Guilt and Innocence: A daily primer

The man who wakes up in a ditch... then goes to work at Sotheby's

When I was trying to find something not about the hurrican to write my column on, I stumbled across this Guardian piece: The man who wakes up in a ditch... then goes to work at Sotheby's.

'I want to make people think about how much they consume that is not necessary,' said Sawyer, who has been living in the woods near the village of Lewknor, Oxfordshire, since June. 'I am trying to prove it is possible to do everything you normally do, maintaining a full existence, while cutting back. I have realised I can lead my life without television, carpets, sofa, electricity, chairs, tables, a fridge and a freezer.'

This guy is crazy and kind of my hero.

Make Frills, Not War

BoingBoing mentions a New York Times article on a woman who knitted a cozy for a missile: Make Frills, Not War.

Hmm. Maybe I can use my newfound crocheting skills to make a cover for a Tank or something.

Mallet-playing 3-year-old

There's a video floating around of a three-year-old playing a complicated xylophone piece.

What? This is considered genius? Just look at her techniue! All arms, completely uncontrolled heights. She has no dynamics, no tone. And where are the accidentals in the song she's playing? So, she's cute, I thought we asked more of a child geniuses these days!

Dreams of MIT

Okay, so I know I'm not a science person. And I know I'm not smart enough to get into MIT or survive there, but this Discover article, MIT Nerds: As dozens of Nobel Prize winners can attest, students at this university aren’t exactly normal, really made me wonder if I'm attending the right school. Honestly, MIT sounds like the most amazing nerd-heaven ever created. Look:

On East Campus, halls have names like Tetazoo and Putz and The Beast from the East. Some halls use house taxes to purchase explosives. “You can’t blow this building up,” Sam boasts. “We’ve tried!” No one smokes in Tetazoo (hall rule: No smoking unless you’re on fire), and most don’t drink much alcohol. No one watches TV. Corridors are shabby and covered with murals. Rooms are anything-goes building projects. Communal cats loll in hallways. At all hours of the night, people are likely to be taking things apart or putting them back together. Bedtime is about 5 a.m. campuswide, but on East Campus, the night hours are busier. This is where many of the MIT “hacks” originate.

“Hacking is breaking and entering, basically,” says Sam. Sometimes the mission is to explore an unknown basement or rooftop, but other hacks are highly elaborate. One of the most visible targets is the big dome in the center of the campus, where, famously, one morning in 1994 a life-size campus police car appeared, complete with a dummy cop and a box of doughnuts. On other occasions the dome was transformed into a giant beanie cap with propeller (1996), banded with a giant ring engraved with Elvish calligraphy from the opening of the Lord of the Rings movie (2001), and has served as pedestal for a full-scale model of Kitty Hawk, commemorating the 100th anniversary of the Wright brothers’ flight (2003). The ascent requires security evasion and a 20-foot ladder. “We have tried eight ways to Sunday—alarms, locks—to prevent kids from getting on the dome,” says Steve Immerman, assistant dean for student life. “We are immensely proud of them—it is part of who we are. At the same time, we have an explicit responsibility to ensure that students do not put themselves or the university at risk.”

Do you think they'll consider starting a J-school? Actually, they have a writing major and I'm not going to lie, I'm seriously tempted to transfer schools. Okay, not really. I just wish an English major equivalent of MIT existed. Actually, it probbably does. I just don't know where.

And my life flashes before my eyes...

From the NY Times story, When Death Means the Loss of an Archive:

Joe Nash's vast archive on black dance in America made him a leading figure in the dance world. It also may have helped kill him.

Last Thanksgiving, he stumbled over a pile of materials in his packed apartment in a West Harlem housing project. As he fell, he clutched at a stack of books, which tumbled down on him, according to Rashidah Ismaili AbuBakr, a friend who took care of him. Mr. Nash, a lecturer and essayist whose flowing African robes made him a familiar figure at dance events in New York, lay on the floor for five days, until friends heard his cry for help, she said. "Every single room was storage - his bathroom, his bedroom," Ms. AbuBakr said. "He just had enough space to lay down."

Mr. Nash never recovered from the fall, friends said; he died on April 13 at 85 of cardiovascular problems.

Anyone want to take bets on how likely it is that that's how I end up killing myself? I mean, I'm already well on my way to filling my entire living space with books, and I'm only eighteen. This man was eighty-five! Just imagine what I can collect in sixty-five years. (Article from Bookslut.)

