Deanmeister

The Deaniacs were swarming today; I attended a benefit luncheon here in San Diego to see the man, the phenomena in person!

Along with ~300 others in a packed conference room, I listened, cheered, clapped, talked, and ate a two hour lunch; shirking bourgening responsibility at work, but return to the grindstone to stay till 8 pm to make up for lost time, to embrace the isolation of a cubicle, to envision years of projects and people to oversee...

But Dean; what a rush, what passion, what eloquence, what a crowd!

Who knew politics could get the blood boiling thus? Dean in 2004!!!

If you're democratic, or republican and dissatisfied and openminded, please check out Howard Dean, the man the myth, the legend. And contribute, for every little bit helps...

=tn

Warm Toilet Seats

This one's a revisit to an oldie but goodie, also published (with sloppy editing - courtesy of Klaus) over at The Literary Brothel. Enjoy.

Teddy Nutmeg here, with another serious topic for discussion; the warm toilet seat, and toilet seats in general. I loathe warm toilet seats. In fact, there is perhaps nothing more physically repulsive in the world, to me, than a warm toilet seat. Now this may seem a strong comment, but lets just take a minute to seriously examine the phenomena of the warm toilet seat...

To get to the root of my hatred of warm toilet seats, to thoroughly understand the minutia of this abhorrence, we must narrow down our scope; I'm not sweepingly anti-toilet seat, by any means. Indeed, I love a nice bathroom respite, elbow on knee and light reading in hand. It's not the seat itself, or even the act, but the warmth, and specifically, the reason behind the warmth; how does any particular toilet seat get warm? To be blunt, another man's ass-warmth warms up the toilet seat. It's the only explanation, and a damn disturbing one. Another man came into the toilet stall, pulled down his pants, and sat his bare ass on the toilet seat. While he sat, his warm ass heated up the plastic of the toilet seat. Now, this happens in every public bathroom in the world, and this, alone, is not what I hate. What I do hate is that first shocking moment, that hellacious moment when I press my bare buttocks gently onto a toilet seat and feel the heat from another man's ass - on my ass.

But lets go even deeper; a warm toilet seat means more than just another man sat there and shat. It means that another man sat and shat RECENTLY, indeed, and not far enough in the past for the warmth to dissipate, and this is what makes me shudder in revulsion yea, even now. I mean, the toilet stall is perhaps the most private space one can imagine; you don't even share it with a lover like a bedroom or the backseat of a 65 Mustang. Its all you and its just you in there - like a confessional but more private. A warm toilet seat reminds me that there was another man with his pants down doing his business, in that same spot as I currently am with my pants down, doing my business. When you sit on a warm toilet seat, you can feel that man's physical warmth, those excited little electrons jumped from his ass to the seat to your ass, 1, 2, 3. And for me, gentle reader, this is akin to psychological rape; I don't want those excited electrons on my ass, but I'm powerless to stop them.

Now, I realize how this may sound to some readers, and I must say that I am not homophobic in the least. Trust me on this one. I lived, happily, in Hillcrest for two years. If you know San Diego, you know what I mean. If you don't know San Diego, Hillcrest is like West Hollywood. If you don't know LA, Hillcrest is like the Castro. If you don't know SF, Hillcrest is like Chelsea. If you're still in the dark, I can't help ya and frankly, you're probably beyond help. And anyway, I have the same aversion to a woman-ass-warmed toilet seat in my own house as I do to a warmed Men's room seat; I'll unwittingly sit down on my own toilet seat, realize its warm, and realize that the only other person who could've used it is my female roommate, and inevitably the nausea hits.

I must admit that there is one instance when I don't mind a warm toilet seat: when I visit my parents' house and use their toilets. My ass doesn't seem to mind familial warmth. I don't even have to know who specifically warmed the seat (although by the smell I can usually tell). Ironically, its kind of nice having a warm, friendly toilet seat, as opposed to a shockingly cold one, when I'm at my parents' house. Its not that I want to touch bare asses with any of my family members. Really. Maybe since we share genes I am somehow not repulsed by their bodies (asses), though it shames me to realize and admit that I am repulsed by the bodies (asses) of friends and fellow healthy humans.

And my aversion to warm toilet seats does not stem from worries over cleanliness, either. I do not use the "disposable cowboy hats" in public restrooms as I heard them referred to once in Dallas. I simply find them too much a hassle. I do, however, take a square of TP and wipe the seat off every time before I sit on it. But its not ass-germs that make the warm toilet seat so disgusting; if it were, I'd probably hate all public bathrooms. As I've said before, it's the idea of butt-kissing another human that the warm toilet seat represents which is, to me, so incomprehensibly vile.

And I do check toilet seats with the back of my hand before sitting on them, to avoid an uncomfortably warm surprise, and there are several levels of warmth. There's the slightly perceptible, "maybe I'm just imagining this" warm seat on which I do not hesitate to plop my bottom. No problem there. There's the "kind of warm, probably a solid 15 minutes ago" seat that I sit on while mentally note my opposition. Also bearable.

But the next step up is a drastic one; the "definitely warm and less than 10 minutes ago there was a bum here - how bad do I have to go?" seat which I make an effort to avoid, using other stalls or just holding it if at all possible. And then there's the dreaded hotseat, the "holy shit this seat is burning up, I can practically smell the fumes still dispersing and I don't think I'm just imagining that little droplet of ass sweat still on the seat." This last level of warmth is utterly unbearable and thankfully quite rare, and when I encounter this I invariably scan my memory for men coming out of the restroom as I was entering. Was it the guy with the black pinstriped suit and red silk tie who works in suite 304? Or was it Bob, the fat guy in claims?

Once or twice I've been in a rush and forgotten to check the seat and I have sat down on what felt like a moist hotplate and I almost threw up. Bile in the mouth, seriously. I'd sit there feeling my own body temperature starting to rise as a result of the extreme heat radiating upward through my buttocks, and beads of sweat would form on my brow. Maybe it was just the stress and utter repulsion at squishing my buttocks onto a warm seat. The only thing I can compare it to is when I was sitting in the grass at a park one day and I reached out my hand to support myself and it smooshed right into a soft pile of dog poo. Like, totally gross.

