Where's God when you need him?

Oh right, fighting Mel Gibson; nevermind.

The Cougar speaks & other things that interest me through my allegery medicine sponsored haze.

Open Letters. The letter itself reads better to the tune of "Life Goes On" but still. I guess that's just another person I have to start taking seriously "despite their hairstyle or ownership of oxygen bars. Fuck, if Snoop Dogg ever starts writing open letters to the Bush Administration I might have to stab myself. Sorry, no more Elliott Smith suicide shit, I promise. Poor, sad, crazy Elliott Smith.

Bumper Stickers. I've already said that my favorite bumper sticker, and winner of the scarlet "I" for ironic, is "Don't blame me, I voted for Nader!" Poor, sad, crazy Nader voters.

Suicide bombings. Poor, sad, crazy suicide bombers.

Assualt. Worth laughing at.

CCTV cameras. I didn't find them to be as Big Brother-y as most but then again I didn't really do anything worth zooming in to watch closer.

Carl with a K. There are other Karls out there.

And last, but not least, Cuba. Even from within the womb I supported lifting the travel ban.

Re-e-val

While reading Karl's essay in many parts regarding the suckyness of Bloomington, Indiana I was struck with a horrifying vision a la Great Expectations. Maybe Karl has inadvertently discovered the next great style geyser. What once was the urban-mish-mash of Seattle, Wash is now the trailer-parks of Alabama and will soon be known as hand-clapper sheik from Bloomington, Indiana. Shudder to think.

Newness

The inspiration for the title.
As for the work that has just begun: How does destroying the english language from the inside out sound? If that's not your morning beer howsabout this for work to begin doing? Maybe this?


Addendum:
In the order they appeared:
Those are Nora's shoes, circa 1997.
The English language has survived Shakespeare, James Joyce, Virgina Woolf, Norman Mailer, Dave Eggers, Strom Thurmond, and even George W. Bush and it will probably suffer greater tricksters, phrase-turners, po-mos, and fools in the future. I think the worst connection being made in language studies today is that this decline of formality means a decline in the rhetorical quality of speech. As if to say that a debate is totally without value so long as it resists the formality of Socrates. True, Bush's complete betrayal of the English language does obscure many of the issues he attempts to address but Bush is not speaking informally, he is speaking uninformedly...or whatever that word might be. Point being, he doesn't understand the language well enough to switch between formal and casual. All of Bush's inanity aside, the review does make a case for a kind of nostalgic fondness for language that is probably worth remembering, even if we decide that "whom" is worth discarding. Nostalgia can be a great grammatological epoxy, it helped Joyce create a "new" English and strengthened Mailer's rhetoric when it was called into play. It may not be a restoration of eloquence but sometimes nostalgia is all we can muster for Shakespeare. But it is important to acknowledge that nostalgia is a vaseline jar NOT a magnifying glass, it may be that the language of the past sounds more eloquent than the language of today but that's a trick of the ears as much as it is truth. Last thing about the review, I loved the end, particularly the comments "McWhorter himself certainly seems happy to abjure formality in his own prose. He obviously is a very smart guy, but a lot of the time he writes like a dumb one." Language-nerds are SO catty.
Wateraid is a really fantastic charity to remember when Christmas comes around.
RSF offers a series of breathtaking photo albums for sale on-line. Profit from the sale of these albums helps RSF fight the good fight.

When I speak, you nod and pretend to listen, quickly look away and excuse yourself citing something-or-other as the reason you have to leave.

Sarah sits perfectly still at the cafe table. Motionless and solitary like one of those urban sculptures that lurk in the atriums of larger city public libraries or outside mercantile exchanges. Lit cigarette in hand, hand inches from face, face tired from being a bit sad lately, a bit sad lately from being so far from home, home being where the heart is, the heart is beating beneath ribs, ribs expanding as she inhales from the lit cigarette in hand. For all of these connections she is a perfectly arranged rendition of a woman at the middle of twenties. She is a woman whom neighboring patrons would swear to be in regular attendance at the trendiest of cafes, the most learned of lunch tables, the best-read of parties, and the warmest of queen-sized beds. Holding her book or maybe the local newspaper, she rests her elbow on the table, the book's spine is cradled in her palm or the paper is folded smartly before her. She absently rotates the coffee cup atop its saucer with her smoking hand. Yesterday was a miserable yesterday and today is two boys richer in pocket. Thinking about Boy A and Boy B she begins to wonder what ever became of Boy pre-Boys A&B. And what of Boys before him? She knows that she must do something soon or else she will only have the memory of Boy pre-Boys A&B and the stinging regret of never knowing Boy A's favorite dirty word or the layout of Boy B's apartment. And yet, in the cafe, she sits still while students--wild in conversation--bang table tops, as businessmen and women exchanges meeting times, and as errant children totter on the tightrope routes traced in tile spreading out on the floor beneath her chair.