Welcome to my Subconcious

I don't usually remember my dreams, since I don't get enough sleep to make it to that sleep cycle, I think. However, the dream I had last night was crazy and weird, so I'm going to share.

So, apparently in my dream, it was next semester and I was in my International Relations class. I remember this, though really the class had nothing to do about international relations. In the class we were discussing a family whose house had burnt down, and I think one of the children had been trapped in the house. Then we were watching a movie about it, and it was really gruesome, and the father and mother of this family ended up killing themselves because they felt responsible, which was in the movie in graphic detail.

Then I was sitting in what felt like a hotel room, or a very under decorated bedroom with a couple of friends, though I don't remember who, when the bed decided to burst into flames. I was watching it for awhile, and then said, "I think we should put it out," and started to try and smother it with a pillow, but it just kept spreading, and everyone else was just standing by, watching expressionless. Of course, I didn't seem very concerned about the increasing amount of flames either, just annoyed.

The next part I remember, I had my supposed International Relations textbook on my lap, but it was illustrated like the readers I had in elementary school. It was open to a page which had a bunch of different types of dogs on it. Only instead of being a breed chart, it had different parts of dogs, like their coats, ears, feet, tails, and eyes, and there was an equation to figure out what breed the dog was, based on its individual parts. I looked up and told Quan Lin (my dog) that she was something-or-other and she looked at me reproachfully and then walked away.

Finally, I was taking some sort of final exam and Jessica was there and I was really upset and I kept telling her I needed to buy a blue book, because I had my humanities exam at eleven, which was right after the exam we were taking. She just kept looking at me, amused, and I was getting more and more upset, until whatever exam we were taking was over, and I got up to leave, and Jessica turned to me, laughing, and told me that we had our International Relations exam next, not humanities, so I didn't need a blue book.

Then we went to the exam, but somehow we were taking it in our own individual rooms. I hadn't studied for it, but the questions all asked about our weird movie, but they were even weirder. Such as, "What laundry detergent did the mafia member pour on his victim?" It turns out that in this case it was Gain. Then there was a question about our dog breed formulas, but I couldn't remember the formula because I hadn't studied. I remember being upset about what my grade was going to be, because I hadn't studied, and then I think I woke up.

So, if my dream is any indication, International Relations is going to be a wild time next year. Yet, somehow, I doubt it.

NOVEL: A living installation

I think having just finished Chuck's horror story about a writer's retreat, this comes off as a little bit more creepy that maybe it actually should.

At 9pm on May 7th, 2005, three novelists will be enclosed within three individual habitats designed and constructed by three teams of architect/artists. For thirty days, this will be their reality. Nightly, they will dine together (courtesy of a revolving cast of chefs). Public readings of the novels-in-progress will be held every Saturday evening, with viewing hours throughout the week. On June 4th, each writer will emerge from his or her habitat, having completed a novel.

I suppose if you cross a writer's workshop and a zoo exhibit, this is what you get.

Or: Signs You Spend Too Much Time in Front of Your Computer

I'm a sucker for McSweeney's lists, and being the geek I am, I thought this was funny:

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Tools or Actions in Photoshop That, Were They Applicable to Real Life, Would Prove Useful at Various Stages of a Relationship.

Just how drunk do you have to be to hit a fire-truck?

So, the Mark Twain crew headed out to see Spanglish last night.  I kind of wanted to see the movie when it came out, but I think it got mixed reviews, or I was here, which means I never see movies within a normal time frame. However, I'm glad I went to see it, because I thought it was a super enjoyable movie. Not a great movie by critical standards, but I really liked it anyway. I think I've also become endeared to anything that lets me put some of my Spanish knowledge to use. It's a challenge to try and understand it all, and I like that.

After Spanglish and some Coldstone ice cream, we all came back to Twain, went elevator fishing, an invented distraction that involves trapping all the elevators on the seventh floor, leaving the rest of the building unknowingly stranded. Of course, we do catch and release, so it's only a brief, probably unnoticed convenience.  Then we started a pick-up game of psuedo-soccer in front of the elevators using the beach balls from RHA's random week that Dave had just retrieved. Despite an early lead, Olivia and I lost miserably.

We headed down to Erika and Olvia's room and hung out there and just chatted for awhile. Then, invariably, everyone else got tired before I did, so we headed up to the seventh floor. Then I ended up in Allison's room watching the end of some bizarre movie with Julia Roberts and Mel Gibson that turned out to be called Conspiracy Theory, a clearly original title. Despite being a wonderful sub-par movie, its one shining moment was when a heavily drugged Mel Gibson said to Julia Roberts, "I'm sorry you're dead," which Allison and I found ridiculously hilarious.

