January 30, 2003

Johnny Get Your Gun
Why do times of war inspire amazing graphics? I do not know. Maybe it's cause the war machine pays such good money. But if you are a visual learner like me you need things drawn out for you. Esspecially complicated war patterns and such. Here is a diagram of Iraq's Firepower, and another that shows the range of said firepower. I mean if Herr Bush is going to force a war on us I might as well find something to enjoy. Here is a fine illustration diagram of a sub. And totally unrelated to the war campaign, are these images from the Museum of Moist Towels. Although with all the blood that's about to be on Bush's hands he might need a moist towel. So strike that - it's totally related. Ok, really not related, are these photoshoped ipods.

January 29, 2003

Super Flat Basketball
This fine piece of street art called Basketball is wonderful. It's by artist Robin Rhode. The Bench is also clever and fun.

Faith Based Bio-Shield
Ok my favorite part of last nights State of War address from Herr Bush was his call for "Project Bio-Shield". I imagine that the development of the project might look something like this. I know that the bush team was well aware of the fact that the FX super hit show "The Shield" followed his speech and thus planned the speech accordingly. For some reason, Project Bio-Shield invokes the idea of gigantic feminine napkins being flown over Iraq and shoved out the back of C-130 cargo planes. Someone needs to investigate to see whether Tampax is on the Pentagon Payroll.

January 28, 2003

Ride a Black Swan
I found myself driving around the city aimlessly and without purpose last night looking for something to do after I left Tracy's Saloon just before midnight. It had been a great night so far. John Gwinn, crazed and delirious from cold sweats, two painfully sleepless nights, and a gallon of over the counter medicines had had a vision that he wouldn't live one day past 73 and thus, as Monday was his 36 and a half birthday, his midpoint in life, he had decided to call a half-time. A time out. We all gathered to asses the situation over our favorite brands of Whiskey. After a few hours of hemming and hawing, talk of creole baseball leagues, and random lesbian climax positions, we all came to the consensus that The State of John Gwinn was strong and that his second term would be chiseled in granite.

When the party finally broke up, and the glasses were turned over on the table, I got in my motor and header for home. But with my baby dealing with family matters in Alabama this week and with no one to come home to, I found myself instead roaming around the city streets.

After driving around for awhile, I ended up where I end up most nights when I have these wicked bouts of displacement. The Record Store. Thank god for the record store that stays open till midnight. You are second on my list only to the bars that stay open later than 1PM. You are my lighthouse in troubled waters -- ye' ol' merchant of shiny plastic circles and 180 gram vinyl.

I hadn't anything in mind when I hit the racks last night. I was just killing time. I had no plans of purchasing anything really. It would have sufficed just to walk around and lazily finger the used CD's that were returned on Friday of last week. I would have been content to just stare off at the Dub section or wonder at the seemingly inharmonious but beautifully crafted 'picks' the employees had organized on their own. Jeane recommends the new Underworld CD and some German band I've never heard of. Man, I bet there is a great story behind everyone of those picks. Employees give little micro reviews of all the CD's that they recommend. When I read them, I wish instead they would write short stories about hearing the record for the first time or tell me which track on the album makes them throw furniture and which one leaves them loving wicker baskets - gaining a deeper appreciation for the craft of the thing.

I was thinking these thoughts about furniture, good songs and such when a little voice from the achieves of my gray matter punched past the Whiskey and softly whispered...Zwan. Oh yes I remembered, I wanted to get the debut Zwan record. I have a love for David Pajo's music that is so pure that I understand anything he touches is a genuine piece of joy. You see, David was in a band called Slint. And for me, when the hour is witching and creeping on midnight, Slint is the only thing - only thing, that will do. I have learned slowly over the years that as much as I stare and chant at the little black 'Slint' card at the Record Store, a new record will never appears under it. It just wont. Which is ok, because David has gone on to make some other incredible music and in some cases a lot better music. The stuff he records under the moniker Papa M is the fuel that I use to power to my train.

So yeah, David. New Band. Zwan. Zwan, is also Billy from Smashing Pumpkins new band. The title of the Zwan CD is 'Mary Star of the Sea', which is named and dedicated to Mary Hansen of Stereolab who sadly is no longer with us. I went looking for the disc and after having rotten luck I bothered one of the bored employees, who casually mentioned that the record didn't come out till midnight - which was a whole ten minutes away. The forces at work here were operating at such a high level that I didn't even bother to think about it. I just accepted my fate and hung around till midnight when, along with about 6 other diehard 13 year olds we all marched up to the checkout at twelve-o-one with our CD/DVD enhanced Zwan discs and handed over all we had for what could be...

