First Paragraphs From Stories I’ll Never Write Episode 2

The nails didn’t hurt nearly as much as I’d expected going in, but the pain bombshell blossomed as they dropped the post into the hole and levered us upright.

My brother’s head was wobbling a bit on our shared shoulder as I glanced over, but he felt my eyes on him and snapped back into his customary 200-watt anchorman idiot grin and winked. “It’s not like we didn’t expect this, eh?” I couldn’t argue. We’d had a pretty good run.

Raising his face to the sky, still grinning, he bellowed “Father! Why has thou forsaken us, dude?” My conjoined brother, the son of god. Smart-ass to the last.

First Paragraphs From Stories I’ll Never Write Episode 1

They beat him hard hauling him out of St Paul’s after he crapped in front of the High Altar, but he barely felt it through the hockey pads and the exhilaration. Light rain was falling in London, and it cooled his face as they kicked him to the curb. One of them spit on him as they walked away, dusting their hands. He was alive and unhurt and shaking as the adrenalin ebbed.

The first skirmish had ended in success. His war on god was underway.

[Sometimes entire paragraphs just appear in my brain, right before I fall asleep. It happens a lot. I’m going to try and start remembering them. So, this.]

Pownce Invites

Not much to say at any length lately, but I’ve been posting snippets and amusing pictures and links and stuff to the Glorious Wonderchicken Aggregator Thingy at a rate of knots, so be sure to check that if you’re hungry for the same stuff you get every-damn-where-else these days!
Also, if anyone still wants an invite to Pownce, drop a comment on this post. I think I’ve got 8 or 10 still to give away. I haven’t quite figured out what to use it for yet, but your mileage, as they say, might vary. Sure is neat-lookin’, at least.
Share and enjoy.


I have not received a laptop from Microsoft. I have not received an iPod from Apple, or any of the vastly-superior mp3 players from iriver. I have not received books from Amazon. I have not received a camera from Canon. I have not received consumer crap of any kind. I have not received any cheese from Wisconsin, any lumber from British Columbia, any snow from the eskimos, or any coals from Newcastle. I have not received a massage from the Swedish Prime Minister, nor have I received a blowjob from Monica Lewinsky, Monica Seles, Monty Hall, or Ronald MacDonald. I have not received detached wisdom from the Buddha, tough love from the baby Jesus, or a kick in the stones from Allah. I have not received the proceeds of crime, I have not received the wages of sin. I have not received censure from the Senate or congratulations from Congress. I have not received any medals, any commendations, or any blog-battlefield commissions. I have not received any allurements or enticements, gifts or gratuities, inducements, buyoffs, compensations, kickbacks, sops or sweeteners. I have not been lashed to the mast to resist the sweet siren songs of the blogwhoring enablers.
But every man has his price. And every woman hers. So talk to me, shills. I got influence like a goat’s got balls — hairy, heavy, and permeating a surprisingly large area with an indescribable funk.

I Got Your Cheese Sandwich Right Here

Item the first: I ripped the living shit out of my back at the gym almost two weeks back, and finally knuckled in to Medical (whoop) Technology (whoop) and had an MRI today. Three disks are pooching out a bit, sad to say, one of them, the worst, ‘moderately’. Thus, the sciatic nerve pain literally in my ass. Good news is that my employer — KoreaHyperMegacorp® — has its own health centre (on our own reclaimed-land island) where I can get several hours a day of physiotherapy, and I’m starting with a personal trainer tomorrow to teach me how to exercise that spinal toothpaste right back into its hidey-hole, all gratis. So that’s OK, I guess.
Item the second: my friend-I’ve-never met, Adam Greenfield, is here in Korea and giving a talk based on his book Everyware at the Korean Advanced Institute of Science and Technology in Daejeon on Friday. Because I’m both in-bloody-capacitated, and in the middle of one of the busiest times of the year, I’m not gonna make it, nor it seems will I be able to sit down and consume alcoholic beverages and talk a few metric tons of shit with him, something that, if I’m to be honest, I was looking forward to even more. Ah crap, as my grandpappy used to say. Show up in my stead if you’re here in Korea; tell him the wonderchicken sent you.
Item the last: It’s my 41st freakin’ birthday tomorrow. Forty-two ‘Korean age’. The whole live-fast-die-young thing, I’m going to have to admit, has been a miserable failure.
Well, my testicles have stopped aching. And at least I’m not a dog in outer space.