And so I urge you, gentle reader, please, please, check the seat with the back of your hand BEFORE you sit on it. And if its warm, think about a stranger's bare booty, contemplate the warmth of the toilet seat and the warmth of that bare booty, examine your gut reaction to it, and by all means, wash your dirty ass when you get home.

-tn

Howlin'

You and I and every misinformed soul out there really needs to read The Daily Howler on a, well, daily basis. Edited by a brilliant journalist turned comedian, the Howler originally came about during the 1996 election when said comdian finally blew a fuse at all the contradicting misinformation perpetuated by the mainstream media and decided to do something about it. And what a job he's done. The Howler is that rarity of media; humorous and enlightening at the same time. Que bueno.

In fact, I'd even go so far as to call it essential (mandatory?) reading for anyone regularly exposed to the sad, distorted world of American news media.

Please, please, for the sake of truth, beauty, and laughter, just go read it.

-tn

"Natural" Gas Tax in NZ

Here's the headline from BBC: "NZ flatulence tax outrages farmers". No, really. I swear, I am not making this up, and you can look at the whole article on BBC. Big brother, take note; maybe mom and dad will finally start taxing/fining you for your own indoor methane production! Money passage from the article:

"However New Zealand farmers argue that taxpayers should pay for the research, because reducing the emissions benefits everyone.

"'This decision is yet another example of the government's desire to act in the wider public interest but expecting rural New Zealand to pay for its largesse,' Federated Farmers President Tom Lambie said."

I admittedly don't know enough about the methane situation in NZ to comment in anything resembling a knowledgeable manner, but I do have one question; how many farmers that you know ever use the word "largesse" in a sentence? Tom Lambie, you're alright in my book, unless your last name isn't just a huge coincidence, in which case I think you're a sick, sick man...

-tn

Giants vs. Dodger Bums

Saw my first game at Pac Bell Park last night, what an amazing place to see a game and what a game to see. The San Francisco Bay has got to be the coolest view in any major league ballpark - you can literally see, from your seat, transport ships docking, sailing craft tooling around, etc. The game was sold out, and SF and LA were tied for 1st place in the NL going in to the game, making the always intense rivalry all the more heated. In that vein, I was surprised at the tenacity and fearlessness of the vastly outnumbered Dodger fans, as well as by the tolerance exhibited by San Francisco fans. A few good natured shouting matches ensued, of course, but no brawls that I could see. I can't say I received, as a Giants fan, the same courtesy in Dodger stadium at a game there last year; my girlfriend was deathly afraid that the numerous knife threats to my person weren't as idle as I thought.

Went last night with my brother and sister, both die hard Giants fans (Dad raised us well), drank many beers at my sister's apartment beforehand, and managed to sneak in some booze to avoid the sudsy highway robbery once inside. Had a heated sunflower seed spitting duel with my big brother which I won with a masterful, arcing shot which landed in his soda (disgusting, I know, but 1 - we're brothers, and 2 - we drank many beers at my sister's apartment beforehand).

Check out the game article here.

-tn

Doublewides and Breastmilk...

What more could this valley boy ever want? Err, lots, actually. But its humpday and I'm not feeling too ambitious. Actually, I fly home today for a long, hot, fun-filled weekend in the good old San Juaquin Valley, so maybe my bucolic side is taking over...at any rate, enjoy these tidbits from my favorite alternative news site:

"Nancy Fortson Reynolds, 49, pleaded guilty in May to having embezzled more than $1 million from an Athens, Ga., animal vaccine manufacturer during the five years she handled the company's accounts payable. According to a police detective, Reynolds and her husband spent all of the money on a multitude of consumer products, making only one enduring capital expenditure: constructing an addition onto their double-wide mobile home. [Athens Banner-Herald, 5-28-03"

Tough to beat, I know, the most lavish doublewide in the world, but read on:

"In a 2002 story, News of the Weird mentioned Cuba's Guinness-Book-record milk-producing cow, Ubre Blanca. In April 2003, a German newspaper profiled Susan Schulze, 31, of Leipzig, who the paper said was the country's most prolific milk-producing human, having provided 50 gallons of her breast milk (collected in four to six daily sessions for more than a year) to a children's clinic at the University of Magdeburg. [Daily Telegraph (London), 4-13-03]"

Two words: got milk?

I'm suddenly thirsty for some 2%...

-tn

Its Alive, its aliiiiiiiive

Thanks to Bry for this diamond, an irreverant, Mary Shelly inspired take on George W. Bush's plans for the Supreme Court.

The flash movie may take awhile to load, and sound is important so turn up your speakers, prepare to go back in time to witness the impending creation of a monster, and CLICK HERE.

Oh, yeah, um, and prepare to laugh your ass off, too.

-ts

You scream, I scream...

Remember the simple and exquisite pleasures of being a kid in the summertime? Funkyness, heat, jello, ice cream, and liquid nitrogen. Ahh, yes, liquid nitrogen, every teen science nerd's wet dream. Who wouldn't wanna play around with a tank of that stuff? I mean, you could pour some over a shakerful of martinis (or margaritas, or gin gimlets, or...) for the ultimate in slushy chilled refreshment. You could thoroughly freeze two cans of shaving cream, cut and peel the metal cans from around the frozen blocks of cream, and put the frozen cream cylinders inside someone's car in the sun -- when they heat up, they will decompress and fill the entire car with shaving cream (not nice, not nice at all, BUT TRE COOL). Or, you could mix nitrogen with some whipping cream, sugar, eggs, vanilla, and voila! The ultimate summer party dessert: instant homemade icecream, flash cooled with liquid N2.

Here's a snippet from the article that prompted my fond memories of chemlab:

"We mixed up a standard ice cream recipe calling for two quarts of cream, sugar, eggs, vanilla and flavoring. (Just about any ice cream recipe and flavor will work.) Then, working in a well-ventilated area (lest the nitrogen displace oxygen from the air) and with due regard for the ability of liquid nitrogen to freeze body parts solid, we gently folded about two liters of nitrogen syrup directly into the cream, much as you would fold in egg whites.

