whose goal is to get more children to hunt, and she had traveled about 200 miles from her home in Bellingham, Mass., and was missing three days of school to take him up on his offer.

"Almost everything you hunt is pretty fun," said Samantha, grinning and perfectly at home with a group of five men, the youngest of whom was nearly three times her age.

At one point, as the group crossed a wooden bridge, Samantha's father, Scott, who had accompanied her - and had filled out her application for the hunting contest - teased her that trolls lived under the bridge.

"Dad," Samantha said with bravado, "I got a gun."

The dream hunt - all expenses paid, including taxidermy - was the brainchild of Kevin Hoyt, a 35-year-old hunting instructor who quit a job as a structural steel draftsman a few years ago and decided to dedicate himself to getting children across the country interested in hunting.

His efforts reflect what hunting advocates across the country say is an increasingly urgent priority, and what hunting opponents find troubling: recruiting more children to sustain the sport of hunting, which has been losing participants of all ages for two decades.

"Forty years from now our kids will be learning about this as history," said Larry Gauthier, one of Mr. Hoyt's buddies on the bear hunt. "Hunters should be included as an extinct species because we're falling away so fast, we need to be protected."'

Now let's be serious people. Have you ever heard anything so sweet? And here I thought politics was our nation's greatest profession.

And lo! Apparently, because of urban sprawl, people just can't hunt like they used to. And wow, all that wildlife preservation I do, and here it's the hunters who are an extinct species.

Thank God someone is out there protecting the interests of our nation's children. And what better way to do that, than to give a 9-year-old a shotgun. Man, people just make me want to caper with joy.

The article went on to detail how the girl lied to her friends and teacher about her absence, further evidence that we all need to jump on this bandwagon of teaching strong morals to children.

It must be said that Duffman first told me about this article. Here's how the conversation went:

Duff: So they show this 9-year-old girl, cute as a button, dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, holding a shotgun.

Sketch: In West Virginia she'd be quite a catch.

Duff: Yeah, sounds like a prom date.





Ok, I have a confession to make. All that jibba-jabba praising the adults in the article above? Well, that was sarcasm. I know it was terribly misleading, and I am ashamed.

But take heart!

There are far more intelligent adults in the world, such as some Kentucky-folk that started the Creation Science Museum.

I learned about this museum from The Washington Post (you will note people can still inform themselves at no cost at this fine paper). Here is the beginning of the article:

PETERSBURG, Ky. -- The guide, a soft-spoken fellow with a scholarly aspect, walks through the halls of this handsome, half-finished museum and points to the sculpture of a young velociraptor.

"We're placing this one in the hall that explains the post-Flood world," explains the guide. "When dinosaurs lived with man."

A reporter has a question or two about this dinosaur-man business, but Mark Looy -- the guide and a vice president at the museum -- already has walked over to the lifelike head of a T. rex, with its three-inch teeth and carnivore's grin.

"We call him our 'missionary lizard,' " Looy says. "When people realize the T. rex lived in Eden, it will lead us to a discussion of the gospel. The T. rex once was a vegetarian, too."

The nation's largest museum devoted to the alternative reality that is biblical creation science is rising just outside Cincinnati. Set amid a park and three-acre artificial lake, the 50,000-square-foot museum features animatronic dinosaurs, state-of-the-art models and graphics, and a half-dozen staff scientists. It holds that the world and the universe are but 6,000 years old and that baby dinosaurs rode in Noah's ark.

The $25 million Creation Museum stands much of modern science on its head and might cause a paleontologist or three to rend their garments. But officials expect to attract hundreds of thousands of visitors when the museum opens in early 2007.

"Evolutionary Darwinists need to understand we are taking the dinosaurs back," says Kenneth Ham, president of Answers in Genesis-USA, which is building the museum. "This is a battle cry to recognize the science in the revealed truth of God."