...so of course I like the disc. How could I not after all that. In fact, I stayed up the rest of the night and listened to it twice. Once on the hi-fi and once on headphones. I also watched the DVD and thought for a long time what my life would be like if I was a member of Zwan. In the DVD the band gets philosophical about the meaning of Zwan, and the different incarnations of Zwan. So I sat and thought a lot about that too. I told myself it's good to still feel Zwan. Without Zwan it would be far less fun. Let us all Zwan and sleep well tonight. Adieu.

January 27, 2003

The Evidence is Clear
The roads look like hell this morning. Our Wo-bee-gon town looks like one giant ice skating rink with a cool layer of slush puppy thrown on top. From my breakfast nook, I'm watching a rusted out cream colored Bonneville arduously dovetail it's way up 35th street. There is enough snow on the ground to muffle the sounds of street activity and morning ritual. Many are still asleep or walking around in a stunned stupor after watching the Raiders dynasty collapse before its crowning. What an awful game. Apparently it was the Raiders who missed 'the message in a bottle' that the best defense will annihilate a strong offense on any given sunday. Thank god for half-time shows and MTV Cribs for filling in an otherwise dull sporting event with drama and surprise. But these are the words of a bitter loser and someone who lost piles of money betting on Gannon's arm. Hell, I think the Massilllon Tigers would have had a better shot against the 'Bucs than Oakland did.

But really, that was just the warm up act. Now comes the Real Showdown. I'm getting ready for head coach Hans Blix to come in at 9:30 this morning and deliver hints at his world game strategy. Bush will of course counter tomorrow with some sorry state of the union, drawn from a playbook handed down from a future hall of shamer. But, from what we've seen from Assistant Coach Powell the U.S. game strategy is as hollow as Shania Twain's attempts to shake off the 'little bit country edge' and turn pop diva. It's a damn lie and no one will bite. I have to believe that even Coach Powell isn't all that happy to be swimming is a pool of such shallow rhetoric. If the world demands proof and all you've got to say is, "The evidence is clear", then it sounds like you're talking down to us for not being able to recognize the clarity of the situation - or, you haven't got a clue, and the only smoking gun is the one you happily sold Iraq back in the days before instant replay and the Carolina Panthers. So, If I have to choose between whether the Powell/Bush team is talking down to me or obfuscating the situation, I'll choose the latter. Damn, after watching that silly bobble head special teams coach, Andrew Card use language like "Holocaust" and "Whatever means necessary" to trounce Senior Saddam, I have no choice but to start betting heavily on Blix. Now that Superbowl XXXVI is still squarely in the rearview mirror, let's all remember to chant this week, "A Strong Defense beats a Strong Offense".

January 26, 2003

Starcraft Cruisers and Airstream Dreams
I found a new background image for afrojet. This one was inspired by the Starcraft logo and my secret desire to own the biggest RV on the planet. Of course I would totally geek out my RV and roam Winnebago style through the western states posting missives from the Grand Canyon and Lake Taos a la P&J, the indiana experiment, or even realworldroadrules.

January 23, 2003

Extending My Nordic Reach
Unbeknown to my parents, I once impersonated a Scandinavian in my seventh grade heritage fair just to impress a girl who had gorgeous blond hair and ate gamey reindeer meat. It was one of my more desperate moments in puberty, and although I never got the girl, what I did get was an ample appreciation of the Scandinavian culture (we had to write a paper). Ever since that lame episode, I've always fancied myself as a bastard child of the Scandinavian sect and I try to keep up with my kissing cousins of the North halfway 'round the world. So I was pleased to discover the magazine, Nordic Reach, "a magazine for people who enjoy the Scandinavian lifestyle, design and perspective." Finally, a magazine for my people! And hey, there are some great articles. To wit, Managing the impossible - Ingvar Kamprad sells IKEA in America and A Swede's Memories of 1950s America - Where the Pants were Short and the Steaks were Big. Keep up the good work my Scandinavian brothers and sisters. Viva la långmjölk.