The result, literally 30 seconds later, was a half-gallon of the best ice cream I'd ever tasted. The secret is in the rapid freezing. When cream is frozen by liquid nitrogen at negative 196 degrees celsius, the ice crystals that give bad ice cream its grainy texture have no chance to form. Instead you get microcrystalline ice cream that is supremely smooth, creamy and light in texture."

Sweet!

-tn

Muggle Mischief

This one's for Kendra, the sorceress in my life:


Thousands of Potter books stolen

"Thousands of Harry Potter books worth about $1.68 million were stolen from a warehouse in the north of England over the weekend, police say Tuesday."


Ouch. Who takes the hit on a heist like this, the publisher, the insurance company, the warehousing company? And does Rowling lose some royalties or are the books considered purchased once the insurance pays for them???

Book thieves.

*shaking head in disgust*

-tn

Just plain cool...

Describes this site pretty well. There are over 1000 listings of common names, and their translations into Chinese characters. Free. And cool.

Just click on the first letter of your name, and see if they have your name and its translation. If not, email the webmaster, and she'll get it up there for you! Fucking cool.

Did I mention it was cool?

-tn

Howard Dean for President

Okay kids, its soapbox time.

If you're as sick as I am of this sham of an Administration currently in power, if this pack of baldfaced liars and their nepostistic Orwellian policies makes you want to rip out your own liver in disgust, then don't just sit there, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!

Personally, I'm throwing my meager weight and resources behind the Howard Dean campaign, and if you, gentle reader, want to replace George aWol Bush next November with a kick ass guy, a stand up Democrat with backbone, a proven leader, etc etc, I urge you to do the same. Go to Meetup.com, where you can find Dean support meetings in your very town, and if you can't find one, you can create one! If nothing else, go to a Dean Meetup, meet some people, drink some beer, and talk about stuff.

Howard Dean just rocks. The guy isn't your typical pandering politician. He speaks his mind and he stands his ground. He's putting on an aggressive TV campaign in Iowa for the upcoming Democratic primaries, and even though he's criticized for being too forward, he's not pulling any punches. The guy just has a boatload of integrity, which is exactly what America needs right now.

If you need a couple more reasons why we need to kick Bush and his cronies out of power, check these stories out:

US Turns to the Taliban Yup, not only did the Bush administration "forget" to budget the funds to rebuild Afghanistan, welching on their promise to do so, but now they're actually negotiating with the Taliban.

Empty Promises for Americorps Speaking of welching, this article highlights Dubya's penchant for promising money to social programs like Americorps, shamelessly using Americorps representatives at political rallies, then turning around and CUTTING the program when its time to budget. Pssst: he's done this before, when the $15 billion pledge to fight the global AIDS problem shrank to a mere $3.4 billion budget request - which Congress may not even approve.

Iraqi mobile labs nothing to do with germ warfare, report finds And, of course, there's the complete lack of anything resembling weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, despite Bush's claims that we knew for certain that Saddam had them. In case anyone thinks this is old news, WE WAGED UNILATERAL, INTERNATIONALLY UNSANCTIONED WAR FOR THIS REASON, or so we were told, and now its coming out that we probably knew that no WMD existed. I don't like being lied to. Do you?

-tn

$5 Haircuts and Other Perks

I just got a five dollar haircut this weekend. While the lady who cut my hair babbled on and on about her recent car accident and didn't seem to pay much attention to my actual hair, I really can't complain. I mean, for five bucks, who would? And in truth, my five dollar 'do looks damn smooth; its at least as good as the fifteen dollar chop jobs I was getting at Ubercuts.

But even if I do slighty resemble a disheveled marine, my hair will grow back and I don't really care anyway. Its because of things like this, and being able to pee standing up, and having a built in physiological justification for eating meat, that I love being a man. (uh oh)

-tn

Civilized Society?

Jeff sends me this thrilling story, marked as "Major News!", about a new Britney Spears wax statue at Madam Tussauds museum in London. Sounds normal enough, right? Wrong. This particular statue one-ups the Brad Pitt statue with the "squeezable (latex) bum," exhibiting the latest in wax statue technology, "inflatable, throbbing breasts." Oh, the horror, the horror.

Just read the brief article; with a headline like "Britney to get blow-up breasts," its got to be good. Or very, very shitty.

-tn

Oh Those Kooky Yalies

Thanks to Ciaran for sharing this juicy tidbit about the latest exploits of Barbara Bush, one o' Georgie's twin girls. Apparently, lil' Barb likes going to "naked parties" with fellow Yale students, where the liquor flows like water and the main attraction is, of course, flesh. There's supposedly a videotape of this, which Larry Flynt is trying to find before the Secret Service does. So rich.

While this is, like, totally no big deal, I think if my father were POTUS, I might be a little more discreet in my socializing. Just maybe. I definitely wouldn't have, while on exchange at Dartmouth, participated in a Tabard tradition affectionately known as Naked Bong Hits. Not that I did anyway. No sir.

Ahh, the Tabard, the co-ed fraternity/sorority of geniuses, drunks, and not altogether carefree revellers amongst whom I spent the happiest quarter of my college career. A wave of half-remembered memories just crashed on me; drunken, song-filled nights drinking Toads (secret house drink) and discussing the philosophy of mullets, stoney pool in the poolroom, (beer) pong in the basement, and disco disco disco. I once worked the door at Disco Inferno (quarterly disco party), and had to stave off the wanna-be's with a...well, a stave. One guy slipped my 20 bucks to let him in. To a college party. Does this seem strange to anyone else? More Tabard debauchery to come...

-tn

Rube Goldberg is Dancing Somewhere...

Because this Honda commercial currently airing in the UK and getting massive internet airplay is something he would've made himself.

Apparently all the parts used in the filming of the commercial are Honda Accord parts, there are no computer graphics used, and it took 606 takes and 6 million dollars to make. It is the least flashy 6 million dollar commercial that could ever be made, but also the coolest. Oh, and the wiper washers used, from the new Accord, have water sensors and start wiping automatically. Just click the link and check it out for yourself...

