Rationator Mirus

Man, this crazy hattin'...

A thousand apologies for the lack of blogging this week (to the two readers). The presentation for the insurance company has monopolized every waking moment that I didn't spend bleeding for nothing (see previous blog). Am currently sitting in the lobby of the Club Quarters Downtown, with belly full o' Delmonicos ribeye.

One note of importance is that we drove by ground zero earlier this evening, and, although it was dark and I haven't been in the city in the last decade, I am moved. The weather did not permit a full appreciation of the gaping hole left in the Manhattan skyline, but nonetheless, there is a blank spot where there used to be the twin towers.

I will do my best to update as I can during the sojourn to the land of my etiology, but I can make no promises.

On another note, I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last weekend with my fair lady friend, and I heartily concur in Dedman's review.

My bosses beckon. God save the United States, and this honorable Court.....

Here's hoping my Con Law 101 goes over well...

As the deadbeat blog on the blogger.com home page announced, blogger.com hosted a boozefest during SXSW at Club DeVille. Those of you who know me know of the special affinity I hold for this esteemed establishment. Not only does the Club occupy a very unique physical setting (which, not unimportantly, is far enough away from the hustle and bustle of sixth street to dissuade the cadres of UT jackasses while still enabling a late-night Hoek's run) but my brother has been a bartender there since the place opened. Well, almost the whole time, but no use splitting hairs about it. This, of course, means that I haven't paid full price for a drink in almost seven years.

And by the by, is that picture captioned "Dazed and Confused?" none other that Mitchy "what the hell happened to my career" Kramer? Apparently, my aforementioned hermano encountered him at a party one night, and he was still riding high on his wave of supposed fame. This, of course, came crashing down around him when the world realized that it takes a lot more that pinching the bridge of one's nose to accurately convey true human suffering in a cinematic context. Note to Dedman, if Wyatt pinched his nose more, maybe some of the hacks would quit whining about "not enough plot."

I wish I had the ability to post photos on the site, but I'm far too cheap to upgrade. Nonethless, I finished my dramatic landscape drainage project yesterday. It was quite the aggressive undertaking, re-routing what was once the swampy muckland near my front door into a gravelled low-level collection area some fifteen feet away. Throw in a little Egyptian Papyrus and Giant Rudbeckia, and it should make for an interesting summer. The only downside? Coming home at 2:00 last night, drunk as a sailor, and, after deciding that the papyrus needed a bit of touching up, cutting my foot on the steel pipe holding the sidewalk together.

Remember the scene in the forest from Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail? 'Tis but a flesh wound...After I wound up bleeding all over my kitchen, I dressed the wound and went to bed. Only to wake up six hours later to come to work on a Sunday. I certainly don't mind putting in a little extra today, as it will enable me to make a lasting impression on the firm's business trip to New York. Oh yeah.

I have recently become a fan of a fairly new cable network, TRIO. Marketed as the channel for shows that TV forgot, I have seen some quality programs of late. One of the shows, "Shocked," tells the story of the horrible mistake shockwave.com committed during the apex of the Tech Bubble when they commissioned Trey Parker and Matt Stone (of South Park Infamy) to make 39 episodes of a flash animated web cartoon called "Princess." The two took the two million dollars, told shockwave.com they were going to make an x-rated cartoon, and ran with it. All the while, Shockwave allowed them full creative control. Until they saw the final product. You can register to see the never-before-released pilot of "Princess" at www.triotv.com. You only thought you'd seen it all.

There was another show on recently called Dial H-I-S-T-O-R-Y (1997). Helmed by Johan Grimonprez, the description billed the show as an examination of the interplay between television media and airplance hijackings. In reality, it was more of a documentary on the history of terrorism. I consider myself to be a fairly well informed member of the electorate, but I was completely taken aback at this rather irreverant look at global hijacking. I highly recommend it.

Let's talk for a minute about Fantasy Golf. It's a simple enough premise: pick one golfer per tournament, and you "earn" whatever money they win that week. The catch: you can only choose a golfer once during the 40 week season.