Vice City Radio
I don't own Playstation and I've never played GTA3: Vice City, but if the game is one-tenth as good as the CD compilations that are being cross-marketed with the game, then I know I am living in a cultural black hole and must advance to go by stealing both a PS2 and GTA3 the next time I raid the local Best Buy. The good men and women working in the radio/CD branch of RockStarGames have really put together some heavy compilations. I have only purchased the Latin/Cuban tinged, Espantoso!, which is an end-to-end burner of smoking latin grooves but from browsing the other comps and their track list, they all look worthwhile. V-Rock, a metal compilation, comes correct with Slayer, Anthrax and Maiden, while Wildstyle rocks Granmaster Flash, Run DMC and Afrika Bambaataa. I feel thirteen again!

January 22, 2003

Garage Doors for Peace
I wish I had a garage door and lived in a climate that would allow me to do some outdoor painting in January. Then I could add to the Garage Doors Against the War protest. It would take a stunning amount of labored detailed work, but with some fine camel hair brushes and an overhead projector I might me able to make a full rendering of the Indymedia Map of U.S. Terrorist Infrastructure. Then, I would pace around my driveway in my bathrobe shouting at persons in the neighborhood and pointing at my garage door map furiously with two straight fingers - "We are a threat to peace!!!"

January 21, 2003

The Pianist
We haven't any snow but still everything is white. The streets are white. The sidewalks are white. Street signs, bridges, my car, other humans and their pets -- all covered in a thin layer of white chalky dirt and salt. The world looks like a cold blank canvas. It's man versus the elements here in the upper latitudes. It's no small obstacle, when you realize that, if not dressed properly, if you forgo a glove or your capilene long underwear that you could end up a winter casualty. Cruel things can happen at 10 below naught.

It took every ounce of spirit to go see Roman Polanski's The Pianist yesterday. And, although it took half the movie to thaw out, I'm glad I went. The Pianist is better than wearing your warmest scarf on Lake Placid. It's better than watching an ice boat flip and roll on Lake Harriet and it's better than surviving a fall through that thin ice patch on the Minnesota River. Better than all that. Please movie makers - make more like The Pianist. Historical. Factual. Non-sentimental. Non-glamourous. A Warriors story. Galactic acting. Adrian Brody is top notch. The cinematography of a war ravaged Warsaw is striking and unfathomable. Thank you good cinema. You are a kind and welcoming friend when the mercury drops down low.

January 18, 2003

Cribbage, Grog, and the South Side of Fear
Just as the housesitting was coming to a peaceful and tranquil end, things turned weird. I had made everyone in the neighborhood nervous and it was catching up to me in strange ways. There wasn't much I could do; my hands were tied. I had to go along for the ride. My parents reputation was at stake.

The neighbors were taking notice of some strange behavior coming from our house over the last few days. Their was a huge cache of empty liquor bottles beginning to pile up in the front lawn. Along with about thirty zip-lock bags that held the dogs morning deposits, and some of my darker t-shirts, it was beginning to look like the devils playground. The missus was drying our towels on an outdoor close line in a wind-chill of less than -14 degrees. One neighbor was so disturbed by this he threatened her with a snow blower while removing dry snow off his driveway. Things were beginning to look bad and smell worse. I had to keep my parents name in good standing in this tiny community just west of the great Como Lake.

When one of our nervous neighbors came over to check on us, I quickly invited him in and made rapid and polite conversation. I offered him some Grog and we got down to playing a game of cribbage. That calmed him a bit. His deal was that he hated Saddam Hussein and had lost his job recently. He was working part-time now but his new boss was worried about the whole Iraq "war thing" and wouldn't hire him full-time until something was figured out. Something final. We'll call my new neighbor "Steve".

Steve is a full blooded Minnesota Warrior and took well to both the Grog and the cribbage. His politics were not welcomed however and that made the mood very edgy. But I had the upper hand in so many ways. You see, Steve was a man looking to fill huge gaps of time. He talked a lot about his dog, which was a magnificent great dane -- a horse really -- three times the size of our own dog. She made impossibly loud guttural Wookie noises anytime she saw us. She was the kind of dog that you immediately feared but for no good reason. She was sweet.

Steve mentioned that to fill his time he had begun playing cribbage in a South Saint Paul Bar League and was looking for a substitute for Thursday night. I wasn't immediately warm to the idea of leaving the comfort of my fort for a night of cards, gambling, and booze -- hell, I can do that here I thought -- but I could tell the missus was in need of a break from my constant pacing and manic behavior for one night, so I conceded to help Steve out with his problem. Again, I had to think of my parents. I was a professional housesitter here. I couldn't let them down. So I agreed. I'm sure he could tell from our quick game that I was a commanding player. I was more than a substitute. I was a ringer.