Ball Squeezing Time

It’s a scary moment when you finally stop telling yourself that everything’s fine, and accept the fact that it might just be possible that you’ve got cancer of the balls. Especially if you’re someone like me, who, although built like a veritable Adonis (well, you know, with a few extra kilograms and body hair that’s just slightly more simian than I might like), is a bit on the body-shy side. Almost as bad as the idea of actually having something sinister growing in your satchel is the idea of having a stranger squeeze it, or, god forbid, stick his finger up your ass searching for the lost gold of Tumacacori. It seems insane, but there it is. I’ve gone 40 years with my nether sphincter working in one direction only (with entirely too much vigour, usually), and I wasn’t about to change now.
For a while, I’ve been having the occasional dull ache in the lower back. I figured that it was sleeping in my customary discus-thrower pose on the new, Korean mattress my wife had bought a few months back. Being new, and in particular being Korean (although cunningly named ‘Lady Americana’ to give it that so-important New Jersey cultural cachet), it is approximately as hard as a slab of granite. Not that soft, dissolute western granite, either. Good, hard, Korean sleeping-granite, ripped from the very earth in the mattress mines of Kangwon-do.
But a couple of weeks back I also started having some pain in the old goolies. Kind of a dull ache. I figured: ‘Well, I ride the bike to work everyday, I use the exercise bike at the gym a few times a week, I spend far too much time sitting on my butt at work lately, and, having emerged triumphant into my fifth decade, I have developed a major case of the Swingin’ Dad Balls, which remain largely unconstrained by my capacious boxer shorts. The poor boys are just getting mashed and mauled a bit more than they like…’
The ache went away, came back, went away, always just south of being really painful. Much closer to ‘crossed my legs and squashed ’em’ than ‘log-rolling accident of the worst kind’. Ignorable.
I did the self-exam thing, conscientiously. Soaped up the sack, squeezed and stroked, had a fine old time. Couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. They did feel a little bigger than I remembered, perhaps, but I put that down to the continuing expansion of the universe or losing weight in my fingers or something.
But last weekend the pain came back, and didn’t really go away. I made the mistake of telling She Who Must Be Obeyed, who promptly freaked out. I hate when people freak out, even though I do have a tendency to do it myself, when it’s about something other than the possibility of ball cancer. It was fun teaching her all the slang words for testicles, though, and that seemed to calm both of us down a bit. Balls hadn’t ever been a topic of conversation for us before, so it was a new experience.
She made me promise that we’d go… to the doctor. Damn it. I don’t like doctors. I agreed, realizing that now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, there was no putting it back in.
So yesterday, we went to one of the approximately 70,000 little clinics in this small port city. Here in Korea, you don’t go and see a GP who then refers you to a specialist, you just go straight to the specialist. Don’t even bother making an appointment — those are for dupes! That’s not the way I recall it in Canada, but then, last time I went to a doctor in Canada, they were giving me a lollipop if I made wee-wee in the cup without getting it all over the wall. Or at least that’s how I remember it, officer.