-ts

Quickies

Two new albums out this week, by two uber-cool kick-ass bands, Radiohead and Grandaddy. Go buy them at your local record store. Hint: "local music store" does NOT mean Sam Goody, Wherehouse, Border's, Virgin, Tower, or any other corpo, conglomo megastore. GO LOCAL!! Sure, the slightly snobby hipsters at your local music store may snort in derision at the mere sight of your GAP-shopping ass, but you'll survive.

Also, someone tell me, please, is there any reason I should go out of my way, waste three hours, and, oh yeah, 10 bucks, on the Matrix: Reloaded, or X-Men 2?? Nothing I've heard/read so far makes me think so...

-tn

Perpetual Departure

I actually wrote this a few weeks ago, pondering motifs in my recent life, enjoying the blues. It seems sacrilegious to post this now, now that the happy horizon is here and a new life of togetherness dawns before me, but maybe a few readers will read and enjoy being blue with the Teddy of a few weeks ago.



My Valedictory Life


I'm finally home to the Blue House again and now that I am I can't stand this place -- I see the peeling paint, the dingy, cigarette butted and ashed porch and its 40's era blue ribbon trim, the maplike network of stains on the vinaceous carpet, and a loathing fills me, bringing with it an illogical desire to leave. Leave?? I just got home for crissakes!! And again I mentally mouth the question so often in my thoughts; what the hell is wrong with me?

It seems my life has come down to one thing recently: leaving. Leaving. The theme of my life, and what a depressingly average one it is. Going home to see my family. traveling for business, or simply and begrudgingly leaving the bar at closing, I'm always going somewhere and this pathetically forlon feeling is persistent in its quiet infectious nature, invading all the would-be carefree moments of my days. I stand in the shower at a hotel, relaxed, meditative, when the loneliness of leaving a known place, a welcoming place, seeps into me - I know I'm already late for a meeting and checkout is imminent. Or I go for a bike ride to feel sun and wind paint humanity onto my body, my soul, and there, atop a bike seat pedaling through cracked familiar streets, I remember leaving a woman who never learned to ride a bike - how could I fail to teach her something so simple?

And the people in my life only seem to make it worse; I love them all uniquely, as only each and all can be loved. But I'm always leaving, just when I want to stay somewhere, to remain when all else blows away, I want to be constant, that rock, that immovable object which time itself does not, can not affect. Eating early dinner at a patio table overlooking lake Texas, I think about leaving the girl back home, leaving for Austin and leaving myself behind. Am I the abyss at the bottom of America's cliff or the lone silhouetted figure perched, wavering on the edge?

I know people here and there and in many places, but they're never where I am, at least mentally, and uplifting friendly voices soon lose their potency in the nothingness of physical solitude. Without tangibility even the best intentions seem somehow divided, smaller in the face of immediate physical reality; sure the voice on the phone says it loves me, but I'm staring at an empty hotel room, an emptier bottle and pillows that won't cuddle me back. Maybe that's why I've been drinking to forget recently; I know I shouldn't drink so much, I really do. I know I shouldn't drink whiskey like water so that half of the night is lost time, a dark smear of laughing, stumbling memory, but why recall when there's no one to recall?

In my solitude and eternal departure I become I become I am a memory-ghost at the end of America, the last days of disco, a flitting shadow in airport corners, a goofy slovenly youth flying in first class, smiling sadly to no one and needing no one to enjoy jokes and music and DVD's with. Is the ability to impress myself really that impressive?

I wake up one morning after a half-forgotten night with scars on my hand and shoulder and another vague recollection of lost opportunity in the face of a pretty face. As the bath is drawn, my thoughts run with the water right down the drain, all but one borne in my newest lonesome realization; all we familiar strangers, all we lonesome beings have are brief, fleeting moments in which to just be, moments in which to talk to each other, moments of respite and trial, moments of despair and welcome, and yet we stare through eachother's gazes with supposed indifference, frozen in solitude, linked in apathy.

A familiar new day (Friday the 13th) in the sunbleached homely happiness of San Diego's oceanfront, and the beach with my scars and my CD player. Talked to mom and dad this morning, the same disturbingly trite and happy conversation as last time; "and that's the news from lake woebegon," my mom always says in her wavering, beautiful, left-behind voice. I think of her, of my father's heroic shrinking shadow, and sigh to myself. I paddle out into the forgiving sea, alone in the vast blue of sea and sky to float on my back; to experience the fluid weightlessness and rhythmic motion that only mom can provide, yet even here, even in the oceanic womb, I'm motherless, alone, leaving. Off, off the board, out, out into the water, down, down, dark, dark, I'm leaving.


-tn

Back in the Saddle...

Two days since the surgery and I'm back at work, fielding phone calls medicated to the gills, and just wanting to go home. Not home to the Blue House, or home even to Atwater, but home to her, to K. Dwellings are but four walls and possesions, while she is everthing, a life, a love, an eternity of souls and limbs intertwined. K has come into my life like sudden sun after a long storm - her arrival, like the blowing aside of the clouds, has warmed me to the last cell of marrow in my bones.

She played hookey yesterday, ignoring the swells and fresh breeze and perfect weather to spend her day nursing me back to health with a tenderness I'd call motherly if it weren't for the muck Freud made of that term. I'm falling, falling, falling, and loving every minute of it.

-tn

On a Lighter Note...

I have tendon repair surgury tomorrow, to repair the boutonniere deformity in my pinkie finger. I sustained the original injury a few months ago playing basketball and have been following doctor's orders to see if physical therapy alone would repair the tendon. Not a chance, we found out. And so tomorrow, I go under the knife.

Kinda had a shock on Friday at the anesthesiology screening when the anesthesiologist there informs me that I may (contrary to my prior understanding) be under general anesthesia for the procedure. The orthopedic surgeon I've been seeing told me this would require local anesthetic only. Oh, those crazy doctors...

-tn

Oh Fearless Leader

There's this gem from a local media outlet today:

"Iraq had a weapons program," Bush told reporters during a meeting of his Cabinet. "Intelligence throughout the decade shows they had a weapons program. I am absolutely convinced that with time, we'll find out they did have a weapons program," Bush said...

What a bold claim by the Bushster - "Iraq had a weapons program." Ya think? Geez, a few of my uncles and cousins out in Wyoming have a pretty threatening weapons program, we'd better "liberate" them while we still can!