I'm currently fourth from last in the group of 38. Translation: I suck. This week, a number of factors led me to select the World's No. 1, Tiger Woods. Not only is the winner taking home $1.5M from the TPC at Sawgrass (a course which, incidentally, I own on Tiger Woods 2004), but Mr. Woods has always been one to bounce back from a poor showing to silence his critics.

Unfortunately, Tiger stands at +3 with one hole to play, which will make this his fourth consecutive round over par. Another performance like this tomorrow, and he will miss his first cut in 119 appearances; thus, ending his hopes of breaking that record, too, and dashing my hopes of a come from behind victory in the pool.

As a consolation, here is what I propose. All Vegas and London bookmakers take note. Call me on Wednesday afternoon, and I'll tell you who I picked. That way, you can drive the odds sky high on whomever it is, because chances are, they're going to eat ass that week. All I ask in return is a Gulfstream Jet and an Island in Bora Bora.

Seems fair to me.

There is a killer on the loose in the quiet, upscale community of West University Place. Some time ago, he attempted to abduct a lady who works for the Houston Press, and more recently, it is believed he murdered a HCC professor at a car wash for no apparent reason.

Speculation abounds as to his motive - he fled from the attempted abduction with the first lady's purse, but took nothing from the murder victim.

The Houston Press is offering a monetary reward for information leading to his capture.

I heard this guy on KPFT 90.1 last night. Without commenting on his accuracy, or lack thereof, I leave that for you to decide.

When I was but a lad, I recall a movie my brother and I used to love a movie called "Midnight Madness." It seems, in mid-late 80's, this film was a staple on the HBO circuit. I recently rented the DVD from netflix. After all, in the words of the great Frank Zappa: "it is not always necessary to picture the world ending in fire and brimstone. There are two other distinct possibilities. The first is paperwork, the other, nostalgia."

In short, it is a movie about five teams composed of stereotypical cliques from a nameless college in California who are enticed by Leon, the Game Master, to compete in an all night scavenger hunt across the city of LA, dubbed, appropriately "The Great All-Nighter." As you can probably surmise, all kinds of hijinks ensue in the race to be the first to the finish line amongst the jocks, geeks, sorority chicks, spoiled rich kids, and average joes.

The ensemble cast includes David Naughton, of "An American Werewolf in London" fame, as well as Stephen Furst, better known to you and me as "Flounder." Also noteworthy is the appearance of Michael Fox in his first feature film role as the juvenile delinquent Scott. Interestingly, Fox had not yet adopted the middle initial "J," which I have always heard was a substitute for his true middle initial "A." As the story goes, the yound Michael Fox wanted to avoid the inevitable Tiger Beat headlines proclaiming "Michael is A. Fox." And the rest, as they say is history...

Also of note, as reported by IMDB.com, the movie provided the inspiration for the 1997 Michael Douglas thriller, "The Game." Although I have a hard time seeing how.

We were supposed to leave Ft. Lauderdale this morning at 6:30. Accordingly, we woke around 5:00 a.m., although neither of us really slept because of the youngster. Every so often, Lil' Jakey would bash his face against the headboard, let out a moan, and have to be soothed by his daddy.

A bit of sidebar here. I have never been less than an hour early to a non-Southwest flight. Never. Yet last night, when it was suggested by a local that we need be there only 30 minutes prior to departure, it made perfect sense to have the youngster enrapt in the misery of the airport wait for as little time as possible. This would prove to be our downfall.

When we approached the Continental counter at exactly 6:03 a.m., we were rudely informed by the ticket lady that the check-in for our flight had closed, and we were out of luck. Looking mournfully upon the baby, I turned back to her as if to suggest that the proper thing to do would be to bend the rules so that the child who had only recently awoken from his slumber would not be made to suffer the indignity and uncertainty of flying standby. Apparently, South Floridian ticket clerk's don't care about babies. Perhaps this was her way of proving to the travelling public at large that in the space between the nylon ropes and the carpeted logo wall, she is the king. Maybe she was just an asshole.

