Monday, April 24, 2006

Witness

Apparently Kirk Cameron has solid, irrefutable video evidence supporting the theory of Intelligent Design. Truthseekers rejoice!



Oh, yeah. Right there. Feel the power of the Lord! A little lower. A little to the left. Middle...get the middle. Yeah. Mount Sinai. Red Sea. The Temple. A little left....little left. Tower of Babel. Just joking. Kind of.

The First Casualty of War Is Innocence



Only faggoty, French-looking, terrorist-appeasing hippies would piss on the celebration of Jesus Christ by refusing to hide Cadbury eggs around their lawn for children to collect in fake grass-lined baskets.


War on Easter?











Special thanks to my friend Healy of the soon-to-be animation juggernaut "Kanimation" for creating the above image. He's like huge in Belgium.

Friday, April 21, 2006

I Love My Life

Friday afternoon is without a doubt my favorite time of the week. The promise of the weekend grows exponentially with each passing minute upon returning from lunch. Work is finished up for the week in between phone calls and emails from friends wondering about the weekend’s plans. And there doesn’t even have to be plans – hell, I’m fighting the urge to do cartwheels down the hallway and passed the receptionist on the way to elevators for the prospect of lying on the couch and watching golf all weekend. Every mundane, safe, pointless “office” conversation wondering if I’m “having fun yet” or “working hard or hardly working” which ordinarily makes me want to smash the office windows with a computer monitor and throw a northwest region operations specialist screaming eight stories down to the lightrail tracks below becomes a little easier to deal with on a Friday afternoon.

It’s been a particularly long week at work and I’m a little more fired up than usual for the weekend. The weather has been perfect in Denver lately, mid 70s, sunny. So I navigated my way through the thick Denver traffic, picked up a burger and fries and twelve pack of beer on my way home. I’m treating myself and the girlfriend is away with family obligations so I have the night to myself.

Home is a somewhat rundown apartment near Washington Park, one of the most popular areas of the Denver metro-area with neighborhood bars and restaurants that bring a strange mix of young professional singles and thirty-something families. So I pulled down the alley and parked in my regular space behind the apartment building. Juggling my backpack, food, beer and keys I clumsily struggled to unlock the back door. Right as I got the door open, I heard a fairly loud whistle from a window above. A catcall type of whistle. Not that I’m completely lacking in confidence in my appearance but I’m fairly certain the whistle wasn’t for me. There’s just something about being a thirty year-old bald guy with a goatee that doesn’t elicit much in the way of catcalls from other guys. So I look up to try and see who was whistling and look around to see who he was whistling at.

At this point, I have a bit of a smirk on my face. I’ve always laughed at guys that whistle or honk or yell out “Hey baby!” to random women walking down the street. I’ve always wondered just exactly what goes through a guy’s mind before he does something like that. Does he really think it will work? Does he think the woman will ditch whoever she’s walking with and walk up to a complete stranger and comment about how though there are many men that dare to whistle at her every day there’s nobody that does it quite as well as he does?

At any rate, I find myself holding the door open with my leg, arms full, a smirk on my face and looking down the alley for who the mystery whistler was whistling at. I was just in time to see a very pretty young woman in her mid-twenties jump up from the bent over position she was in while grabbing something out of the backseat of her car. She immediately looked back toward my building and locked eyes with me. Glaring at me, she shut her car door and walked away shaking her head.

I love my life.



"Well don't I feel like the fucking asshole."

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Rocky Mountain National Park, Summer 2005

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

1984?

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen” – opening sentence of George Orwell’s “1984.”


Hoisting his "Italian-made Perazzi 28-gauge shotgun" to his shoulder as he wheeled his body around to face quail scared up from the thick grass, the Vice President of the United States took aim and fired. Struck by birdshot in the face, neck and chest, Harry Whittington, Republican booster and friend to the Vice President, immediately dropped to the ground, seriously wounded. Several days later, having recovered from being shot by the second most powerful man in the world, a bruised and battered, 78 year-old Whittington emerged from Christus Spohn Memorial Hospital in Corpus Christi, Texas and delivered a statement to the group of reporters that had gathered outside. In the statement Whittington counted his blessings and thanked his doctors for their caring and "exceptional" treatment. Oh, and he apologized...to the man that shot him.

"My family and I are deeply sorry for all that vice president Cheney has had to go through this past week. We send our love and respect to them as they deal with situations that are much more serious than what we’ve had this week."

How powerful do you have to be to shoot somebody in the face with a shotgun only to have the shooting victim apologize to you for the inconvenience? Seriously.

With all that has happened in this country over the last several years I was beginning to believe that there wasn't much left that could actually surprise me. A stolen 2000 election, a horrifying terrorist attack, the squandering of global good will and cooperation, the failed hunt for the mastermind behind the attacks that murdered 3,000 Americans, a destructive and disasterous war based on lies, thousands of dead and wounded American soldiers, a hundred thousand dead Iraqis, hundreds of billions of dollars wasted, huge tax cuts for the rich, corporate cronyism run amok, the reelection of a President that ignored a daily briefing titled “Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US,” the American government torturing, wire-tapping, spying on its own citizens, a major American city wiped off the map due to gross negligence while the President vacationed .......... etc, etc, etc. It was as if, after years of this type of shit, my capacity to truly be surprised had completely eroded. Outrage, anger, indignation, depression, sadness, anxiety - all of that was and is still present but the prospect of something happening that would somehow arouse an inkling of surprise seemed impossible by early 2006.

And yet there I sat staring at the teevee, dumfounded. As the VPOTUS was fellated interviewed by Brit Hume on Fox News one could almost hear the violin accompaniment as Cheney’s harrowing ordeal was described. It was as if I was seeing the official formation of the totalitarian dystopia imagined in many of the books and movies of my childhood. Alright, so maybe that’s a bit hyperbolic but there is a feeling that I haven’t been able to escape. A sort of helplessness as I watch everything around me seemingly devolve into madness. Every news program on teevee, every newspaper article, every politician’s speech, every corporate press release – it is beyond bullshit. It has surpassed the wink and a smile, business as usual territory and begun to take on a more sinister likeness. At least in my opinion.

What is the story being pushed by "the party?" Am I witnessing "Winston Smith's" handiwork?

I guess that is where this blog comes from – I think that I might like to write about these things - and anything else I am interested in for that matter. I don’t want to label it, whatever “it” is. This is simply an exercise I’m feeling the need to try. Maybe I’ll stick with it this time. Who knows?

Maybe the 1984 imagery is premature and over-the-top but I’m nervous about the path “we” have chosen. That path, in my estimation, seems to be headed straight for fascism and this country seems to be willingly, happily, “patriotically” going along for the ride. We may not be “there” yet but we certainly appear to be on our way. For what its worth, these are my thoughts.

“Fascism doesn’t start with concentration camps. That’s where it ends.”