Wow. That is truly amazing. Thank goodness someone decided to put those damned evolutionary biologists in their place, what with their "DNA" and their "fossil record" and their "facts," trying to persuade good ol' fashioned 'mericans that a 2000 year-old book just might be a little behind the times in its science. Yes indeedy, it's a terrible shame that only "45 percent of Americans believe that God created humans in their present form 10,000 years ago (or less) and that man shares no common ancestor with the ape."

Dammit, people 'r' smarter 'n 'at. Number ought to be a hunnert percent.

On the bright side, "65 percent of Americans want creationism taught alongside evolution."

You see my point? When has the majority ever been wrong about anything?

And it gets better. According to the NY Times, 38 percent of people are ...

... wait for it ...

... in favor of replacing the teaching of evolution with creationism.

Now I ask you, kind reader, Who are these freaks that are not in favor of teaching the Truth to our children? Who does not want them to know the facts: that vegetarian Tyrannosaurus rexes once communed in harmony with men?

It's time for 'merica to wake up, and stop living in sinful id'norance.



Ok ok. Whew. Sarcasm takes its toll.

Seriously, so often, my friends come to me with an embarassed confession: they don't read the news. And I've heard so many people criticize America for not being informed when there's so much free information in the world.

What's the point in having a literate, democratic society when so few inform themselves?

And the really cynical critics blame our generation for not being interested in the news.

But this just isn't true.

OUR PARENTS ELECTED NIXON TWICE, PEOPLE. In fact, they RE-ELECTED him after six months of Watergate stories. And now, the elders are giving kids guns and telling them insane stories about dinosaurs living with men as if it were a fact.

So don't feel so bad, kiddies. It's not that our generation is dumb. America has ALWAYS been this dumb!

My advice: getting angry is pointless and stressful, so fuck it. Forget the news. Forget education. Go out, get drunk, get laid.

And if you get blindsided by news somehow, and it makes you feel dumb, well just remember: dumb is the majority.

Funny ol' world, innit?



Peace and love,

Nas-T

Bloggle It Up, Yeah, To Keep It Warm

'I was almost over
My world was almost gone
In a sudden rush
I could almost touch the
Things that I'd done wrong
My jungle's made of concrete
Through silence I could feel
My aim is true I will walk on through
These mountains made of steel.'

~~ Rancid, "The 11th Hour"

My mind is drugless, this is madness.

I am dissolving into the music.

Dammit Matt Freeman is a bastard. Who can play an instrument that way?

Only a man who sold his soul to the devil. And Freeman did just that. Sold his soul.

And good for him. This world needs its villains. Especially those who play bass with such vile instinct. Mean bass.

Listen to it, goddammit. Listen. Fast. Faster than a human being’s neurons can travel. At least, one that isn’t possessed. So fast the strings should be melting from that bass. You can’t even see his fingers move. Even when you can’t see him you can’t even see his fingers move.

There is chaotic blur and music sings oh so sweetly.

Who plays like that?

Matt Freeman is possessed.

But possession, like love, comes in many varieties. Freeman is not possessed by demons. He is possessed by passion. The passion to create, passion overpowering impulse, thought, feeling, physics. Furious passion.

Passion like that can only come from one place: a soul.

Matt Freeman beat the devil. He beat the drugs, he beat the devil.

The world is a lovely place.

Peace and love,

Sketch E.

Blogging Up A Lung

‘Desmond takes a trolley to the jewelers’ stores,

Buys a 20-carat golden ring,

Takes it back to Molly waiting at the door,

And as he gives it to her she begins to sing:

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,

Life goes, brah!

La-la how the life goes on;

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,

Life goes on, brah!

La-la how the life goes on.’

~~ The Beatles

A tainted memory:

It’s a birthday party for two.

Not that it’s her birthday.

Not that it matters.

We are young. We are foolish.

We are desperately in love.

I have tried to make everything right: cupcakes with candles; expensive caramels; balloons; birthday napkins and plates; shots of rum; a small gift; a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner strung across the ceiling, each letter a neon burden to the eyes, the letters book-ended by cardboard candles.