Needless to say, the 9:00 came and went, and the only standby folks who got on was a fella named Champaigne and his boyfriend. The counter agents at that gate didn't give a damn, either. It was not until the 12:10 flight that the first Continental employees showed the tiniest shred of human decency, and Capt. Webster gave up his seat to fly in the cockpit jumpseat.

Also needless to say, the unanticipated 6 hour delay in a really crappy airport was perhaps the most miserable domestic travelling experience thus far.

I would hazard that I'm not allowed to say that I will have my revenge....

Here it is, a sunny Florida afternoon, and the toughest decision is whether to swim at the house, or at the country club, where the flunkies cart mai tais like nobody's business.

On a different note, we recently marked the one-year anniversary of the Iraq occupationliberationjustifiednotjustifiednobloodforoilthepriceoffreedomiseternalvigilance conflict. There has been quite a bit of low brow political wrangling here in the appendix of N.America, so rather than embroil myself with this topic in the little time I have here at my Spam Master Uncle's office, it behooves me to direct you to a more authoritative source on the subject, my very own cousin, Capt. Adam J. Becker, United States Marine Force.

Back tomorrow

I would like to thank jdedman.com for his inspiration and tutelage in getting this bad boy off the ground.

Alas, this evening I will embark on a mission to South Florida, where I will join the matriarchs family in celebration of my Grandmother's 85th birthday. My mother, as yet unaffected by this cultural phenomenon you and I call "the internet," remains saddled with a dial-up compuserve connection, and can hardly be considered one of the "future." Therefore, the chances of updating with yarns of drunken spring break revelers are slim at best.

I saw this week's South Park last night. I recorded it on replaytv; thus, this will begin my grass roots campaign to wrest the public spotlight away from the much-ballyhooed TiVo, which is, in nearly every respect, a far inferior system.
Anyway, spoiler's here...
The boys are enrapt by the ninja weapons at the county fair. Even Kenny can afford the ninja stars, which are a measly $1.99. When the weapons are donned, the boys become ninja warriors a la Dragonball Z. During a particularly intense battle of martial artistry between the 4 and the menacing Professor Chaos, the erstwhile Chaos, thinking he has the 4 ninjas trapped in his net, is struck in the eye with Kenny's ninja star. Realizing they are in deep trouble if their parents learn of their exploits with amateur ninjitsu, Cartman proposes they kill Butters and bury him in Stan's yard. Thankfully, they decide against this course of action, choosing instead to take Butters (ninja star still firmly implanted in skull) to the town vet. Of course, this requires they first disguise Butters as a dog. On the way to the vet, the boys are challenged to a ninja duel by a rival faction of 4th graders. During the ensuing melee, Butters escapes from captivity and winds up in the pound. Eventually, he escapes, and the boys (who have now teamed with their rivals to find Butters before their parents get wise) discover he is on the other side of the fair. However, to reach Butters means they must first get passed the auction, which all of their parents are attending. No problem, says Cartman, and using his "powers of invisibility" begins to tip toe across the stage. In the real world, of course, he is no ninja, rather, a naked nine year old exposing his loins to the entire town. He is discovered shortly before Butters, dressed like a dog with a ninja star stuck in his face, comes to the stage and collapses.
Cut to the auditorium where an "emergency town meeting" is being held, presumably to address the horrible injury that has befallen poor Butters. However, after much rabble-rousing, we discover that no one in town cares about fourth graders playing violent ninja games with ilicit weaponry. Rather, the town is outraged at the little boy's penis - there were children present at the auction, and children watching at home with their parents when the little boy exposed himself in such an obscene and appalling fashion. "How do we explain this to our kids?" They all exclaim. Cartman, apparently unfazed, replies "I told you guys it was a wardrobe malfunction."
Moral of the story: so long as adults have sex-things to complain about, they don't give a shit about violence.

And if any of you missed it, and have a replaytv, let me know and I'll email it to you. Can you do that, TiVo????

Initializing countdown...
Apparently people like "The Passion" so much, they're fabricating stigmata these days


Here's hoping I don't become a deadbeat.