I just want to point something out. Before this "war" began, most anti-war protestors had a common fear; that the Administration would use blatant (and easily disproven) lies to get us into the war, but that once the tanks and cameras were rolling, the American people would let the red, white, and blue wool be drawn over their eyes. Now the war has ended (or has it?) and we have Bush confirming that yes, that indeed was the plan:

Asked whether American credibility is at stake, Bush pointed to the outcome of the war, not the search for weapons of mass destruction. "The credibility of this country is based upon our strong desire to make the world more peaceful, and the world is now more peaceful after our decision," he said.

So, the world is more peaceful, you say, oh exalted leader? Then how come our soldiers are still over there dying? Was this "peace" worth the lives at least 5500 Iraqi civilians, at last count?

Anyway, here's what Merriam-Webster has to say about credibility:

Main Entry: CREDIBLE
Pronunciation: 'kre-di-bul
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin credibilis, from credere
Date: 14th century
1 : offering reasonable grounds for being believed

And here are two of my favorite quotes from Administration parrots:

"No one ever said that we knew precisely where all of these agents were, where they were stored," -- Condloeeza Rice, Meet the Press, June 8, 2003.

Oh really? What about when Rumsfeld said this:

"We know where they are, they are in the area around Tikrit and Baghdad and east, west, south and north somewhat." Donald Rumsfeld, ABC Interview, March 30, 2003.

Personally, I don't see the Administration offering reasonable grounds for being believed. Do you?

-tn

For more lies, clumsy backpeddling, and other wacky quotes, click here.

Happy Mondays

Did anyone get that little reference to one of the original Madchester bands of the same name? Didn't think any of you miscreants would, so here's your homework:

Go score some good drugs (like aspirin, or better yet, nyquil), rent 24-Hour Party People, and flashback to the mid-late 80's music scene in Manchester, England, where "Early gigs saw The Happy Mondays giving drugs away at the door to their fans."

Oh, the horror, the horror.

-tn

Barhopping with Grant

I want to tell you about a surprising, and cheap, form of therapy I discovered a few years back - namely, going to gay bars. Here's the skinny:

I used to work out with a gay dude (I'll call him Grant) I met at my gym, he was your typical Texan transplant: played football in high school, corn-fed, buff as all hell, deep voice, successful in business, and gay. Grant was new in town and always dragging me out to gay bars with him. He knew my sexual orientation but just wanted some company, someone to help him pick up guys, someone to rub hot oil on him, etc.

I found it hilarious, educational, and fun, being put in a hetero girl's shoes for a few hours and having the typically concrete gender roles we all take for granted flipped on their head. If you're a straight man and have never been to a gay bar, its like strolling through the meat section at Albertson's except the ground round smiles back at you, buys you drinks, and occasionally smacks you on the ass.

Anyway, Grant and I would walk into one of the local bars, get some beers, and start playing pool. He'd make eyes at the "hot boys" and immediately, like sharks smelling blood, a few would stroll up and hit on us. In terms of high pressure salesmanship, Tijuana street vendors had nothing on these guys, who exhibited cunning, Napoleonic strategies in their approach. They'd divide Grant and I up in hopes of conquering. In fact, I've stolen this technique and employed it with my own friends in bars, to divide potentially intimidating groups of females into more manageable ones and twos.

Grant always made it clear right off the bat that I was straight (maybe to clarify the fact that he was single, maybe for my own comfort) and the unfailingly forward guys would nonetheless shower me with flattery and marvel at what a "cool straight guy" I was.

One guy was thankful to have someone to talk sports with and complained that "these fags [ed: his words, and he was gay - a problematic reclamation of a once negative epithet similar to the hip-hop community's problematic reclamation of the n-word] can't talk baseball with me," whereupon we talked baseball for awhile. More specifically, we talked shit about eachother's teams - he being a Dogder bum, and I a die hard SF fan (go Giants), but, like all good shit-talkin', our exchange was in good spirits. And more than once, upon learning I was straight, a guy would mention that he knew some models/actresses who were always looking for nice, straight friends of his, and he'd hand me his card.

I have to admit, its an uplitfing experience, and one that women get much more often than men in our society, to receive unabashed compliments from strangers. I always left the bars feeling more secure, confident, and happier than when I went in. "Damn right I look good," I'd think to myself. That could've just been the effects of the free drinks I'd been handed, though.

So, my advice to all you straight guys out there who are feeling a little down on yourself - go to a gay bar, have some drinks and chat with the boys a little. It'll do wonders for your confidence, and at the very least, it couldn't hurt. That is, unless you forget the KY.

-tn

I Want My Comeuppance!

I'm only gonna say this once (blatant lie), so listen up, and listen good [feeling like a high school football coach, sans toothpick, sweaty armpits, and perma-wedgie, this morning]:

Being the social outcast that I am, bereft of all human contact outside of my trips to the office, Wal-Mart, and 7-11, my fragile ego needs blog feedback like a car salesman's shiny coiffure needs Dep gel -- that is, to survive. This is where you come in.

After every article/thought/posting on this lovely little space christened "Cool Like You", you, the reader, can post comments to prove you live up (or down) to such a bold claim. No longer do you have to passively take this excrement I call writing lying down. YOU CAN FIGHT BACK, IN KIND!!

Simply click on the word "Comments" which comes directly after each post, and a pop-up window pops up in which you can post biting invective and/or glowing praise. You can even peruse comments left by other brave readers and exchange in witty banter at my expense, right there in the comfort of your popup window.

After a hard day (or 10 minutes) of writing, I'm usually hungry for my just deserts, so sock 'em to me!

-tn

P.S. You can also email me by clicking on "teddy" where it says "by teddy" after each post, or if that doesn't work, just email me at the address up there in the "About Me" section.

Triton Embarrassment

Horrifyingly sophomoric stuff like this doesn't exactly make me proud of my alma mater:

"Hundreds of copies of a publication portraying Muslim women as sexual objects and ridiculing Jews, Jesus, and Palestinians were distributed at UC San Diego yesterday and Wednesday, prompting sharp condemnations by the administration and student leaders.