But the finishing touch; the last modest, magnificent stroke of pastel; the keystone that binds tight this perilous construction, is music. Her favorite album: the White Album. Playing slightly out of sequence because naturally ‘Birthday’ must be played first, greeting her as she enters, making the surprise a surreal and sensual assault.

The colors! The tastes! The sounds! The smells!

… and oh, those touches. Soft caress, kiss of gratitude, hint of tongue.

She blows out the candles and we devour our cupcakes. They are too sugar-sweet, but what does it matter? The rum is too strong to drink by itself, so we leave it. We are drunk without drinking. The liver is spared. But the head, la cabeza, is intoxicated from within. The levees have broken, the hormones flood in. A hurricane of passion.

A circus of silliness! Dazzling, dizzying, death-defying dare-devils!

And then: the clarion call for the clowns. Crystal-clear chords, struck on the rasping strings of a ragtime piano. The bass, almost by accident, arrives with a bouncing rhythm.

This may be my favorite Beatles' song.

My eyes and ears are melting. Sensory overload. Which is more beautiful – the music or the girl? I am torn. She laughs and grabs my hands and the strain is relieved. There is no choice between music and woman now: I am immersed in both.

‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,
Life goes on, brah!’

We dance. Not like a club, not like a ballroom, not like a concert. Not in any sane or usual way at all. Just holding hands, and swinging in crazy circles around the room, singing and laughing, her laughter as heavenly and bright as the Beatles’ music.

This is perhaps my happiest moment. An image so utterly clear, a moment so perfect the weight of it compresses the chest, even now, to think of it. This is the type of image film directors spend their lives trying to capture, driving themselves mad in their failure. Her body, clad in velvet-soft pajamas. Her face, so sweet, so clear, the room behind her a frenzied blur. We spin, laugh, dance, sing.

This is life. Oh, how it goes on.

Music, relationships, lives.
These, our hallucinations,
Inspired and induced
By experience, connection and passion.
They are wisps of smoke,
Created and dissipated
By the mouths and the hearts that form them.

This is my memory, kept deeply buried, personal, private. My happy place, visited in moments of despair.

Bled now like pus from a wound.

Let the healing begin.

Peace and love,

Sketch E.

Who Do You Have To Blog To Get Ahead In This Town?

'My room is comfortably small
With rubber lining the walls
And there's someone always calling my name;
He calls when I'm alone
And he calls when I'm not home
And he calls when I'm stuck out in the rain.
I'm insane.'
~~ They Might Be Giants, "Absolutely Bill's Mood"



"Candy doesn't have to have a point. That's why it's candy."
~~ Freddie Highmore, Charlie And The Chocolate Factory



Funny, that's how I feel about life.

Wait, I meant to say ... "comedy ..."

Anyways:

I'm back in action after a grueling housing search, and very happily replanted in the Ghettopia that is Washington, D.C. For those of you who are confused by my temporary disappearance, I took a reporting job at a D.C. press agency that covers all the various government departments: defense, FDA, homeland security, etc. My beat is the EPA.

I know, perfect, right?

So I'm enjoying a fabulous new job in a foul and terrible city. Seriously, folks, I've been to a lot of sketchy places in my lifetime (see my blog on San Jose, for starters). But nothing compares to D.C., a cesspool of parasitic human vulgarity, leeching life from the American dream -- every sidewalk slicked with the slime of greased palms, every corridor echoing with the whispers of extortion. I have personally witnessed acts of vicious violence, grotesque greed. This city is foul, dank, dirty, miserable, swampy and decrepit. If I've left any negative adjectives out of my description, feel free to apply them here.

On the bright side, the weather is a big improvement over Columbus. As swampy as things get in D.C., it is actually sunny more than one day a year here, which improves my mood immensely.

