|b l o g|
Enjoy your beliefs, prudes. This weekend's Bahrain Grand Prix will not feature saucy ingenues marking the grid positions. The drivers on the podium will not spray each other with champagne. Will it be a grand prix? 'The organisers know how to run this event without contradicting the culture of the place they are in.' Do they know racing culture? Pitbabes were not allowed once, I think, in Malaysia 1999 (Muslims), but the champagne has been spraying continuously since the days of Dan Gurney. That deserves some respect.
What I want to know is, why do Arabs want the racing but not the sin? Aren't they the same thing?
A photo-essay on Chernobyl 18 years later. It's surprisingly affecting, even if our narrator's facts are sometimes more emotionally than actually true.
And you like the Muscovite motorbike filly-fatale frame story, too.
I have no (pleasant) comments on the current listing phenomenon (start here). I have, however, created a list of my own. Using a specially created heuristic device (and a pocket-calculator), I have ranked the following persons in a particular field or category. See if you know what.
*Excluded from results.
Professor Butts drives through a tunnel and breathes the fumes of this new idea for revenue reform:
-Prisoners should do our taxes.
1. I have *finally* & rightfully topped the Google rankings for my name. Nice, since I am the only Erik Kennedy getting purposeful traffic.
2. Next: get my page to validate using web standards.
3. I am getting a dinner tonight with prospectives in my department. No more coffee.
We like it & hate it, blogging. An article here on the cons of blogging (in Britain). The best excerpt: '[I gave up my blog for a bit] to see how I would cope without it. During those weeks I became a whirlwind of productivity and progress, so the decision was made for me.'
I can picture that.
At Oscar's last night, I somehow got it into my head to dispute the reality of a picture taken of me, saying that in fact I look less like a nancy boy drinking than the picture showed. In an attempt to show what I *really* look like drinking, I spilled half a beer down my shirtfront.
Thanks, Shawn. 1) My blog is the worst of the 135 circle. Beware the lollipop of mediocrity. 2) This magazine makes Bartender look like a knitting newsletter from St Susan's of Salisbury.
Philippe was doling out scotches (Glenlivet) last night. He, his fiancee, & I toasted, quaffed. She made a powerful grimace. He whispers to me, 'and I gave *her* Talisker.'
The flag in the iconic September 11 photo belonged to my nana's next-door neighbors. It was flapping aboard their yacht. The firemen borrowed it. It has since been disappeared. Shirley & Spiro have filed a notice of claim against the city. The flag was apparently lost whilst in transit on a naval vessel or six. It was to have starred in a USO revue in Afghanistan as the Freedom Tourniquet.
Shirley & Spiro. I've eaten with those people.
- My two-day fast is broken on day one by a micks-and-mash St Patrick's Day dinner. I plan how best to bring suit against the Irish for not providing adequate low-carb alternatives.
- I re-enroll at Princeton.
- I wank.
- I refer to the act of blogging in the blog for the first time.
- I try to blog like someone else (or even myself). I won't.
- I wank.
- I have an afternoon without a computer (I'm at Amy's & she has taken it to work). In consequence, I read some thirty poems and write a line of one. I miss the computer every minute.
- I drop a piece of toast. Butter-side-up.
- A large bowl of Edy's Grand Cookies 'n Cream and several spoonfuls of Butter Pecan force me into a two-day fast. I write Edy's corporate headquarters demanding wholesale product recall, immediate shutdown of Oakland facilities, and a Surgeon General's review.
- I watch History International. Which is it besides poems, toast, etc.
I have finished my first paper in grad school. Which is offset by my possibly having a femoral hernia.
I admit that whenever I see a 'personalized map' like this ('I was here!') with the red menace oozing into new territories, all I can think of is a map like this.
Best fake band name: Homo Erectus
Best real band name: The Negro Problem
Despite the fact that David Coulthard no longer knows how to qualify a Formula 1 car, I still respect him as a thinking man's driver. Observe him quoting Milton in a recent interview.
Does it worry me that the Ferraris were a second a lap up on the field in the first grand prix? Not quite. Does it worry me that the Williams drivers were driving exactly like themselves, spoiling a race with an error (Montoya), or lapping invisibly for fourth (Ralf), or knocking into one another (both)? Or that Renault is depending on some dubious launch/traction-control system for their Sunday heroics, and heaven knows where they would be without that? Or that the McLarens looked like busing old ladies to the market? Or that Jaguar, who won't spend money on 'luxury bullshit' like a McLaren-esque motorhome, also don't seem to be spending their money on the cars? A bit.
And I'm not sure that Bob Varsha knows how to cover his own lolly, let alone a grand prix.
On Friday, I was *thrown out of the bar* for triggering a lightswitch. Happily, things were sorted out. Peace be in Lagavulin.
Not as potty as it sounds. Define a private creed culled from world religions.
Apparently, I believe mostly in 'goodness' & 'self-sufficiency.' 'Selfishness' was not a listed virtue. Of course, making your very own holy book might be, somehow, a bit selfish. It seems.
I also believe that we wallow in our actualizing Heideggerian nonexistence after we've died.
Also, Clayton Lamar is a sham. He won't last.
Animals are great. These animals found in tube maps make life better.
So does mazing with the bathroom tiling, which is what I do when I want to feel like Paul Middlewick.
'Some maze their Thoughts in Labyrinths.' A dollar to the first person who can tell me who wrote that.
Some comments by Elmore Leonard on style. They might be useful for some fictional people out there.
As always, useless for a poet. Everything I know, I know from Melville Cane.
According to this Canadian sex study, anal sex may not be sex. But, of course, 'almost any' salacious 'activity' qualifies as 'being unfaithful.'
Groundbreaking stuff. Like the time the Open University found out (using only a porno, a bathroom stall, and a test-subject) why the glans is as wide as it is.