The 16-page publication, partially titled "An Entertainment Magazine for the Islamic Man," features crudely drawn images of Islamic men and women naked, masturbating, and having sex while facing Mecca. One of the few pages that doesn't feature sexually explicit material lists a fake 8-step guide to mail a bomb. The San Diego Union-Tribune is not running the magazine's full title because of its vulgarity...."

Dollars to doughnuts that those dumbasses at the Koala are responsible. That rag used to be funny when I was a freshman and they had creative satire aimed at everything pop culture.

Kids these days.

-tn

Talking With Myself

A little self-dialogue, auto-colloquy, schizophrenia, what-you-will, that's bouncing around in the attic today:

Q: Why is it that, when bar hopping, I ALWAYS (OK, not always, just once, last night) end up flirting with the model-hot girls on my way out the door, as my friends are sidewalk lounging, waiting impatiently?

A: Because I'm drunk by that point, and after two pitchers, all the girls I flirt with look model-hot.

Gotcha. Thanks for clearing that up.

Frenetic Friday Fun

Holy penultimatality, Batman, its Friday morning!

Hair-slicked, smile-plastered host, in a heesy 50's-era voiceover: Yooouuu know what that means, don't you, kids? [ed: that sparked memories of Mr. Rogers - nostalgia is encroaching on Friday's insouisance like aphids on my roses - back, nostalgia, BACK I say!!]

Chorus of childvoices unified in response: Friday morning, YAAAAY!! It means you're hungover and too listless to properly supervise our internet surfing. YAAAAAY, its random links time!

Tiny childwhisper: he's asleep now, lets get crazy!:

Put some Manu Chao on the turntable, quick! It'll help us learn Spanish. And French. Or just English. No, I mean English English, you know, like "keep yur hair'on, guvna."

Chuckles, chuckles, chuckles, all at the expense of those darn repubs here, aaand here.

Shhhhh, politics wakes the sleeping giant; back to mindless fun!! YAAAAAY!

Ooooh, look, a quiz on Vin Diesel! He's sooooo dreamy!

Hey, lets go brothel hopping!!

Waking: What was that, kids, did I hear someone mention brothelling? Well, its time for the word of the day anyhow. Today's word of the day is alpenglow. Can anyone use alpenglow in a sentence?

Ooh, I can, I can: Mommy says that her red face after she and daddy play naked wrestling is the alpenglow of love!

Winner!

-tn

Squawkbox? More like...

UnreliableP.O.S.box. Squawkbox.com is the "provider" of my comments service, and their website is down...so no comments until they're back up...you can still email me at teddynutmeg at hotmail dot com.

-tn

UPDATE: Comments are back up. Praise Squawkbox, praise them with great praise...

Will Paint for Food -- Art and AI

This blurb regarding an upcoming Robot Art show, and the Artbots website make me wonder if robots will ever replace human artists on anything approaching a large scale (I'm not really wondering that, but hey, its decent conversation fodder) and add to the bourgeoning jobless rate? If people like Herr Artiste (close friend of yours truly) are starving artists now, what the heck will they be when robots start selling paintings?

It also brings up questions surrounding AI and creative control, copyrights, artistic integrity, etc, leading to the biggest (IMO) issue out there, namely, will sentient computers/robots ever have rights similar to those of humans?

The whole intersection of philosophy, mathematics, and of course technology, in the field of AI is waaaaay interesting to me. But then again, 1) I'm a huge nerd, and 2) I've read cool sci-fi/cyberpunk by guys like William Gibson. If you've never heard of him, check out the book Neuromancer. Read the first couple pages (or as much as you want), here, and then go buy the book. Better yet, borrow it from your local library.


For no real reason, other than education (its in my blood, I swear) here's a link to a really smart guy's answers to basic AI questions, dumbed down for us non-geniuses.

-tn

Gardening...

I installed the gardenbox last night, laid gravel down first for drainage, and then laid 16 cubic feet of potting soil. Man, I love the smell of fresh soil, and the feel of it in my hands. So earthy, wholesome, organic. Yum.

Its funny, I got the gardening bug from a recent re-read of the Lord of the Rings. I don't want to ruin it for anybody, but the last chapter just made me want to move to the Shire and have a big fat garden of my own.

I guess a 6' by 6' plot filled (yes, that's wishful thinking) with herbs and vegetables will have to do...sigh.

-tn

The Matrix Has You...

And this ain't no movie, but the Pentagon's futuristic version of boots n' utes which (they say) should be field ready by 2010. Peronally, I see elements of William Gibson's and Robert Heinlein's (to name just two) sci-fi envisioning in the descriptions. Check out the full article. It describes the wired "Scorpion" battle suit of the future and its incorporation into an overgrown uber-network of drone planes, robot tanks, satellites, and of course the command center. A few choice passages:

"That system envisions lighter tanks, powerful computer networks and larger fleets of remote-controlled airplanes and robotic ground vehicles. The first battalion could field the system by late 2010 -- about when the Scorpion ensemble would be ready to plug human soldiers into the network...[emphasis added]

Concepts on the drawing board include chameleon-like camouflage that mimics surroundings to make a soldier almost invisible...

At Massachusetts Institute of Technology's Institute for Soldier Nanotechnologies, a government-sponsored lab that opened on May 22, research could lead to external skeletons carrying artificial muscles that would make soldiers faster and stronger, said Paula Hammond, a research team leader...

Another project at MIT envisions thin films that would monitor a soldier's breath for exposure to toxins, then signal the system to release the appropriate medicine, according to Hammond."

I'm feeling conflicted about this. The adolescent, gaming, anime-niac in me is in awe of the flat out coolness of this application of technology -- I mean, chameleon suits and strength enhancing exoskeletons?? SWEET!!

But I'm also pretty skeptical. I mean, "plug soldiers into the network" has a technocreepy sound to it, although I'm generally a fan of technology.

And the last sentence I quoted mentions a project to add medicine-administering capabilities to the suit, which gets into dangerous territory, i.e. allowing a suit wired into all kinds of remote networks and AI drones to release performance enhancing drugs into a soldier's system. I wonder how the Pentagon tests something like that....

