Jewelry merchants and car salesmen share the same circle of Hell. There, they wear pinkie rings that blind them and smoke endless Camel Lites that burn their lungs while swilling down coffee that's made from the tears of customers they've ripped off. They are tormented by the wails of frustrated people who just want a simple answer on how much their wares costs. They are beaten with their pocket calculators and those pieces of paper that show the various options for payment. And then, when they go to the cafeteria there in their circle of Hell, they are forced to negociate for their sustenance and are stymied at every turn, until their patience wears thin and they leave to go back to their cells where the whole process begins again.

I pray for the day when I can walk into a car dealer and see some clerk putting the Real Absolute Price for the cars. I pray for the day when jewelry dealers tell you straight up that the materials cost X, the manufacture costs Y, and the amount he needs to make a profit is Z, and the whole things adds up to a price that doesn't include a twenty-minute discussion on the philosophy and meaning of diamonds that comes straight from the bowels of the marketing department of DeBeers.

That day, unfortunately, will never come, so I will have to make do as best I can, which isn't all that well, actually. I can ride my bike and take the bus, but damned if I can figure out a substitute for the jewelry. I'm afraid I will have to give in. The galling thing is that while I know I'm getting ripped off, I have no idea how much I'm getting ripped off.

Filed under: Spleen Venting






    

More days than not, I feel hopeful. It's a light, airy feeling, one that carries me through the day. It's like spring sunlight, or bread that's just come out of the oven. It's energizing, a feeling that I can go on forever.

Sometimes, though, I come back to earth, and then I get pulled down below the surface. I am trapped in muck, down in the hole, wondering how my shoes got full of water.

(I do wonder if this means I'm ready to talk to my doctor about whatever the latest mood-enhancing meds that are being advertised in those dippy commercials. I hope not. I don't even like taking NyQuil.)

I've noticed the way these moods are reflected in the quality and quantity of my writing. I know that if I get angry about something (and we're talking just simmering anger, not you-killed-my-family-and-dishonored-a-Shaolin-temple blinding fury), I tend to be prolific. Same goes when I'm happy (though not oh-sweet-mystery-of-life-at-last-I-found-you happy). It's not all good, but I hit my targets more times than not.

The key is figuring how to get my brain and heart to operate at the same time.

Filed under: Scribbling






    

My housemate has a substance abuse problem: every month or so, he goes to Best Buy and comes home with around $200 worth of DVDs. Normally, I wouldn't mind, since he's very non-discriminating in his tastes (which is why all five seasons of Friends, plus the “Best Of” sets, are sitting on the rack next to my Rollins and anime. Jebus), but sometimes he gets stuff that's really, really good. He's brought home Buffy, The Simpsons, Band of Brothers, and best of all, The Sopranos. Or, rather, worst of all.

See, the problem is that Michel brings home this good stuff, and I'm compelled to watch it, all of it, all at one throw. I come home from work, make dinner, and proceed to watch four or five hours of television. Granted, it's really, really good television, but there's no denying that my ass is on the couch rather than in my desk chair or my reading chair or just plain off the couch and off at the track. It's excellent stuff, and I'm drawn to it, like a Seattlite to a triple latte with soy milk. I know I have a problem, and, dammit, I don't want to fix it.

The good news is that I'm about three episodes away from finishing season four of The Sopranos. The bad news is that Super Extended Grow-Taproots-Out-Of-My-Ass Edition of The Two Towers should arrive some time tomorrow.

My name is Adam, and I am a video addict.

Filed under: Spleen Venting






    

Dear Mom-

I have no problem with you reading this page. Hell, I'm glad you do, if only so you know I'm alive and typing and not buried under a pile of PowerBar wrappers in the middle of my living room while The Sopranos plays on infinite repeat. It saves on stress.

But I have one request: please, for the love of all that's holy, do not click on the links at the bottom of this entry.

See, there's this uptight Senator from Pennsylvania who's, how you say, tolerance challenged. He wants to keep gay people from having equal rights under the law. He wants to keep women from getting access to safe, legal abortions. He doesn't like contraception. He's one of those scarily religious people who also happens to be a federal lawmaker for the party in power.

So, while I can go and fight him by donating to NARAL and Planned Parenthood and by making sure he and his party are thrown to the curb like the un-American swine they are, I also need to blow off a little steam. I need to create some mischief. I need, to paraphrase Eric Stratton, rush chairman of Lamba Tau Chi, to go out and commit a stupid and futile gesture.

So, I'm doing that by putting up the links at the bottom of the page. By doing so, I hope to make it so that every time someone types in the name of this frightening creep, the page to which these links go will pop up at the top of the list, rather than his web page in the Senate. I hope to link his name with something that is gross, disgusting, and absolutely purile. While it's not something obscene, like, say, pictures of Madam Esmerelda & Her Multi-Talented Armadillos, it's still pretty nasty. I know you're a tough woman, but, really, you don't need to click on the links. Tomorrow I'll go back to misusing punctuation and misspelling words, as per usual.

Thank you. I love you.

Yours,
-A.

Santorum

Rick Santorum

Senator Rick Santorum

Senator Santorum

Man on Dog

Filed under: Spleen Venting






    

Note to the good people who wrote the DMCA and the CSS: fuck you and the horses you rode in on.

Yes, I know you guys need to protect your investments. I know you're scared out of your minds about losing money with DVD piracy. I can appreciate that. But do you have to punish me? Why aren't you going after the big pirates instead of making life hell for little guys like me?

Lemme explain: Jamie wanted to use clips from “The Matrix” for the Tri Club year-end video. You know, make a little movie with Tri Clubbers talking with Morpheus and Neo, that kind of thing. With iMovie, it would've been a snap. Only problem was getting raw footage.

We tried hooking up Jamie's DV camera to the DVD player, but we kept getting a signal that said “COPY INHIBIT.” Whether the devices were able to talk to each other, or if the DVD was sending out a signal in its decoded info, I don't know. All I know is that it was frustrating as hell.

So, okay. We don't need really sharp footage; we just need footage. How about making a videotape of the DVD, and then a DV tape of the VHS tape? Well, that doesn't work either. The signal was scrambled. It wouldn't decode.

So, you know what that left us with? Piracy. We had to scour Limewire to find a ripped version of “The Matrix.” We had to break the law to get at something we'd paid for, something that was certainly within the bounds of fair use, something that would've been shown to our club and never resold. I don't give a stony rat's ass what you say; I paid for that DVD legally, and that means I should be able to use what's on it. Instead, you've gone and broken my devices. You've pissed off a customer.

And now you're going to get away with the Broadcast Flag. You're going to cripple my hard drives and computers to make sure I can't go and copy something I've bought. You know what? Fuck you. Your right to protect your investments does not trump my right to geek. Keep your hands off my boxen!

P.S. And, oi, Apple! Fix your damned Quicktime player, wouldja? I should be able to play anything on my machine, right out of the box. I'm not paying for QT Pro until you make sure it can play AVIs, MPGs, DVXs, everything. So, same for your horse, too.

Filed under: Spleen Venting






    

This day used to be called Armistice Day.

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, everyone who'd been busy shooting and bombing and generally trying to make each other's lives miserable would put down their guns, step away from the cannons, and just stop. The War To End All Wars would be over. Armistice. (more…)

Filed under: Politics