I have a series of blogs ready for all of you who have been pining (and yes, dear cynic, there are those who have been pining). I am touched by all of you who requested a blog / demanded a blog / threatened to steal my first born if I didn't post a blog ... Such compliments! And I heartily thank you all. Additional thanks to those of you who returned to read after such a long break in action.

Enough goopy talk. I thought I'd kick things off with style. My style. Randomness, mixed with vulgarity and shaken with humor. Enjoy.



So, several people have said the following:

'When I think about you reporting in Washington, all I can picture is the movie All The President's Men.'

I just wanted to tell all of you ...

You're absolutely right. My job is exactly like the guys in All The President's Men, in every conceivable way. As a corrolary, I am exactly like Robert Redford in every conceivable way. In fact, I've been mistaken for Robert Redford on at least nine occasions since moving here, although one incident concerned an awkward mishap with a blind woman, so maybe that doesn't count. Whatever, she'll never know my autograph is fake.



Naturally, the above reference to RR is completely untrue. However, it is true that I am told -- frequently -- by perfect strangers as well as close friends and even family -- on a regular basis -- that I look like Ashton Kutcher. This is quite the compliment, as Ashton Kutcher is attractive, fairly cool and was once a male model. The most recent barage of Kutcher kompliments kame at a wedding I attended in July. Several wedding ladies said, repeatedly, that I looked like Ashton Kutcher, and even devised a dashingly clever nickname for me: Ashton Kutcher. At some point late in the evening, my friend's older brother elbowed me in the ribs, with a sardonic grin, saying, "So, I hear you look like Ashton Kutcher."

"Yeah, well, the drunker they get, the more I look like him!" I replied.



In a bar, following that same wedding:

Waitress: Ooooh, you're all dressed up. Are you celebrating something?

Sketch: Mmm ... more like mourning the loss of a friend.



Ah, making my life just a little sweeter is this news story from the Washington Post: Behind A Brazen Brazilian Burglary.

For those who can't access the article, it outlines a robbery of $67.8 million from a bank in Brazil. The thieves spent three months digging a hole through the floor of a little shack, under a busy street, then up through the vault to steal the cash. Authorities can't figure out why alarms and security cameras weren't triggered. The robbery was similar to a $1.6 million heist that took place last year.

But here are the sweet parts. First of all, the Associated Press calls the burglar of the $1.6 million heist a 'mastermind.' If the AP calls you a mastermind, you win. Also, the fact that they call it a heist is awesome. The moviemaker in me squirms with delight. Also, the man who worked next to the shack said the owner -- presumably one of the burglars, if not the mastermind of the $67 million dollar heist -- was a terrific man, and bought everyone beers from time to time.

But best of all, authorities think both robberies were headed by the same man -- a convicted bank robber who was serving 25 years in prison when he -- get this -- tunneled his way out, freeing 100 other inmates along with him.

This is just awesome. We don't seem to have these sorts of modern day fairy tales anymore. No pirates plundering ships of gold, no outlaw bandits blasting safe doors open with dynamite. Instead, we get corporate executives and accounting nerds fudging records to steal from their own employees. They take the fun out of crime, people. The head of this heist is a 'mastermind.' The head of Enron is just a dick. There's no drama, no hard work. Just ... "oops, my eraser slipped ... well let me pencil in a few more zeroes onto my salary this year ..."

Sure, the Enron guys got their little documentary. But I bet way more people would see the movie about the Brazilian bank robbery. That's because those robbers are anti-heroes. Besides, the Enron guys probably never bought anybody a beer.



So I met Elvis Costello. Shook his hand, got an autograph. He was touring with EmmyLou Harris, so the concert, while awesome, had a distinct country bend to it. But the almighty EC is one of those characters you can just point to and ask him to play any genre of music and he'll do it.

Sketch: Elvis, play me ... minstrel music.

Elvis: No problem, my man.

Ok, so that conversation never really took place, but it damn well could have.

Anyway, Elvis appeared on the stage in traditional sharp suit and tie. But when I talked to him later, he was wearing ... a cowboy hat.