Although there are about 120,000 clinics in this town — three for every citizen, and about half as many as there are singing-rooms cum blowjob parlours — there are apparently only two that deal with maladies of the male meat-and-two-veg. One is the hospital, where I’d been before when the wife had been ill last year, and where competence is second only to cleanliness at the very bottom of the priorities list. The other was a place called, predictably, ‘Mr Kim’s Dermatology and Urology Clinic’. It was also dim and dirty, but that barely fazes me these days. I just wanted to get it over with.
After a short wait, in we went, and the doc in front of the computer spoke a little English, as most of the doctors seem to. As I sat down at his desk, he looked at me and asked pleasantly “Your face, right?”
“Er, no, actually.” Christ, I thought I was looking pretty good these days! I glanced over at my wife, as I’d already forgotten the polite Korean word for ‘balls’, and she obliged by explaining the symptoms.
He got me to stand up and drop trou, and shunning such undoctorly nuisances as gloves of any kind, went to town on my danglers.
It actually didn’t feel too bad. He’d clearly done this before. I forgave him for the dermatological blunder earlier.
The good news hooray! was that he didn’t figure there was any cancer to be found. He said he figured the problem was either a)kidney stones b)orchitis or epididymitis c)prostatitis. I was rooting for epididymitis, because one of the songs on my Monty Python records from 30 years ago ended with ‘…epididymi-iiiii-tis’, and I’d been singing that line for a week or two to myself, and I thought that’d be pretty cool, given the alternatives. It was time for a urine test to check for white blood cells or spimes and blogjects or something, which’d show that there was a bad thing happening somewhere. His English wasn’t all that great, when it came down to it. I dutifully took the cup down two flights of stairs to the — dim and dirty, of course — toilet, and did my best not to pee on the walls, hoping there’d be a lollipop for me somewhere at the end of all this. I was expecting the Greased Digit of Humiliation, and somewhat distracted.
We sat for about ten minutes in the waiting room while the machine did its thing with my pee, and the receptionist showed us back in.
His diagnosis: prostatitis, and a not-terribly malign and quite common sort. No treatment, no major worry apparently, brought on and aggravated by stress and, like I’d fancifully told myself weeks earlier, the rough treatment my bottom had been receiving by various bicycle saddles. He told me to rest and eat lots of vegetable protein — soybeans, in particular.
He also demonstrated how to take a ‘sitz bath’, a phrase that I’d encountered before, but didn’t really understand. Taking off his lab coat, he squatted down, and brandished an imaginary wand. ‘Shower,’ he said. He held the wand under his butt. ‘Five to ten minutes.’
‘Ooookay,’ said I, uncertainly.
I was still expecting the command to bend over at this point, but he talked to my wife in Korean for a bit, and then it was all bows-and-goodbyes.
Maybe he was out of rubber gloves. I suppose I should count myself lucky. Korean men don’t tend to trim their fingernails that well.
We paid at the counter, and there my story ends, almost. As we were walking back to the taxi rank at the bus terminal to return to our Corporate Island home, I asked my wife (who is the wielder of the plastic) how much it had cost.
It was 3000 won. Under four dollars.
Korea never ceases to surprise me.