Then the night got interesting. At about three in the morning, just as I was climbing into bed, I heard this loud buzzing noise that sounded faintly of the fire alarm. Fearing it was the fire alarm, I got out of bed to inspect. Later, I realized it was the fire alarm going off on another floor, since the alarms in the building are staggered. However, instead of being smart like Mole who heard the alarm, went back to his room, got dressed, got his glasses, a coat and gloves before the alarm went off on our floor, I just kind of stood there hoping it would go away. It didn't. So we all traipsed outside, into the cold, past the third floor that smelled distinctly of the burnt popcorn that had clearly set off the alarm to stand in the cold for twenty or so minutes, before the fire department gave the all clear. We came back in, and went to bed, slightly annoyed.

Then at approximately a quarter to five in the morning, the fire alarm went off again. This time, since I'd actually been asleep, I was mildly pissed. Then the alarm stopped for a few moments, and there was hope. However, it started to go off again, so I crawled out of bed, had a brief moment of clarity in which I remembered to grab a blanket and then continued, down the eight flights of stairs to go stand in the cold again.

Jessica, Allison, and I happened to be standing on the street, watching the first fire truck approached, when Allison posed the question, "I wonder, do fire-trucks have to stop at the stop sign?" So the three of us watched the fire-truck approach the stop sign, stop at the stop sign, and begin again when all of a sudden, this white car comes barreling out of nowhere and hits the side of the fire-truck. The sound of the impact was an almost jarringly loud smack, and it was one of those things that was just near impossible to believe. Honestly, how do you drive into the side of a fire truck, especially one that has it's lights and sirens on?

So the staff herded us into the parking garage, set us down and Tasha, one of the staff members proceeded to lecture us on how whoever pulled the fire alarm was a dumbass, essentially, and the whole situation was very not funny. Preceding the whole mostly pointless lecture by, "Now, I know most of you didn't do this..."

The details of the situation that came to light in the morning were that the girl was drunk (I'd assumed this. I don't know how else you drive into a fire truck.), did apparently try to stop, though I saw no evidence of this during the occurrences, broke the axle on her car, and damaged the fire truck badly enough that it had to be towed. There is also a rumor floating around that someone knows her and that this is about this fifth car she's totaled.

In all, it was a weird, somewhat disturbing, annoying, frustrating, but by now, ultimately bemusing night.

Post 9/11 Security and Penguins

There are days when I miss Denver terribly. I'm not so sure this is one of them. As Channel 7 News in Denver (the ABC affiliate) covers two traveling Seaworld penguins going through Airport security:

And a speculated quote from one penguin:

The first penguin seems to be wondering why this is necessary. "It's not like I planned to hijack the plane to Antarctica."

I wonder too, buddy.

Further proof that Kansas is an inferior place.

Kansas boasts over 70 capitals.

As much as I would like to blame this on an inferior intellect of Kansas citizens, that's not quite what they mean:

Kansas has a Milo Capital, Catfish Capital, White Tail Deer Capital and Pinto Bean Capital.

Even goose, watermelon, stone bridge, cowboy and barbed wire capitals. Most boast annual festivals or events celebrating their claim to fame.

"Some people think Kansas is dull, flat or boring, but every town and county has its own personality," Penner said.

Well, Kansas is dull, flat, and boring. I would know, because I have to drive across that damned state way too many times in a year. However, if you really get excited by barbed wire and stone bridges... Well, who am I to judge? (From The Morning News.)

Because there's nothing like gambling to ease the pain.

Now that "Pope Deathwatch 2005" (I will coin that phrase if it kills me), has passed us by, you can amuse yourself durring the incessant C-SPAN coverage of bizarre catholic rituals performed in a dead language with Popapalooza 2005.

Katie, Dave, and I are betting on Ratzinger, but there's also a strong suspicion that the church will go back to an Italian pope.

(Link given to me by my token catholic devotee herself.)

Even humanities students would find this a little nerdy...

The University of Missouri has this program done through the Honors College here called the humanities sequence. It's four semesters of intense study of all the humanities at once: philosophy, literature, art, music, etc. and it also a who's-who of the nerdiest students at this fine state institution.

But I don't think you could convince even a humanities student that this sounds like a fun idea:

Work starts on Dickens theme park.