Thursday night came and we set out with another friend of Steve's -- Randy, who owned the Dairy Queen that was just up the road on Larpentuer. Everyone admired Randy because he only had to work nine months of the year and was said to gross over $150,000 after taxes from the revenues of Blizzards and Dilly Bars. It was a "good business", Randy said, "I like ice cream quite a bit".

After getting humorously lost in South Saint Paul we fell upon our first destination. Marv's Corral and Bar. Marv's was our dinner spot. You don't dare hit a long night of cribbage and boozing on an empty stomach. Marv's was unlike any bar I had been to in the Twin Cities. I both loved and feared it. It was straight up Wild West; I felt like I had traveled back in time. Marv, the proprietor was a huge, mean, and ugly German. There wasn't anybody at the bar that looked under fifty. These were serious people with deadly agendas. There were cribbage boards on tables inside and I thought of warming up with a couple of quick hands but I was told that those boards were for two other teams playing in the league that night. I was advised very strongly not to touch them. I headed it. I was on foreign ground -- out of my element. I had lost my upper hand. Besides, Marv had guns on the wall behind the bar -- older relics, but a sign above the bar that read "We Don't Dial 911", made me think some of those pistols still shot true. It was probably the fear of the guns that made me break a life long vow of vegetarianism right then and there. In hindsight...I still don't have any. All I know was that the force to gnaw on raw meat was so much more than simple peer pressure. The pull was galactic. I couldn't escape. Before we even arrived at Marv's my compatriots were talking large about the Burgers and fried onions that Marv served up. I paid little attention and thought only about the chance of booze and perhaps a side order of fries that might get me by. When we arrived and I saw what I was up against, I was able to take no comfort in a menu that offered the following items: hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and hot dogs. And so, without even thinking, when I was offered the choice, "you want a burger or a cheeseburger?", I said - Cheeseburger. And just like that -- a decade of carne avoidance -- ended in a pathetic and scared last stand. But it was no time to take stock of my moral failures. I had more immediate concerns, namely, that this burger was going rip through my stomach (or visa versa) something awful. Coming to grips with my weakening spinal cord would have to wait. I knew this day would come and I was prepared.

I ate the burger, self medicating myself as much as possible for what I thought would be a bad night of toilet trips. But we were having a good time. Again, the talk had turned to politics and I bit my burger instead of biting my lip. A drunk Native American hooker, who had been dancing around the bar, trying to find some work, accidently elbowed me hard in the back of my head. I shot out of my chair and turned to my assailant thinking I was being attacked. She grabbed me and apologized, "I am sooooooo surrrry. Ha!. Woww...how tall ar' ya?" Still sore from the blow, I knew where this was going and turned quickly so she was smiling only at the back of my head. The talk at the table got back to hoping the war would start in the next day or two. I could see that Steve had drawn a permanent straight line between his unemployment and Saddam. The PR engine in Washington was doing a fucking amazing job.

We left Marv's full of animal and drink and headed straight up some winding hill to our cribbage destination. We were the 'away team' tonight and we were heading to the Polish National Alliance Club (the Pee-En-Eh). I knew things were bad when we pulled onto a residential street and found that PNA was no more than a big house with both a Polish and POW flag flying proudly in the lawn. The club was in the basement. That's where PNA lodge 1033 got things done on a Thursday night. It was a huge basement horribly lit with fluorescence. The walls were covered with old lodge charters, flags, plagues, photos, and other assorted gimcrack. It was an alarming site. On a small jukebox, the anthem, "Poland is Not Lost" was playing at high volumes.

The tables were all set up with boards, cards and booze. I met the rest of my team. Apparently, we were the rogue team of the league and had been operating for quite some time without a bar or lodge sponsor. But our luck had changed and as of last week we had a new sponsor - the Mississippi Bar, which, I of course had never heard of. "Ohhh the Mississippi Bar...nice place", was the common response when people learned of our new backer. I'm told it's next to the strip club -- The King of Diamonds. So it must be classy.

We got down to the cribbage and more drinking. My partner was Laura, an 86 year old mother of three, grandmother of eight, and great grandmother of six. She was sharp as a tack. A damn good cribbage player and a beautiful drinker. Laura has been married for 55 years, That floors me. I raised my glass at least 10 times to that. It's almost twice as long as I've been alive. Think about it man. Wow.