-tn

Off to Meetup

Well, I'm off to go meet other Howard Dean supporters at our designated location. Wish me luck!

-tn

How Does Teddy's Garden Grow?...

Not very well, yet. Herr Artiste and I just finished building a gardenbox for my miniscule side-patio, and I'm planting sometime this week. Tomatoes, bell peppers, basil, lavender, mint, etc...this will be my first horticultural adventure, and I'm fully prepared to watch everything I plant wither and die, slowly, while I fumble about ineffectually with watering cans, trowels, and fertilizer.

-tn

Punks. Quizzes. Smiles.

Happy Wednesday! I awoke this morning fresh from another unusually vivid dream; I wonder what's triggering this recent slumberous lucidity? It couldn't be the crack habit I just kicked, could it? Naaaah...

So last night, dreamland was good ole' Atwater High School, where I was in a student-like capacity of some sort, but the kids there were just that: kids, and I mean young, like 10 or 11 years old. I know, I know, kids that young don't go to high school. I am aware of that fact. IT WAS A DREAM. Stay with me.

When I say I was in a student-like capacity, I mean that although I was there, and even attending classes, I know I wasn't a student; I'm always myself in my dreams, although I am in bizarre situations doing random things, my current identity stays relatively intact.

So, the first thing I can remember is going into the third-world-style bathroom, except dirtier and far more foul smelling, to attend to my urinary needs. On my way through the graffiti covered door, one of the aforementioned 11 year olds runs right into me and gives my stomach a healthy shove (he couldn't reach my chest).

I look down into his snarling mask of a face and from the crack in his sneer, he spits more vulgarities at me in 5 seconds than I use in a month (and I'm 25 and not afraid of a little fucking shit here and there) before strutting by.

I say a few parting pleasantries to his back and let my bladder take me inside the bathroom, where it finds a deliciously free stall in which it can empty itself in privacy. I'm unzipping, trying in vain to ignore the turd-encrusted toilet, when I overhear some prepubescent voices saying things no prepubescent voice should ever say. I'm a bit blurry on details, but here's what I can recall:

Voice one, tough-sounding and squeakily high pitched: Nah, muthafucka, I got the shit right here. Pay up.

Voice two, slightly deeper but somewhat less tough: Man, fuck that!! You owe me from last time, shorting my ass like that, you owe me!

Squeaker: Mother fucker. The shit is right here [he drops something down onto the back of the toilet, next to where the pipe fits into the wall; its a small ziploc bag rolled into a 1-inch cylinder, the tint of green visible beneath the layers of rolled plastic). You want it?

Deeper: Yeah, I'll take it, punk ass, but you still owe me. [green bills drop down on the white ceramic, on top of and perpendicular to the faintly glimmering green plastic bag of weed]

Squeaker: Whatever. [a too small hand scoops up the bills, too small feet make almost no noise as they patter out, and the stall and bathroom doors slam in succession]

Deeper: Motherfucker. [another small hand snatches the bag and he scoots out discreetly. neither one washed their hands on the way out, I notice]

I stand spread-eagled over the toilet, frozen in shock while holding my penis -- unable to pee for trying to reconcile the fresh images and sounds with my previous experience with 10 year olds who just want to have water fights and spill kool-aid everywhere. A rusty bell clangs somewhere in the distance, scaring the piss out of me, and I realize I'm late for class.

I'm standing outside, looking in the window of a darkened classroom which must be mine. Through a crack in the cheap nylon drapes I can see they're watching a movie. I get the distinct feeling that this is the same classroom in which I had social studies back in 9th grade. I walk in just as the projector clackity-clacks its way through the end of the reel. Strangely, I know what they just watched (maybe I caught part of it while standing outside), and as the teacher hands out a pop quiz, I'm both nervous and confident that I'll do fine - if I can only remember that one detail just out of reach, just on the periphery of consciousness.

Empty-handed, backpackless (sin mochila, for you Spanish speakers) and sweaty, I borrow a torn half-page of ruled binder paper and a chewed pencil and I stare at the scrawled quiz question, delineated in severe chalk slashes against the dusty dark green of the chalkboard. The letters were written in a hand so heavy that the chalk left thick white clumps on the edges of the straight lines; the fat horizontal topline of the capital "T" is a deep white powdery trench.

I sit, struggle, and sweat. I know I know the answer. If I can only remember. Remember. Remember. Remember. I think on in frustration.

As I simmer away in furiously forced cognition, memories pound into my head like angry surf on the rocks at Big Sur -- the opening of a hundred lockers, going to a hundred football games and spirit rallies, sitting in a thousand classrooms, glancing into a thousand sets of sparkling flirtatious eyes, feeling my heart beat quicker as a thousand cute lips curl up at the edges and a thousand eyelids bat coquettishly.

I didn't remember the answer to that quiz, in my dream last night, but that makes sense. Because now, when I think back through all my years of schooling, for all the pop quizzes I aced, what I remember most are not the answers, not a) Benedict Arnold, b) The Raven, c) Prague, or even d) the Teapot Dome Scandal; what I remember most are the shining eyes and smiling faces of all the beautiful girls I ever had the privilege of sitting next to, and all the sweet secret moments we saved from the dullness of the average schoolday.

And here, now, sitting in my cubicle in the third story of the building on the hill, making $X0,000 dollars a year, all I want is to be back in one of those classrooms, staring into those eyes and feeling my heart beat faster as those lips smile, just for me.

-tn


UPDATE: This piece can also be found at The Literary Brothel. Thanks to Klaus and Charlie for their continued support.

Dreaming Egdar Allen?

I had a weird dream last night. I was vacationing on an island or mountainous beachfront area, greenery everywhere, and I was surrounded by generica spring breakers; but we were all at camp. We were staying in these little cabin-style dorms with cheap metal frame single beds with springs that squeaked. I seem to remember typical spring break fare in the form of beer and flesh. Every once in awhile there would be a huge rumbling noise, and a hole would suddenly appear in a random spot in a part of the camp, and someone would dissappear into it. Then the earth around the hole would kind of fall back in on itself and the hole would be covered in.

Creepy, and I haven't even seen Holes.