I’m just about ready to stop flogging this whole blog-advertising ex-horse, but I thought rather than my normal negative nattering, I’d do something positive for a change, and, you know, like, reclaim the streets, or re-frame the conversation, or some damn thing. How? Well, some free advertising for people I know and love, to one degree or another, in my overlapping weblog neighbourhoods. Why flog what you can merely blog?
Here are some of the people that I like to read, and here are some of the books and things they’ve made. I’ve probably missed more than a few folks, what with my advanced beeriform encephalitis, but if you happen to be one of the ones I have missed, or you think of someone, then I entreat you to leave a quick comment, and I’ll pop you (or them) on to the list.
I’m breaking one of my personal rules about linking to Amazon, here, but I don’t have one of those bogus affiliate ID things, so I won’t make a dime off the deal if you buy any of the books or music here. The idea, see, is that the people who created the things will. What do I get out of it? A bathwater-warm wash of moral superiority, of course, that will no doubt make me more obnoxious than ever. And perhaps a smidgeon or two of goodwill, which I still believe has some value in our mercantilized metaverse of blogtribes.

So who have I forgotten in the local tribes? Drop a note in the comments if you think of someone, and I’ll happily advertise for them, too! No charge, no commission, just the sweet sound of barn-raising!

This has been another public service from the friendly people at wonderchicken Industries™.

Hosting Matters

This is kind of an odd thing to post about, for me, but I’m all about the sharin’ and the carin’. If you want or need a new webhost, one with a good reputation, and want to pay $9.24 for an entire year, including a free domain registration, read on.
About a year back, I begged for a few bucks from you, friends and neighbours, so I could pony up for another year of hosting, and was overwhelmed with your kindness. The fee was about US$180 for the year, which my friend Allan (as a reseller) generously dropped down to $150. Once I’d sorted out the Paypal stupidity — if I had a credit card, I’d use it! — which made me inconvenience Allan enormously, forcing him to wait months for the cash, all went swimmingly, and the few bucks left over I saved to use for the next year.
But this year I’ve found a pretty amazing deal at Dreamhost. I’m going to cut over to them soonish, and I want to share my good fortune with you (with apologies to Allan, but I’m sure he’ll understand). On the ‘Crazy Insane Domain’ plan, you get

  • 2400 MBDisk Storage
  • 120 GB Monthly Bandwidth
  • Unlimited MySQL Databases
  • 600 E-Mail Accounts (POP / IMAP)
  • 75 Shell / FTP Accounts
  • 1 Free Domain Registration
  • 3 Domains hosted
  • 15 subdomains hosted
  • unlimited domain forwarding

and all the other usual good stuff that most good hosts offer these days, of course. These numbers blow away anything I’ve seen elsewhere, and they throw in a free domain registration for you (which stays free forever, if you continue hosting with them)! It was easier to set up the latest version of Movable Type than I’ve ever had it before. Flawless, first time, no tweaks necessary.
But this is where it gets good. The normal 1-year prepayment price for this is $9.95 a month, no set-up fee. That’s about $120 for the year, which ain’t bad.
If you enter this 7-year birthday code — 777 — in the Promo Code, then hit update, you’ll get the same huge hosting deal, which at $120 would be much cheaper than I paid last year (for a less kick-ass service), for $9.24.
Yep, $10 for a domain and some stonkin’ hosting, for a full year. Their support has been miles better than what I was accustomed to at my old host as well, and though they don’t use the popular CPanel as their admin interface, I actually like their toolset better.
If you go for it, I have one request. If you sign up (and I’ve just gotten my drinking buddy J signed up) please please use the ID stavrosthewonderchicken when it asks you for a referral, and I’ll get a bit o’cash that will help the ‘bottle (and my other upcoming projects) stay on the web for years to come, without having the ‘bottle get all weird and lucre-besmirched again.
(Because I signed up with the promo code as well, I might not actually get referrer money, which is fine if true, but it’s worth a try. Either way, you guys get a hell of a hosting deal, and, like I said, I’m all about the sharin’ and the carin’…)
[Update : apparently the ‘777’ deal ends on February 28 2005, so if you’re going to go for it, this week is the last chance.]


If you were one of the kind people who dropped some dollars into my (still locked, but I’m working on it) tipjar, and you’d like a Gmail account, drop a comment with a (properly obfuscated) email address and I’ll hook you up.
I have two to give away. First come, first served.
[Update : I have three more Gmail invites to give away. Priority is as before (folks who’ve helped me out with hosting to the front of the line), followed by people I ‘know’, virtually or otherwise. Random Internet Dudes need not apply. Thanks.]