Our start was good and I was winning all kinds of weird beaded necklaces every-time I got a hand of 16 or more. At the beginning that was often. The betting was moderate. Our opponents were all of good Polish stock. They were fierce, heavy drinkers and sharp cribbage players. They were settled and witty. They were working men and women. Their fingers were the size of sausages and twice as big as mine. They all had short, one syllable names: Bob, Dan, Ed, Jud, Deb, Lee, Joan. In the end Laura and I ended up splitting our winnings. We went five for ten. But the last game is a haze of polish drinking music, brass cribbage pegs and plastic green beads. I don't recall if I played well or cheated.

In the end, my stomach behaved -- or, at least it was distracted. I didn't have any problems. I was returned home late and the liquor bottles in the yard had mysteriously been picked up or removed. The dog shit was still there though. I'm glad the housesitting is coming to an end. It's a full time job, Jack!

January 17, 2003

Selected Readings
Very busy here housesitting my parents pad. I'm finding I need lots of time for reading by the fire, growing my beard, taking hour long breaks in the sauna room and watching as much reality television as possible. Have you seen the one where M.C. Hammer, Vince Neil, and that kid from "Goonies" all live in the same house? It's like reading those old Bizzaro World comics, where Superman is as evil as a Michigan University affirmative action case and Lex Luthor is our savior George Bush, come to save us from ourselves.

While rummaging through the stacks of my parents library, I thought I would share a top ten list of the titles that I have enjoyed browsing:

1. Wood: New Directions in Design and Architecture
2. The Polar Bear Waltz and Other Moments of Epic Silliness
3. The Unfinished City
4. The Craft of the Japanese Sword
5. Code Breaking: A History and Exploration
6. Outwitting Ticks
7. American Chrome
8. Going, Going, Gone: Vanishing Americana
9. Letters to a Young Poet
10. The Como-Harriet Streetcar Line: A Trip Through Twin City Memories

January 15, 2003

Do Not Pass Me Just To Slow Down
It's the return of the Wild West. Sitting with el rey del perros this morning, I'm tossing the ball and working on my third cup of black coffee, laced with some Snowshoe Grog that I raided from my parents liquor cabinet. Outside, three bunnies are running along the back fence.

I'm training the dog on new tactical maneuvers today. That evil pimp Sharon has struck a deep fear into the Israeli people by putting the entire country on Red Hail alert. Beware the Red Hail! In retaliation, I've put the house on "Pink Snow" alert and am fortifying the compound with everything we will need for a long winters war. Tonight Rainbow Foods will be raided for all caned goods and whale blubber.

I've put Fess on a 24 hour watch for suspicious individuals carrying manpads. We've received word from Intelligence that The National Security Council is "planning an education campaign to teach the American public to identify the missiles if they see one". So far, the dog an I have seen some dark sedans drive by, but as long as their sunroofs are down, it's going to be hard for persons to operate their manpads properly. This is a science after all. The same intelligence warns that soon commercial airlines will be "installing high-tech 'countermeasures'". Which means that on your next vacation to Barbados YOU will be expected to man the Israeli made anti-missile defense rockets upon take off. Riding First Class will come with the special privilege of operating fun high tech weaponry and a license to kill. You'll start to notice a whole different breed of lecherous humans flying. People who would never have set foot in an aircraft before will be flying the friendly skies looking for the chance to cut down some unfriendlies. Selected passengers will also be issued Go Pills - government sponsored speed - to increase their focus on artillery targets in between sales meetings from Cleveland to Salt Lake City. Shit, now that we've learned that North Korean "teachers tell american students that they are 'two-legged wolves'" and that the United States is nothing more than a "hotbed of all evils swarming with beggars", we should be prepared to get rerouted in a mid-flight to miami to run carpet bombing missions along the DMZ. And don't ask for an extra meal when this unfortunate delay occurs. The government thinks you're a better killer when you're hungry. Huh? With this kind of action, who needs Reality T.V.?

January 14, 2003

Housesitting
All the children will sleep well tonight. At least that's what I heard on MPR this morning. But I just can't draw a closed circle of truth these days. My hands are freezing and don't work properly. I start the pen in an irregular angle and end up south of fiction, working on finding one damn fact that hasn't been kicked around like a Oaxacan street dog. It's uncertain and cold times like these that make people - families - go to the Mattress. That's exactly what I've done this week. Technically, you could argue (just not with me) that I'm simply housesitting my parents crib whilst they prance along the beaches of Saint Croix. But It doesn't feel right to call it housesitting. The term implies that it is I who am taking care of something, which couldn't be further from the truth. The House and everything in it is taking care of me. More specifically, the fine assembly of goods (fireplace, sauna, full kitchen, books) and a dog named Fess are taking care of me and the missus quite well while we hunker down.