But it didn't end there; the holes eventually got bigger and bigger. And bigger. Until huge cracks began criscrossing the entire island, the ground itself took on a waterbed-like consistency and entire parts of camp were swallowed up. I remember the vague intensity of struggle something, of fighting, somehow, an ethereal evil, Charybdis-like evil, but one far less tangible.

I remember looking down into one of these huge fissures, and looking down, down, down, into what looked like molten lava at the core of the earth. The horrifying raw power of the core, of the force of whatever was causing these great fissures, the profundity of the depth, the sublime beautfy of the abyss, reminded me a of a great Poe story I read recently, A Descent into the Maelstrom. Money passage from Descent:

"In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury ; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied convulsion - heaving, boiling, hissing - gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except in precipitous descents.

In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination, took unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly - very suddenly - this assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray ; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some
forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven."


-tn

Howard Dean and Meetup

For those of who who don't know, Howard Dean is one of the Democratic presidential hopefuls, and IMO, he blows away the competition.

Dean's campaign is totally grassroots, using this website, to allow people to organize on their own, in their own town. It rules. I hope you check out the site, and sign up for a meeting near you!! What have you got to lose? I personally find it exhilarating to go to the local meetings, meet other people from your town, and to feed off other people's excitement. Also, I really, really don't want George Bush to buy his way back into the White House so he can pass more tax cuts for the rich at the expense of beneficial social programs. Why should money (or more specifically, who has or does not have money) decide the future of the USA?

Please, please, take a few minutes to see where Dean stands on key issues, and click here.

In case you need a recap or are too lazy/busy to click on the link and do some reading (and that's okay, too, =)), Dr. Dean (he's a medical doctor), was Governor of Vermont for 11 years, during which period Vermont has seen some great gains. Dean's fiscally responsible leadership allowed him to implement some great social programs in the small, rural state. In terms of health care, he believes in universal and affordable coverage, and he has a detailed national plan for it. 96% percent of all Vermont children now have health coverage, as well as 92% of all adults in the state.

In terms of education, he believes that state and local school boards should have more control over their classrooms than the Federal government. As governor, he fully funded too many education programs to list, but my favorites are the Interactive Learning Network (wiring rural schools w/ high speed broadband and videoconferencing), and the other programs to increase technology education in Vermont schools. I also dig the teacher mentoring and financial assistance programs for future teachers.

Dean believes in the sovereignty of state's rights on issues such as gun control.

He believes in a woman's right to choose.

He was, from the beginning, loudly opposed to the Bush Administration's slimy justification for War in Iraq.

Here's a GREAT website that tracks quotes from Bush and his people regarding Iraq's supposed weapons of mass destruction, and it lists them in a timeline order.


Howard Dean has been the strongest voice, among the Democratic candidates, to criticize the Bush Administration's bald-faced lies to the American people. The others are TOO SCARED for their political futures. Personally, I don't want to settle for a Democratic candidate who is too scared to stand up for the truth and do the right thing. I want a guy like Dean! I want to be able to feel good about casting my vote!


-tn

I Am A Giant Nerd

I've developed a keen (what a dweeb - what 25 year old, besides me, says keen? Seriously?) relationship with right-leaning gentleman (I'll call him Bry) at work, and we have no end of poking fun at eachother's precarious policial/ideological positions, which I like to describe as slanted and enchanted. Aside from being a horribly clumsy reference to one of my favorite bands', that is, Pavement's, genrebusting 1992 album, I find those terms a bit more fun than the old "left-" or "right-leaning" standbyes. One of our favorite email activities (yes, we're nerds) is a little game we like to call the bloviation challenge. I won (even though its not really a competition) the most recent BC, with this little gem:

"Honestly, quite apart from eliciting insouciance, I find our epistolary tete-a-tete wholly innervating in regard to my heretofore torpid lexical sensibilities."

Strong, strong words, I know, but Bry had forced my hand with:

"Whatever the case, I am quite pococurante to your linguistic jabs."

'Pococurante?!?!' I read it again, slackjawed, and said it to myself a few times in disbelief, fully nonplussed by this masterful stroke of simple but devastaving bloviation, but I mustered the troops and shot back the aforementioned winner, and Bry had no choice but to fly the white flag thus, in the typically colloquial admission of defeat:

"DUDE! I am, like, way out-classed by your most excellent bloviation."

Heh, heh, heh, Ted = 1, Bry = 0. [ed: that is not really the score but this is my blog, dammit!]

-tn

Let There Be Blog...

Look Ma, my very own blog! Who would've thought that a small town kid like me could one day have his own private space on the internet that ANYBODY IN THE WORLD can read. Tres cool, no?

Since this is my first posting EVER (think Simpsons' Comic Book Guy - you know, the fat guy with a pony tail? Aw, never mind, Mom, you NEVER get post-1987 pop culture references), it will no doubt go down as the dumbest post in the history of blogs, um, EVER. Regardless, I wanted a space in which to share a few things with, well, everybody, but with you, mi familia, most of all. Things shared may be but are not limited to:

1) My appreciation for all things thought-provoking, mind-blowing, quirky, random, funky, useful, etc, that can be found on the internet,

2) Events in/stories from mi vida sana -- and I'd like you to share yours, too! (see invitation email),

3) My wholly unresearched, unqualified opinion on political happenings,

4) Rantings,

5) Ravings,

6) Nigh pointless and rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth diatribes,

7) My hopelessly bucolic (hey, I like that, instead of "I'm a hopeless romantic, I'm gonna start saying, "I'm a hopeless bucolic"-- even if bucolic isn’t really a noun) aesthetic sensibility,

8) My feeble grasp of the Spanish language (que tonto soy!),

9) Anything and everything.

OK, as I hate "funny" lists and wanna-be funny lists even more, a rapidly growing sense of self-loathing is forcing me to stop. That, and the fact that I have a casserole burning to a crisp in my oven, yea, even as I type.

Wow, casserole is dangerously close to asshole. Never noticed that. I'll have to be careful saying "my casserole [read: asshole] is burning, or "wow, Judy, your casserole [read: asshole] tastes great," or even "Mom, how much tuna should I put in my casserole [you get the point]."

-tn

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