I watched ‘Magnolia’ last night. Yeah, I know : get with the times you cheesy halfwit, that movie is soooo 20th century! We’re all about Keanu having a Mark Hamill moment over the pincushiony corpse of Trinity as the swarms of cgi-squid thingos penetrate (heh) the womb (woohee) of humanity (oh-ho!) like so many stainless-steel sperm these days, boyo. Get with the program!
Oh f–k off.
So, anyway, I watched all three hours of this fine film, and I am here to tell you, the last person in America that hasn’t seen it, that it is indeed a fine film.
Perhaps the best things about the movie for me were all the damp, crumpled-up faces, contorted and shivering under the hammerblows of nearly unbearable emotions, or close facsimiles thereof. The long long closeups of those emoting auteurs were a veritable emotional Dustbuster™, by crikey, sucking the carbon out of my psychosexual valves. Then squirting in a healthy spritz of WD-40, which your average Dustbuster can’t do without special attachments. Which was why this was so damn good!
(By picking this particular metaphor to describe the mood I was in as the credits rolled and I closed Winamp™ and toddled off for a healthy crap, I am in no way claiming that this movie sucked. On the contrary, it rocked me! Rocked me like a tropical depression at the very least.)
No, seriously, folks. I loved this movie with an unhealthy passion, and I’m merely cracking anticlockwise to try and hide the uncomfortable feelings it stirred in my heart. I cried a bit, even. Especially when Tom Cruise’s unfeasibly large package was flopping around. C’mon! That sh-t was scary, damn it!
Anway. When I die, if I don’t get a f–king rain of frogs, I’m complaining to the management.
(Thus ends my very first movie-review blog post, which is soooo summer 2003, unless you’re Mistah Kottke and can get away with that sort of thing, I know. I really am trying like hell to get with the program, I swear, but when you spend as much time as I do plucking the newly-lush profusion of hairs out of your ears, you get a little behind, all right?)


I like to stop by Vladi Private Islands once in a while, to daydream a bit. During the Bubble in ’99, when me and my friends in Sydney actually took a business plan to a venture capital company (and thank christ we didn’t end up following through on it, is all I can say), we never used to talk about getting rich, per se, we used to talk about ‘buying an island’.
Maybe someday.


The reason I mention it is that American Island, on Stuart Lake, is for sale. I’ve been there dozens of times – my hometown is at the tip of Stuart Lake. Very cool – wish I had C$100,000 to spare.
sh-t, I wish I had C$100 to spare.

The C Word

Via Rusty of Kuro5hin in an almost completely unrelated Metatalk thread, an etymology and cultural history of the word ‘cunt’.
You learn something every day.
My fondest personal memory of the word itself (as opposed to the body parts to which it refers) comes from my first trip to London, back in 1988, I think it was. Stefan and I, fresh off the plane and train, boggled and hungover in Victoria Station, found the cheapest place we could to sleep, which turned out to be the floor of a run-down gymnasium near King’s X station. Was it called Tunbridge Sports Club? I don’t know, I can’t remember. Something like that, anyway.
It was only a pound a night, and all we needed to do once we’d paid at the door was drag a sweat-stained foam pad from a storage room and stake out a place on the floor somewhere. The arrangement left more cash for the beer, and that was a consideration foremost in our minds at the time. The fact that it was locked up between the hours of 9 am and 9 pm was just fine, as we were happy to wander the city all day though the clouds of diesel, colonial bumpkin mouths agape. The fact that we were locked in between 9 pm and 9 am might have given us pause if we’d stopped to think about it, but we were on an adventure, damn it! No foo-foo ‘youth hostels’ for us.
Three people I remember from that place : two Finnish guys, one who wore one of those teacozyesque knit caps over his blonde dreadlocks and was clearly the alpha male, and the other who orbited around him, a little like the Warner Brothers yappy little cartoon dog and his big tough pal, Butch. We ended up putting our foam mats down in the same general area a couple of nights running, both duos sensing in a reassuring preverbal kind of way that neither was likely to rip the other off while sleeping. I called them Sockhead and Son, and remember them still, which is no mean feat for my Rube Goldberg machine of a brain.
The third was the foulmouthed chainsmoking Cockney who ran the place. Well, ran it to the extent that he hung around at the entrance between 9 and 10 pm, collecting pound coins in his dirty paw, and turning away anyone who looked too much like a gluehead and too little like a backpacker. His favorite phrase, which in the week or so we crashed there I must have heard two dozen times, was : ‘Yoooooou foockin’ cooont!’ He seemed inclined to drawl it out whether happy or angry or contemplative, under any circumstances that required verbalization, to anyone that might find themselves unhappily pinioned under his bloodshot medusa gaze. Five minutes after nine and not out of the communal shower? ‘Yoooooou foockin’ cooont!’ Only a five pound note to pay for your foam mat for the night? ‘Yoooooou foockin’ cooont!’ Caught smoking inside the building? ‘Yoooooou foockin’ cooont!’
It was like a lullaby after walking 20 or 30 kilometres a day, while sinking gratefully down onto the gym floor. I remember drifting off to sleep with Grubby The Warden hectoring late arrivals at the top of his gravelly voice : ‘Yoooooou foockin’ cooont!’ after ‘Yoooooou foockin’ cooont!’ easing us off into la-la land.
I hated that guy, but I loved him too, because he was at least memorable. Like the Young Ones used to say about Harry the Bastard with mock-respect in their voices : what a bastard!