I have to admit, even if I hadn't gotten an autograph, seeing an Englishman in a cowboy hat was rewarding enough.



So, the Washington Post puts out this free newspaper every day, called the Express. It basically sums up the top three Post stories, then has lots of articles on entertainment and sports. When you're Joe Student, or in my case, Joe Young Professional, and can't afford the regular Post, this paper is fantastic.

Anyway, it's very lighthearted, and one day, they reviewed a play about this young high school prodigy named Jenny who invents a robot clone of herself to perform mundane physical tasks.

That's cool. But better, by far, was the headline over the review:

Domo Arrigato,
Jenny Roboto

I burst out laughing on the subway train, receiving a lot of uncomfortable looks. Don't get me wrong, I still hate 80's music, and the Styx are no exception, but seriously, people, that's the best headline I've ever read in my entire life. It's currently the only decoration hanging over my desk.

All-time greatest benchmarks in journalism history: 1) Watergate 2) That headline.

Then my editor told me a former journalist at our publication was once an editor at the New York Post, a position which requires writing many headlines. One day, he shared some of his best headlines with people in our office. My editor remembered only one: the headline over a story about the most married man in the world -- 16 wives! -- passing away. Not a single one of his ex-'s came to his funeral. Hence, a headline to die for:

No Ex Marks The Plot



My friend's dad, in a phone call with my friend's uncle, on the Fourth of July:

'So, what are you cooking tonight? TACOS?! It's the Fourth of July! The least you could do is fix a goddam hot dog!'



So, thanks to the ingenius Johnny Depp, Hunter Thompson's final wish was granted: the bastard was shot out of a cannon 153-feet high -- taller than the statue of liberty. They loaded his ashes into tubes of FIREWORKS and shot them over his ranch in Colorado. Rolling Stone published an account of the event, along with the last note HST wrote before he died, appropriately entitled: Football Season is Over.

From now on, Aug. 20 is my new favorite holiday.



One night after I moved here, I went out with a group of people which included two gay men. They later told a mutual friend I was both sweet and cute. Hey, I take my kicks where I can get them.

So, I made this pitch to my editor: 'You know how Hunter Thompson made a name for himself covering Hell's Angels? Well, I want to do the same, only I'm going to cover PETA.'

My editor frowned, so I made another pitch for the Symbionese Liberation Army or the Weather Underground, but it turns out they all disbanded in the 70's. Pussies.



A junior high science teacher once explained to us that women in high heels put more pressure per square inch on the ground than an elephant. This is because high heels force a lot of pressure on one tiny area, whereas an elephant's foot is spread over a much larger area, thus exerting less pounds per square inch.

So now, whenever I see a woman in high heels, I'm thrilled to share this fascinating fact from my childhood, thinking that she, like me, will be enthralled with the mind-blowing concept of 'physics.'

Instead, I usually get slapped.



Leebert: I'm a son of a bitch.

Sketch: Don't talk about my girlfriend that way!



Rejoice, friends, for they have discovered the world's oldest dildo!

See, this is where modern consumerism fails. When you're a caveman and you have no resources, you get this type of compelling creativity. But we take it so much for granted that we can buy a dildo separate from our knife sharpeners.

Come on, America. We consume more of the world's resources than any other country in the world. It's time to start using our ingenuity to save some of those precious resources. In an effort to smooth this process along, I have devised a few suggestions for combos every woman can appreciate, complete with advertising slogan:

The dildo / flashlight! Finally, it can see where it's going ...

The dildo / toothbrush! Freshens while you screw!

The dildo / hand blender! Just don't insert the wrong end ...

The dildo / waffle iron! It's always time for breakfast in bed!

The dildo / change purse! So you can keep your loose change in your loose ... nevermind!


Feel free to leave any further suggestions in the 'comments' below! My goal is for the comments to be as filthy as the blogs themselves.



