Okay, everybody at the same time...What tha fu*k?

In a quick attempt to find pics of Muzzy, the lovable clock-eating cartoon that helped me grasp the Spanish tongue via first-period videos in high school, I stumbled upon this website.

Mind you, it's not for the faint of heart, but nothing says innoncence like a tank-top clad Hawaiian kid holding a .357 Magnum next to a wild boar killed alongside members of his clan.

I'm not against hunting, just kids brandishing hand cannons.

In other news, Flagpole is rebuilidng their website, so the only article available online at the moment is "Metal Chairs & Middle Fingers." The others may/may not be back for a while. If you are here specifically to see them, contact me at the e-mail above.

Michael Stipe is Stalking Me

For a long time, I thought I would never be exposed to Michael Stipe, that I was simply a minute too late and a pub too mundane to cross paths with him. The strangest of people would say they saw him; professors, columnists, even Carlos, my friend's gigolo Columbian roommate from freshman year.

In the past year, I've had three Stipesodes. One was a face-to-face collision (nearly) as Mikey was leaving Bombay, a vegetarian restaurant next to my apartment building. The last two have happened in the past two nights. The first of which took place Saturday at the 40 Watt, with Stipe really looking like he was in a music video (sans blue eyeband from whatever their last video was and stupid hat a la "Shiny Happy People"). The second being last night, at Hot Corner, a coffe shop. Buddy has style.

The only thrill is knowing that coincidence pointed its picky pistol at me. And that I may just be getting the same oh so sweet travel patterns as Herr Stipe.

Hugh Hefner is a pig/Hire me, Mr. Hefner

While I understand my current occupation in food service (as so deftly pointed out by Pete McCommons here) will end in two weeks, it is so difficult for me to break away from the title of "student" and into the limbo levitating hell that is "unemployed" or "between jobs."

Yet unlike the field of law, where a prospect is considered by his LSAT score and high marks, or in fishery management, where internships and bravado are deemed desirable, the vast and schizophrenic playing field of journalism looks for clips. And in an article I am currently writing, I held my tongue as not to offend that man in his jammies, Hugh Hefner.

I won't get too in depth to the background of my article, but I compare a nudist to Hugh Hefner, physically and in behaviour (oh so British) and mannerism. However, I pepper the comparison with the fact that this man is not a self-designated elitist like Mr. Hefner. (As you may recall, the Hef decided after writing the manifesto that is the Playboy Philosophy to live the life--sure he could have fallen on his face with it, but he elevated himself to actually become his magazine and the smartest and most visible marketing tool I have ever seen.)

Mr. Hefner (now I show respect) will almost assuredly never see this article. I may not even use the comparison. But it made me wince; the idea of having to look into the eyes of an elderly man who had bedded countless beauties, broke through an addiction to speed and created one of the most lasting pieces of journalism and social commentaries of the 20th century. It made me wonder if I could even muster the words, "yo, Hef...no offense."

I'm sure I won't have to. Tuesday toast to not knowing if I ever will.

Good Morning, Mountain Boy

Got back at or around 9:00 pm last night after spending a much-needed weekend with the ladyfriend in Western North Carolina. Time was spent here, here and here.

While up there we relaxed, drank wine, became obsessed with Lance Armstrong, battled the world's most gregarious mallard and basked in each other's glory. It was productive and fleeting and everything I could ever want. Expect pics of the two days soon.

Today and tomorrow is entirely devoted to article time. Here's to ending the dependence of heavy-eyed truckers on I-85 nudie bars.

In an Army of Writers, Everyone's a Turncoat (Slate)

or

Writers Should be Born With Knives in Their Backs

I'll admit that David Brooks initially cast a spell on me. There was just something about his writing (pre-New York Times) that had a flow to it, a certain eloquence, a rambling quality that all meshed in the end. His pieces for The Atlantic, most notably this one, were on point. "Bobos in Paradise," on first read, was an excellent book, although in hindsight my take on it is clouded by his exposed generalizations.

But he has fizzled. Slate's David Plotz has it right when he says that Brooks doesn't have enough material to do two columns a week, especially for a widely viewed behemoth like the Times. I think he is overworked and out of his element.