I am positively baffled by the dog though. She's terrific and impossibly trained. Our morning walks are brutally cold as the sun is just turning the sky I blazoned steal blue when we set out to take on the neighborhood. The streets are pretty quiet except for a few kids who are already waiting for the bus. We commiserate with the other half asleep adults who are shoveling their walks or taking their beast for a stroll. Frequently, Fess lurches to take little breaks, usually to check out some mysterious odor lurking within a pile of dried crusted leaves in someone's lawn. When the opportunity presents itself, I steal quick glances into neighboring windows searching for other unfortunates who are already at battle with the morning.

Returning to the house, I thaw my hands by rubbing Fess' mane until she looks at me askance, as if to say, "enough already buddy - go make us some coffee." Which I do. Then she (Fess) is freed up to go about her chores. Or I should say her chore. Her one mission in life is to stand guard at the big bay window on the second floor and watch for moving objects that pass outside on the street. Then, with dramatic force she herds them along by doing repeated high intensity figure eight laps around both the living room and dining room tables. Do not stop until the object, be it a bunny rabbit, a car, or another dog passes completely from your field of vision. Sitting in my morning chair, sipping my coffee and trying to get a read on the sports action, I am laughing at her work, which is fundamentally gorgeous to watch and hilarious in spirit. If you let her, she will do this all day until she gets put away in her crate at 10PM. She will only stop to run around the back yard and piss a bunch. She's got her purpose down. Find one thing your good at in life and be better at it than anyone else. Hell, not one beast I know can herd moving objects outside this house better than Fess. Not one.

January 13, 2003

Holy Fucking Media Bias
I was pretty impressed with Rev Sharpton on Meet the Press yesterday and got online this morning to read what the press was saying about his interview with Tim Russet. The fucking dogs at the Washington post went after him this morning with everything they have. People hate this guy (Sharpton) and will do everything they fucking can to drag his name through the sewers of Washington. And that includes flat out 100% lying. From Google news, I linked to an article at the washingtonpost and found them twisting Sharpton's language around to paint a wrong picture. Very fucking subtle. I can't believe they think they can get away with this kind of low-rent journalism.

In this article the washington post writes that Sharpton said "white-trash"

While the transcript from Meet The Press, has Sharpton saying, "white candidate"


Appalling. This is from the Washington Post ladies and gentleman. I am floored. You have to also appreciate how the Post changed "you've got" to "you got" to give Sharpton's language that nice ghetto ebonics touch. Again, Very fucking subtle. What the hell is going on?

January 12, 2003

Blake Schwarzenback Eulogizes Joe Strummer
Beautiful and dark things are tossing around in the mind of Black Schwarzenbach these days. And we are all better for it. In his first post in a long time to Jetstobrazilonline, Blake talks about a tour denting depression, puts in an open call to replace the irreplaceable Chris Daly on drums (God I wish I still played drums and lived in NYC), and gives in my opinion the best damn eulogy that I have read for Joe Strummer. Stay the course King. Come visit us in Minnesota.

January 10, 2003

Clap Your Hands for the Snow Yo
Hey, what's this shit? Tiny little white things are falling from the sky in Minnesota. Ahh Ha. Dance! I have the absolute best party track of the 2K3 to dance to in the snow. "Get By" (4.3MB), by Talib Kweli is just too damn tight. What a huge anthem to get the new year started on the good foot. The song has this amazing little sixteenth note clap track in the background that just makes it move. And Kweli's flow on top shakes mountains. Then comes that crazy beautiful hook that makes you want to lick flag poles just to see if your tongue sticks. What a song! In a weird coincidence, the new Bjork song whom Spike Jones directed the video (link via Buffoonery by way of The Reverse Cowgirl Blog) for also features the same clap track. Clap tracks are cool. Note: that cricket thing, stalking bjork in the video, is no friend of mine.

Words learned from watching South Park last night that got immediately added to the household lexicon:
Ass-Logger
Butt-Pipe
Poonanner

The collective behavioral age of both the missus and I after watching last night's South Park episode: a blissful 23.7 years.

The Total number of times that South Park was exalted to "best television show ever": 8.