Here's an entry for the DSM-V: Playlist Anxiety

Got playlist anxiety? You're not alone.

The Georgia Institute of Technology has done a study on how people' playlists in offices affect their perceptions of their co-workers.

Sharing playlists on an office network turns out to be something like a peacock spreading his feathers for display. The researchers found that people actively work to create an image of themselves through the music they make available to others, just as they might by buying a new car or showing off a cell phone.

I'll be the first to admit that, yes, I have judged people on their iTune playlists before. For example, I frown upon whoever has Britney Spears collective works. And the Backstreet boys? Oh, let's just no go there.

However, I am secure with my own playlist. Yes, that's right, I have both of the Dawson's Creek soundtracks and I like them. Eve 6? Yup, like them, too. Lilith fair soundtracks? A necessity of life. Avril Lavigne? Okay, I have no justification for that, but every girl's got to have a guilty pleasure or two.

Another interesting phenomena:

...researchers said people became attached to other people's libraries, and felt a sense of loss when their computers went offline.

This is definitely true. Someone should have been around to witness the distress the roommate and I went through when Josh, the Mark Twain iTunes Mecca, failed to reappear after Spring Break. It was a stressful time.

Looking to damage your self-esteem?

Determine the size of your ecological footprint.

Despite the fact that my ecological footprint is 15 Acres, probably due to the fact that I don't own a car and am a vegetarian, if everyone lived the way I did, we would need 3.4 planets.

And I'm well under the U.S. average.

Thanks, Earthday Network and Redefining Progress, I feel like a royal ass, now. Which, I'm sure, was probably the point.

Hide-and-Seek Alarm Clock

As anyone who has had to face me first thing in the morning can attest, I am not a morning person. Also, while alarms do wake me up, I have a tendency to turn them off and go back to sleep.

Well, this clock in development at MIT hides from you when you press the sleep button, ensuring that one is in fact awake.

As soon as this is actually available for sale, I'm buying one.

An interesting turn of events.

I was recently torn between buying tickets to one of two upcoming concerts: Something Corportate and the Decemberists. I ended up buy SoCo tickets as I know they ahve a good reputation live, but it turns out this may have been the better decision for another reason:
The Decemberists recently had their trailer and instruments stolen.

I wonder if they'll make it to Columbia... Hmm. Regardless, it's an unfortunate turn of events for the band.

Short People Rock

Research on the advantages of shorter height.

Okay, so maybe most of you can use me as an armrest, but between my five-foot height, vegetarian diet, and reduced sleep, I am definitely going to outlive all of you.

The things the internet drags in...

I was on a Thesaurus.com page looking for a synonym to "spiritual" to describe How We Are Hungry (though you will note I gave up and used "spiritual-esque:), when I noticed a Google ad for a service claiming to alter your DNA so you can prepare for ascension.

Out of desperate curiosity, I clicked on the link. Scanning the page, it seemed rather like a satirical page, until I noticed that there's actually a Paypal link at the bottom and remembered that whoever is running this site has actually invested money in buying a Google text ad.

Well, I guess there has to be a service for those people for whom Jesus-scented candles and better tasting communion wafers just aren't enough...

Scratch and Sniff Religion

In my earlier post about the new recipe for communion wafers, I basically implied that I don't think religion should enter the marketplace. Well,  the same thing applies for candles that smell like Jesus..

From the article:

"We wanted people to be able to experience Christ in new ways and to be able to read a bible and have that scent and that candle as a reminder that he is with us all the time."

"You can't see him and you can't touch him," says Bob Tosterud. "This is a situation where you may be able to sense him by smelling. And it provides a really new dimension to one's experience with Jesus."

What is America's problem? Do we have to fall for every single gimmick like this?

Furthermore, do they not teach the bible story about Jesus and the moneychangers in the temple, anymore? That was always a favorite of mine, and this is why I think these weird religous products are absurd. Also, to my knowledge hygiene was not that great in ancient Judea, so I doubt anyone is getting an authentic experience of the scent of Jesus.

How They Got My Roommate: A Cautionary Tale

Dear weblog readers, I feel it is time I share with you a story. It's a story full of intrigue, secret societies, lies, and scandal. It's the story of how my roommate sold her soul to an organization I now believe to be a sinister cult: Phi Sigma Pi.

It seemed innocent at first. There were the letters in the mailboxes we all received. There was rushing and some roller skating. She was accepted and they brought her some candy. They didn't even feel the need to mark our door with their greek letters. (Actually, I'm pretty sure they ran out of signs, but that's clearly beside the point.)