Say yes

Stabbing yourself, to death. I can think of a few better things to do on a Tuesday night but then again, I'm not Elliott Smith. As thElizabeth properly notes (I capitalized), "I would say 'WTF' again, but who didn't see this coming?"


Addendum:
A really good obit, if such a thing can truly exist.

Is short content new content?

I ask myself that question everytime I check a website and find some newly posted paragraph obviously written only for the sake of having a new content for that day.

Parts of my life are worth mentioning

The BEST:
The best feature of the evening run? Spitting, by far spitting. Spitting over everything from looking athletic and thereby more attractive to the cool gear and springy shoes. Yes, spitting. Why is it the best feature of the evening run? Because it's an opportunity to be vulgar, gratuitously so, without really injuring, offending, or antagonizing anyone. Once that little hand sweeps over the nine and the porch lights switch to motion-sensing I am free to spit on everything below the horizon, except people and pets. It's not that I DO spit on everything it's just that I feel the awesome rush of the total liberty. In point of fact I only spit occasionally (3 or 4 times) and generally I spit three paces in front of my feet and nowhere else.
The WORST:
The worst part of driving to work is watching the Pontiac Silhouette mini-van with one of those "Children First" license plates speed past you in one of those neighborhoods that pepper their median strips with those ridiculously soccer-mommish "Slow for the children/Drive 35" lawn signs. Why is that the worst part? Because you know that one day you'll be driving 36 mph and the previously nonexistent speed trap will slam shut on you. Indignant and full of righteous fury as you get a ticket in full view of some fat-faced child whose seatbelt strains to accommodate his size as he presses his face against the tinted windows of his parents' Pontiac Silhouette. A close second: Knowing that the woman who caused a car accident and then proceeded to curse and howl at passerby and police officer alike, inside and outside of your place of employment, will be back on the road at some point.
The UNNGH, I COULD TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT:
Too numerous to name. I might suggest the following as a brief primer: A Florida Marlins World Series Win, a warm pretzel, a drink at the bar.
The THAT'S A SHAME THAT _X_ DID _Y_, I REALLY LIKED _X_ BEFORE _X_ DID THAT. :
You'd think that a guy who writes a column about having distance-from perspective would actually have it.
The I FIND THE HILTON SISTERS TO HAVE THE SAME CHARM AS ____:
Broken glass underfoot.

Bathroom tiles and other places my pen won't write

Howabout at work, or the bar, or at a show. Actually two of the three are also places where my phone is unlikely to be answered (unless you're in Madison or about to be). Part of it is that conversation is a pain in my ass when it's either being eavesdropped on by my boss or the people next to me at the show. The other part is that I can't always hear my phone at work (because it's generally turned to wiggle) and at shows it's hard to hear the people on the other end (because people at shows generally don't care about me hearing you). What this means to mean is that I'm sorry I couldn't talk to Sarah or Karl when they made calls to me this Friday. Sarah, Karl, sorry, I was out. This declaration officially brings the times and places I'm freely available for phone conversations down to 1. 1=January 9, 2006; around 7:00 CST.

But that's also the day the Mormons have picked for Judgment Day so I might be kind of busy, it's hard to say.

Also hard to say: I love you, I think you're annoying--alright I said it--you're just a little annoying when you ask if you're annoying over and over, I'm choking on a very large piece of gum, I lost your only child at the supermarket, I've eaten the last of the dodos, I've superglued my lips shut and never learned sign-language.

Anything you find hard to say?
Comments at the ready.