Best rock band to ever play South Park Elementry School's Bay of Pigs Memorial Dance: Dio -- as in Ronnie James Dio.

January 09, 2003

Give Me a Hybrid or Give Me Death
I'm getting really excited about owning an electric car. In a strange but timely epiphany, four points have come together this week to squarely define my desire to rid my life of the 1985 Olds' transpo-rocket that I commute to work with every winter day. First, my friend Jodi gave me a ride in her new Hybrid Toyota Prias. Second, Arianna Huffington added fuel to the fire with her Road Outrage article on Salon yesterday. Third, and most bizarrely is MacWorld, which just excites me generally about new technologies and possibilities. And Fourthly, the deteriorating health of my Oldsmobile GrandRoyale Brougham leaves me thinking of what could be.

I am more excited about the technical and esthetic value of a well designed hybrid vehicle, more-so than I am about feeling ethically compelled to end my role as an accomplice of terror every time I fill the Brougham with petrol, as the ads at the Detroit Project suggest. But - hey, anymore of a reason to feel righteous about my new hybrid has to be a good thing right? You'll see me leaning out the window of my new hybrid at stop lights, chomping on a toothpick, pointing my chin to the sky in quick jerking motions, asking passengers in Xterras how many terrorists they've help support today, and then speed away with a sweet grin on my face.

Beyond fuel efficiencies, I'm ready for hybrids to be Wi-Fi ready and equipped with the ability to transfer audio and other information from a PC.

Unfortunately, of the available US Hybrid lot, I'm not especially excited about any of the current designs. Many friends I've spoke with who are also on the cusp of purchasing a hybrid all seem to chant, "Somebody please make a hybrid that doesn't look like it was designed by an intern at the Ford Motors Company". Let's get some new blood in the mix. If the new vehicles unveiled at the Detroit Autoshow are any indication of what's to come in electric cars, then I can only conclude that the major automotive companies are trying to design the ugliest hybrids ever so that they can turn to their shareholders in 2004 and declare, "Well it looks like nobody is buying our electric cars. We better stop making them". Ridiculous.

The worst offender has to be the Honda Element. All things being subjective, this is straight up the most butt-ugly vehicle I have ever seen. I feel like if I hit as much as a pothole in that thing I'd crumple up and fold into an idiots origami. The Scion by Toyota looks no better. I'm sure If I rolled the streets in that thing I would get beat up almost everyday. And I would deserve it.

So, here's a hope and a prayer that in 2003 we will see something new from VW, Honda, or hell, Sony, Apple - anybody - that can put a capable designer at the helm of producing a lust-worthy electric hybrid. The first company that can make a hybrid that's easy on the eyes and has an equally stylized marketing campaign is going to make a lot of money.

January 08, 2003

How to be Fashionable and Lend Books to Your Friends
There's nothing quite like sitting around and listing all the ways that you and your friends are cooler than all the rest of the people of the world. No, I'm not talking about this or any other weblog. I'm talking about Andrew Coulter Enright's book, How to be Fashionable or Consume Like Me. Basically a style guide on how to be like Andrew in the 2K3, this tomb of fashionista goodness is very funny. But beyond that, it's a beautifully presented typographical wunderbook. The old wood type and street styled layouts are sometimes simple and othertimes dense - making for some interesting typographical puzzles to solve if you want to find what hip music that Andrew and his friends listen to.

Also , if you got all these great books and people want to borrow them from you but you're worried that you might never get your books back then you might want to get yourself a Personal Library Kit and start your own archieve of lendable materials (link via The Daily Candy).

The StarTribune is out of style
I went to read the daily news at the StarTribune.com this morning and found that its stylings were being whacked up by apple's new well intentioned safari browser. My guess is someone over at the Strib is cursing Steve Jobs right now and working frantically to right their style sheet wrongs. This is the first site that I've seen that looks remarkably different in the new browser.

StarTribune.com as seen on Safari 1.0Beta


StarTribune as seen on Internet Explorer 5.2 for Mac

January 07, 2003

In the Jungle we take a Safari
Well damn, Steve Jobs came out punching and kicking at his keynote address. I guess that Vic Mackey won't have to throw the hammer down now. People wonder and comment on why Apple's brand loyalty (fanaticism) is so high but you only need feast your eyes on all the beautifully designed things Jobs was giving away for free to answer those questions. The new open source web browser, Safari, designed specifically for mac users is smoking fast and bizarrely gorgeous. Using the same UI as itunes and all the other iapps, I wonder if apple is going to trademark this UI. Even though I had not the imagination to think that apple was going to unleash this bomb, it all makes sense now as I think about how little support Microsoft has given their browser on the apple platform. A welcomed addition. And the new 17" Powerbook...with the backlit illuminated keyboard? Well that's not free. And at $3,299.00, I'll just have drool over that one until I win the powerball. Still though...where was the icar? I fully expect Jobs to unveil a fully integrated hybrid electric car next time. If Apple designs it, the people will come.