Then things started to take a turn for the worse. Alison, who also sold her soul to PSP, was no longer able to accompany me to Ballroom Dance Club. There was the wearing of the "pins," leaving my poor friends forced to brand themselves with PSP letters, something that some could find a creepy parallel to in Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter.

Then there were the nights when Jessica would return to tell me stories about being led blindly through twisting, narrow stairways in the darkness of night. This sort of behavior progressed into bizarre rituals involving a garden gnome. (I present Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C.)

I was concerned for my roommate, but up until this point I had believed the lies Phi Sigma Pi told her. It was an honors fraternity. They are concerned with service and brotherhood and the occasional healthy alcohol binge. Sure, there were the mandatory study hours where my roommate found herself being required to pour over her books until her eyes were dry and bloodshot, but it was all in the name of scholarship!

And then the wool was lifted from my eyes and I saw the truth:
I was sitting in my room the other afternoon, when my roommate began to play what at first sounded like the theme song to Mickey Mouse Club, so I turned to ask her what she was listening to and she told me it was a Phi Sigma Pi song.  I knew at this point that my roommate as I knew her was gone to me and would never return, but I couldn't yet let her know, for at this point she was too blinded by the haze of the secret society.  To let her think I didn't know, I laughed at her and went back to my work. She then proceeded to play a second Phi Sigma Pi song, and I knew then that it was too late for my roommate.

The song was vaguely reminiscent of a praise song and included phrases that, roughly translated from the music, end up meaning, "I pledge to you, mephistopheles, my life, in service of my brothers..." or something like that.

Hopefully, this truly is a modern Faust tale and my roommate will overcome and survive the ways of Mephistopheles' secret society, but I give you this tale in warning, so that perhaps some reader may be able to save their roommate from a similar fate.

Internet Ransom Notes

This site will spell out words using random images from Flickr. (From BoingBoing.)

I'm a big fan of the joy of the classic ransom note, and this site is well:

   

Now, get to writing those ransom notes.

The Cost of Dining...soon to be subjective?

Babu, a new restuaruant in New York, left prices off their menu, allowing patrons to pay what they believed the meal was worth. (Link from Kottke.)

From the article:

The pay-what-you-like policy has caused a certain amount of anxiety among diners, much as the pay-what-you-wish policy at, say, the Metropolitan Museum can cause crises of conscience in the face of a ticket-taking docent’s all-knowing gaze. Only the gauche or exploitative would interpret such an invitation as an opportunity to feed for free; the problem, for the civilized remainder, is the lack of an established code of behavior to follow. The standard meaning, in movies and cartoons, at least, of a missing price tag—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it—is clearly not the governing principle at Babu; but figuring out what the governing principle is is rather like trying to determine the correct size of a doorman’s Christmas tip.

Upon reading this, my first thought was, "They must not expect much business from college students." One of the problems of being a cash-strapped college student is that, even though I've served, I don't tip as well as I would like to simply because I really don't have the money. So, if you allowed me to calculate the worth of my dinner, I would probbably pay less than I would really find the meal to be worth.

However, beyond that snag, I think I like the idea. I think processing payment on a system like this might ultimately create better quality products, but I suppose if it developed on a mass scale, rather than as curiosity, the idea of competition might be slightly undermined.

The Body of Jesus: Now with 15% More Flavor

Body of Christ gets new improved flavor.

Ninety master bakers from the island of Funen have taken up the challenge to experiment with new recipes for the holy flesh

Is it just me, or is this an absurd, slightly blasphemous idea? This may be just be me speaking from my non-christian viewpoint on things, but isn't this supposed to be about a religious tradition, not snacking? How the hell do the transubstantiationalists feel about this?

I really just find it creepy when religion and capitalism start to mix. Some things, I think, just don't fall into a market model method of thinking.

As the Copenhagen Deacon said,

After all, the bread should symbolize the body of Jesus, and the wafer shouldn’t be getting all the attention. Just imagine if the pastor at the altar would say ‘This is the body of Jesus Christ. Would you like that with chocolate, vanilla or strawberry taste?

Unphotographable: a text account of pictures missed

I suppose with the proliferation of photo weblogs on the internet it was only a matter of time that someone came up with an anti-photo weblog:
Unphotographable: a text account of pictures missed.

Here, one photographer speaks of all the scenes he didn't photograph. I like it, though I suppose this is one of those things I like that inspires people to call me pretentious.