One of my friends made this joke, and I'm terribly sorry I don't remember who you are, but I'm repeating it here because it's so funny, so take heart:

Friend: Ah, D.C. Imagine, 200 years ago, our forefathers looked across that land, and said to themselves, 'Just think! Someday this swamp ... could be a beautiful ghetto.'

So outside the building I work in is a poster advertisement for the navy. The navy has a new ship reffered to as the Littoral Combat Ship -- littoral meaning, "Of or on a seashore," according to dictionary.com.

SO the poster cleverly shows a picture of the boat, with the slogan, 'This is what Littoral Dominance looks like.'

But, some witty vandal one-upped the navy, spray painting the letter 'c' onto the poster, so that it now reads:

"This is what CLittoral Dominance looks like."

Complete with picture of a battleship.

I must admit, my day is made before I even start work.



I really should stop mocking conservatives. In America, it's impolite to mock the mentally retarded.



Interested party: Are you an optimist, or a pessimist?

Sketch: I'm a realist.

Interested party: Well, I mean, do you see the glass as half full, or half empty?

Sketch: It's half a fucking glass of beer. Drink it.



So I'm going to take a cue from our president's press conferences and call everyone who doesn't agree with me a Freedom Hater in a fierce whisper.

What? You don't like Muppet Show? Is that because ... you're a freedom hater? (LEE!)

How's that? You think the Beatles are overrated? That's the talk of a freedom hater.

Ho ho! You think global climate change doesn't occur, despite approximately GOBS of scientific data to the contrary? It must mean ... you're a freedom hater!



D.C. is much like Hollywood, only in Washington, everyone wears the same costume: the power suit. Most of the time, such people are all fun and games for me. But being a realist in a city of delusional people poses it's problems. For example, once in awhile I find someone who wants to defend this sham of a city, as if it serves some greater purpose than diverting terrorist threats from far superior cities, such as Columbia, Missouri.

In fact, it's worth checking out the link -- they actually list 'storm water management' and 'sidewalks' as amenities. Which goes a long way toward proving my point. Whenever someone defends D.C., they never say something like, 'This has been the center of government for the most powerful nation on earth for over 200 years. Look at the undeniably rich history! The grandiose architecture! The parasites masquerading as lobbyists!'

Instead, they say, 'Well, we've got ... sidewalks!'

Whoopty shit.

Actually, the arguments come more along the lines of, 'We've got nightlife.'

Hmmm, that is true. Unlike those other imposter cities, like New York, Boston, Miami, Chicago, L.A., Las Vegas, Seattle ... Indeed. D.C. certainly has all of them beat, what with its 'young professional restaurant scene' and its 'young professional dive bar scene.'

Noting that I could participate in a bar scene without having to fear for my life in other cities, D.C. Defenders say, with triumph, 'Well, there's violence everywhere!'

Well, not really. For example, D.C. has a higher murder rate than Detroit, New York, L.A., Miami, Chicago, Seattle and Vegas.

D.C. has a higher rate of all forms of violent crime (murder, rape, robbery and aggravated assault) than New York, Chicago, Seattle, and Vegas. Likewise, D.C. is higher than L.A. in all forms of violent crime with the exception of aggravated assault -- the two cities are tied. Congratulations, D.C.

D.C. also the highest rate of AIDS in the country. Even the simple pleasures in life can kill you here.

And of course, those stats just cover the U.S. I've walked the foul streets of San Jose alone at night, and felt perfectly safe, despite a few rather humorous encounters with a drug dealer and a hooker. How easy it is to forget cities such as London, Rome, Athens, Sydney, Tokyo ... all cities with lower violent crime rates than D.C.

Anyway, I guess, in the end, D.C. isn't so bad after all.

Wait, yes it is. It's a terrible place. But as I've said before, the weather's nice, and the ability to mingle with and mock the men in their corporate suits is bound to give me ample fodder for future blogs. Anything for a laugh, right?

Thanks again to everyone for reading!


Peace and love,

Sketch E.