Vic versus The System
Quite a line-up today. First up to bat we got G-Dubya, rolling his trojan horse into town. Corporate tax breaks and the elimination of dividend taxes disguised as a growth stimulus package? Jigga-who? Let's all brace for a collective moan to sweep the country when this one hits the streets. But wait...the stock markets are already surging and pulsing with a hip and swanky beatitude. Wallstreet loves it. G-Dubya is a genius. Horse spittle! There are other dark forces at work here. Could it be that wallstreet is putting on its party hat only in anticipation of Steve Jobs soon to be landmark keynote speech today at 9am ET? Watch it stream here. They'd better hope he's got more up his sleeve than a new patch for ispeak. The people are saying a dating service app run on imac. I'm saying yawn - is 8:20am too early for a Heineken?

Thank god detective Vic Mackey is back on the job tonight. I fully expect that Vic will look into this economic stimulus package thing and draw his own conclusions about the brand of justice that he will have to wield upon those in washington. And if S. Jobs gets out of line today? Well I hope The Shield will knock him around a bit too.

January 06, 2003

Boat Dreams From the Lake
That's Minnesota right now. Sandy beaches and ice pack. Still no significant snowfall to speak of. I took this snap yesterday while walking around lake Calhoun. I have to hand it to Minnesotans. When it comes to creative outdoor activities that stave off cabin fever, they can't be beat. To wit, yesterday on the lake, activities included but were not limited to: kite flying with ice skates, where the participant wearing skates is pulled around the lake at a high speed by a large wind blown kite, ice wind surfing, which looks just like normal windsurfing without the soft cushion of the water when you fall. And then there is wind racing. Which looks like this. The craft itself is damn cool and looks like something George Lucas would have created when he was on. I'm not really sure what this sport is called but it looks hella fun. The speeds that you can get on one of these is incredible. Many of the racers were using the ice fishing houses as markers for their course which added to the excitement of the thing tremendously.

January 03, 2003

New Type in the House
A beautiful new typeface has been unveiled. Neutraface, a well defined architectural font , designed by House Industries, based on the work of architect Richard Neutra, is both very present and beautiful while tipping the hat to one of the masters of modernism. For anyone who has followed the works of Richard Neusta, I think they will find the new type does his legacy justice. More tongue in cheek and a swell value add is the Boomerang Chair that House Industries is offering as a complement to their new typeface.

Elsewhere, Typophile has a nice review of the new Indie Fonts book. Instead of a lengthy diatribe of the book they let the book review itself. And Daidala has a funny story about what happens when you try and talk type/fonts with people who could give a damn. I'm sure you could replace the word font for weblog or actionscripts or ipods and pretty much get the same reaction. Could it be we've isolated ourselves in our own world?

January 02, 2003

Motto for 2k3: I Gotsta Get Paid!
The internet turned two decades old yesterday. Could it be 2003 becomes the year that Webloggers collectively say, I Gotsta Get Paid! Rafat Ali, writes about the lucrative potential of bloggers getting paid CA$H. Content continues to make a comeback.

Two-K-Three is for cutting
Newly added to the culinary arts section of our 'kitchen that could', comes Wusthof Trident knives that really cut. Wow. I guess I just grew accustomed to the fact that chopping vegetables was a painstakingly dull process that required an equally dull instrument. But the Wusthof's take things to a whole new level. Not since I switched form a Windows PC to a Macintosh have I appreciated the rare satisfaction that one gets when upgrading a daily use item to its supreme possibility. I swear, if I wanted to, I could cut right through my refrigerator with one of these knives. The downside is, I'm deathly scared of them. I've already cut myself once. And with the increased quality of the knife comes the real possibility that I could cut through my fingers like butter and not know I've done it for like five minutes. I think I may have to sign up for some course. Something like, "Your Knives and You: Appreciating and Caring for Your Wusthof Knives". Or at the very least watch the video, How to use a Wusthof knife.