(Link from Kottke.)

iTunes Romance

The shared music library on iTunes has become a staple of my life. It's especially convenient because I live in a dorm full of undergraduate J-majors who all have Mac laptops, so I'm immersed in an endless sea of music.

Of course, I apparently have been missing the potential of iTunes as dating service, as illustrated in this blog:
They stopped calling it Rendezvous.

I'm not really sure whether that's just sweet or incredibly nerdy. Maybe just a combination of both.

Is George Bush the Antichrist?

Let's take a moment to stand in awe of the wonders of the internet. First, it brought us that obnoxious Muma Muma video I was forced to sit through not once, but twice in J-1100 (If you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself amongst the lucky ones), but now it has presented me with undeniable, irrefutable proof that George Bush is the Antichrist.

Okay, so it may not so much be undeniable. Or irrefutable. Okay, proof may be kind of a stretch, but it makes me laugh:
George W Bush is the AntiChrist.

Thanks to my Republican friend Laura for showing me the truth about our dear, beloved president...

Is this what passes for innovation?

The New Yorker: Leapfrog's new FLY pen.

So leapfrog has concocted a creepy pen that when you use special paper, will tell you the definitions of the words you're writing, or you can draw a calculator and it will add for you, or you can draw a piano and play notes.

Now, as thrilling as that all sounds, who needs a pen like that? Admittedly they're aiming for the early teenager market, all of whom will be utterly fascinated I'm sure, but what's wrong with a nice smooth writing uniball for writing, a calculator for calculating, a nicely tuned piano for piano playing. I think there is a point when integration just goes too far.

Still, my favorite part of this whole madness is this:

"After the festivities, Jim Marggraff, the inventor of FLY, said, 'We see applications where FLY will help you with grammar and composition and teach you about story writing.' Glancing dubiously at a reporter’s writing instrument, a ratty blue Paper Mate that lacked an optical sensor, character-recognition software, or even a seventy-thousand-word phoneme-to-speech engine, he added, 'Why would you not want to have a pen that adds value to the words you’re writing?'"

Because being a good journalist is obviously all in the writing utensil.

Mario Post-It Note Mural

I am such a nerd.

Behold the Power of Satire (and Digital Video)

I don't know who made this and I don't know where it came from, but it is the most amusing perhaps slightly eerily dead-right political satire I've seen in a long time. It's not even just making fun of Bush or the conservatives, this is some good equal-opportunity satire.

I know it's just some thrown together spliced video and sound clips, but I like it.

Oh, satire how I appreciate thee.

Veggie Vibrators?

For those of you who don't know me, you may not realize that I have no shame. Well, I have no shame, so I feel I must link to this:

VegSexShop.com :: Vegan Condoms, Lube, Dental Dams, Gloves, & Adult Novelties (Link probably not safe for work, or the Mark Twain computer lab where I am currently sitting, but, like I said, I have no shame.)

Somethings are just too hilarious. Next time I'm in the market for a vibrator I'll have to keep that site in mind. (Oh, don't worry yourselves, I only kid.)

An Interesting Essay on Oedipus

I'm keeping this link around for comic relief once humanities really gets going.

However, I really wonder if someone really turned this in. If so, I'm jealous. I could never have pulled off a D- with a paper like that.

People Watching

I've always been a mild fan of people watching. It was always the highlight of my expeditions to Denver West. And, now, apparently it can distract so that college graduation can ensue: The Non-expert: People Watcher.

Look! Apocolypse is Cool!

This is a completely self-indulgent link, but I need to make a point. Once upon a time I tried to convince my newspaper staff that doing an article on apocolpyse would be interesting and cool, but they all told me I was crazy and that furthermore there was not enough to write about apocolypse.

Oh, were they wrong.

Apparently there is a publication called REVELATION that is devoted solely to the end-times. So there disagreeable Spectator staff.

The Flexible Gender

From Ryan's coversation with a friend from Drum Corps:

aTVcasualty: so today I saw one of my friends from high school for the first time in a couple of years and had lunch and caught up
aTVcasualty: its just that my friend was a different sex in high school

Wow. I consider myself a tolerant person, but can we hold of at least a few years before we start going for the sex changes? I'm not sure I can handle that one just yet. I mean I don't see any problems with it, if you feel that's right, but I'm not sure I can handle anyone changing THAT much just yet.

I mean not that anyone I personally know is heading for sex changes...I think...