At this time, in the Stews (brothel) area of Southwark, London, there was a street called Gropecuntelane. Similarly, there was a Gropecuntlane in Oxford (later renamed Magpie Lane), a Cunte Street in Bristol (later renamed Host Street), and, in London, a Pissing Alley and sh-tteborwelane. Gropecuntelane may have been shortened to Grope Lane, and a similar (though less graphic) example can be found in York, where a Grope Lane was “renamed [Grape Lane] by staid Victorians who found the original Grope – historically related to prostitution – too blatant” [Wainwright, 2000].

Clock Tower

Some days, you just want to climb to the top of that clock tower and start picking those f–kers off. Some days, the world seems like a private hell created expressly! for! you! Some days, your loathing for every single human face you see makes the bile back up in your throat. Some days, you just want to smash.
Some days, you want to make a difference. Some days you nurture and you shelter and you teach and you cherish. Some days, the air smells clean, and you have a good sh-t. Some days your head clears, briefly. Some days, it seems like the future might actually be better than the past. Some days, the sun comes out and it doesn’t burn.
Some days.
Other days, you just can’t be asked to give a f–k.

Random Observations

Observation the First : This post from a while back (“AntiAmerica”) has been attracting googlenauts like flies to poo, and although I keep thinking about closing it to comments, I am compelled (the power of crap compels you! the power of crap compels you!) for the moment to leave it open. It’s fascinating to watch the comments accrete in layers as the weeks go by. Super-terrific-happy-fun-post activate!
Observation the Second : Rageboy stopped drinking at almost precisely the same time I started doing it with any degree of diligence. Funny, that. One of the thrillingest moments in my early blog career was when he linked to a post of mine and opined that I might actually be able to write my way out of a wet paper bag. And I hadn’t even started sending him monthly cheques at that point.
Observation the Third : There is no Observation the Third, but I’m into the beer again, so we’ll see how the evening develops.
Observation the Fourth : This deserves more link-loving. Or maybe it already got the love, and I missed the buzz. I dunno. Way cooler than the last 5 or ten mind-crogglingly cool things I’ve seen, though [alternate view]. Go implant some GeoURL tags in your index pages now, friends, or I’ll hunt you down and give you some serious noogies!
Not an observation at all, really : This one’s for Kaf :