So right now everyone--including the people who praised him little over a year ago--are lambasting him, saying everything short of "resign." It seems when you make it to one of the many pinnacles in life's endeavors, any effort declared unworthy or insufficient is immediately followed by that six letter word. Be it the presidency, columnist, birthday clown, whatever.

For his sake, this whole situation may die down, at which point he may step down and head back to The Weekly Standard. Or he can just say "damn the [critical] torpedoes, full speed ahead!" After all, it is there, in his own little world, wearing blinders to his critics, where Brooks shines.

You archie bastards, pass that spliff befo' it gits lingering!!! (The Sun-UK)

The Portuguese police must have a soft, mellow side to allow Brits (and I'm guessing other nationalities) to smoke pot during a soccer game against rival France. Hoping to curb outbreaks of hooliganism, more time will be spent cleaning up nacho trays than teeth, and chants will be somewhat unenthusiastic.

Hasn't the fever pitch been one of soccer's (I'm sorry, football's) biggest draws? The bonfires, the confetti, the roman candles? Will such activities still go on?

I'm sure they will. Not everyone in the crowd will be blowing ganja, and there most likely will still be some pockets of disturbance. But you have to hand it to the Portuguese; if you can't beat them with discipline, please them with tolerance.

And pray to God that methheads don't sneak in among the potheads. Then all hell will break loose. Happy Sunday.

Okay, Kit, rocket boosters to the keg party! (CNN)

As reported in the news, although oddly not receiving as much as talk as Pres. Reagan's passing, the upcoming G-8 Summit or D-Day, David Hasselhoff was arrested over the weekend on suspicion of driving under the influence of alcohol.

This is mildly entertaining because he is "one of those" celebrities, the likes of which include John Stamos, Bob Saget --well, okay the whole cast of Full House-- Jaleel White, Pee Wee Herman, Rip Taylor (see yesterday's entry) and so on. These are entertainers and personalities who had the misfortune of having a memorable role they could not escape. While they may have been extremely nice and good hearted people, they struck a chord with the general public as just being weird. Therefore when they are discovered doing something human (DUIs, shoplifting, hell, pleasuring one's self in a porn theater), they seem incredibly tragic.

And here I am adding fuel to the fire. Hang in there, David. Hang in there.

Couldn't Kit stop him? 

This is a test, using a photo of someone with a lot of luck and a quick ejector seat hand.  

Celebrities are sending me e-mail, the strangest of which comes from still-budding star Hugh Jackman. I never open his messages; he's changed. His subject line usually informs me that "she pays rent with puzzzzzyy/81625" or that he has spyware he wants me to try out. Again, he's changed. It used to be about the stage and screen.

Someone out there creates spam. I hardly think a computer is possible of producing sentences that are (for the most part) legible and clear. And if so, what do these people look like. Are they really hackers in Indonesia or Hong Kong, who smoke cigarettes and only get the most random names of actors whose identities they feel safe to assume? How on Earth am I going to know Hugh Jackman. I might as well know Rip Taylor.

Tomorrow I head back to Athens, or perhaps tonight. My dear O! sweet dear has finished Maymester and is in Charleston/back to Raleigh. Thank God for cars. And planes. And phones. And hearts that beat hard for a person you love.

There be many a rude bastard in them there hills, or more specifically, them there streets of Athens. Be they customer or stranger, hobo or lollygagger, they find a way into your life somehow or another.

Case in point: I shan't say where I work, as that would not be kosher in this realm. For myself or my employer. There's one guy who comes in and insists on odd combos of paper money and coins, because he uses a moneyclip and one of those plastic coin purses. He likes to keep the girth to a minimum: big bills and as few ones as possible.

Moneyclip Flip Spiceland starts tossing me random coins, coins that have nothing to do with the purchase (total: $4.32; he hands me $5.47). His backwards bartering baffles me--and he snaps at me for it. Doublestitch your pockets or get a debit card.

Sorry for the simple rant. Useless, yes. Unnecessary, yes. Will it ever happen again? Yes.

Went to Helen over this Memorial Day Weekend with AW, who day after day continues to fascinate me and make me ever more thankful. How she puts up with me I have no idea. Perhaps it's the incredibly thin wallet I carry. Or the fact that I know how to live life with change!!! Anyhoo...it's rare when a person can make my heart sour with just a glance.