Meaty, Beaty Identity

[This post contains adult content (in a sophomoric container)]
So I had this brilliant idea that I’d find some cheesy 50’s-style text pr0n, and search and replace the names with, you know, like Saddam and George and Dick and so on (reminds me of the Carlin joke from a decade ago about the first Gulf War : “…with Dick Cheney and Colin Powell in charge of this war, a Dick and a Colin – you know someone’s getting f–ked up the ass!”) and it would instantly become Comedy Gold and secure me my place in the weblogger Hall of Fame for all eternity.
Five minutes later, that seemed like a really dumb-ass idea, as these things usually do. But in the intervening time, I’d gotten all hot and bothered and plugged the nearest INPUT with ‘hot rod +rammed +quivering‘, having cast my mind back for keywords I could lift from the amusingly goofy dime sex-novels I remember finding in my grandfather’s basement when I was about 12. God bless the Googlebot.
That search took me here in short order, where all sorts of textual sucking and grunting and thrusting and other activities of a carnal nature were taking place.
Distractions happen to me almost continually – (I blame a period of recreational Ritalin use a while back, in the days when judgement was, if not entirely fled, at least in short supply) oh look, a shiny thing! – and I found myself wondering what sort of site might lie at the root (no pun intended) of the URL. Kinda bloggeresque domain, after all – [Warning – this URL will try and install an ActiveX control (which may or may not be kosher) and may contain nudity. Not that the latter is such a bad thing, really.]
A domain like this, and one kind of expects kitty pics and posts about how annoying that guy down at the laundromat is, although I should really try to be nicer to him, ’cause everyone’s beautiful in their own way, you know, a beautiful and unique individual. Well, no. Except in the loosest possible sense of ‘kitty.’ Get me?
Turns out that it’s the site of a camgirl, or in this case I suppose camwoman, named Karen, who is apparently a widow and lives in Hollywood, and who is given to favouring the world with displays of her mammalian appurtenances. You know, her boobies.
What amused me, in light of recent bibliotic thought and talk about who we are, and how we write those selves into existence, and who those selves are, and all of that, was this :


No prevarication, no qualification, no veils or ambivalence, just one word : me.
I wish Karen no ill, of course, and intend no mockery, despite my smartass tone. When it comes down to it, aren’t we all attention whores to one degree or another, we webfolks? Sometimes I think there’s really not much difference between a camgirlwoman and your average blogger, even bloggers as admittedly excellent and erudite as those here in my virtual neighbourhood, wordy storytelling bloggers like me.
Except that Karen’s breasts are clearly much nicer than mine.
[Update : Penisblog. QED. via Mefi]

Frolicking at Mt Paektu

Kim Jong Il’s livejournal [via El Filtro] is just what I needed this morning, as the Land Of The Morning Calm chaos gets all in my face once again. People are dying over in Iraq, I know, I know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a chuckle at the expense of a funny looking Korean despot, right?

3:39 am Dear diary. Bush still doesn’t ‘get it.’ I tried making my feelings clear but he’s too busy ignoring me, he is such a jerk. Everything in his life is just Saddam, Saddam, Saddam and I am sick of it.
On the plus side, I think my hair looked pretty good today. Also I went frolicking at Paektu Mountain and the rainbow came out again. After dinner some of my subjects sang me a song because I invented Outer Space.

Also, I am victorious!

Totally Unimportant

It’s completely unimportant, but I wonder if the sh-tstorm of war-driven infantile hatred and apoplectic misspelled vitriol howling around everyone’s favorite Metafilter will be enough to finally kill it off. Matt’s wondered in public what to do with it on its upcoming fourth anniversary, and one of the options was to just pull the plug.
I’m ambivalent, to put it mildly. It’s like watching someone you’ve loved with all your heart for years, warts and all, become an incoherent, piss-reeking, crack-addicted ass-peddler, through the crusty scrabrous shell of which you still see the occasional glimpse of the dear friend you once had. You still love that friend, and you can’t stop yourself in trying to intervene and turn the poor bastard from the abyss, but sometimes you just as much want to put a freakin’ shotgun to his head and end his pain.
You know, not to be excessively melodramatic or anything.
*shrugs, goes back to Metafilter*


I have received an email from, imploring me to sign a petition (warning : that’s probably an email harvester). This email came to my private, supersecret, jealously guarded email address, at which I have never (yes, never) received a spam email. It’s clear that someone I know provided my email address so that I could receive this message.
Please do not do this, even with the best of intentions. It makes me very angry. I will receive any mail sent to (any address) at, and this allows me serverside control of what gets through and what gets blocked.
Update : Dumb f–ks. I just got a spam email to [address at], and have edited the above for clarity and to remove the ‘@’. One thing you can always depend on is stupidity.
*blocks that address*