Detroit Institute of Arts officials said a charming 12-year-old boy was with a group from Holly Academy in Oakland County, Mich., when he took a wad of gum out of his mouth and stuck it on Helen Frankenthaler's 1963 abstract painting "The Bay," worth about $1.5 million.
Although the gum didn't stick to the fiber of the canvas, it left a stain the size of a quarter. T Museum experts are busily researching chemicals in the gum to decide how best to clean the painting.
Holly Academy director Julie Kildee said the boy was suspended from the charter school and that his parents also have disciplined him."Even though we give very strict guidelines on proper behavior and we hold students to high standards, he is only 12 and I don't think he understood the ramifications of what he did before it happened, but he certainly understands the severity of it now."
In other art news, the glorious Santiago Calatrava addition to the Milwaukee Art Museum stands out as a classic thing of beauty in a city known for cheeseheads and beer.
But a recent martini fete shows how the spirit of the city holds true despite whatever trappings are built to house them. The Martinifest degenerated into an overcrowded, drunken affair. Some guests accosted artworks, threw up, passed out, were injured, got into 'altercations' and climbed onto sculptures.
"Hindsight is 20-20 . . . it was probably too cheap," Kerry Wolfe, a local programming director for Clear Channel, said of the event's premise - unlimited martinis for $30.
"In our five years of experience, we have never had any problems with rental events," David Gordon, the museum's director, said in a brief written statement responding to questions about the event. "It was not an appropriate event to be held in the museum, and we have reviewed our procedures for bookings."
As per usual, sculptures lining one of the long gallerias in the museum's Calatrava-designed building were in close proximity to serving area. But on this occasion, food, drink and vomit decorated some of the artworks by night's end.
"It was crazy," said attendee Kathleen Christians, 39. "People were shoving people over. People were getting sick, screaming, shouting, messing with the artwork."
A group of four young men climbed onto "Standing Woman," a tall, bronze sculpture of a goddess-like woman with exaggerated features by early 20th-century American artist Gaston Lachaise.
"They were standing on it, grabbing the boobs, and somebody was just taking pictures with a cell phone," said Laura Collins, 35.
Asked whether artworks had been damaged or are in need of cleaning, the museum said two sculptures had been removed for "review" and more would be known in two weeks, after the senior conservator returns to the museum and has had a look. The sculptures are made from resilient materials such as bronze.
During the night, several vendors ran out of food, drink mix and vodka early on. A bad sign. Some who ran out of mix started pouring straight shots of vodka. It is not known if beer bongs were used.
Insurance is expected to cover all damage.
The second good book in three short days: The Drummer by Anthony Neil Smith.
The obvious and most asinine thing I could say is that this book rocked. It's true despite the bad pun.
The drummer is Merle Johnson a.k.a. Calvin Christopher a.k.a. Leave Me the Fuck Alone. I need to write a full review and hesitate to do so now as:
1.) I haven't had enough caffeine or sleep
2.) I don't want to spill any Neilish plot twists
3.) I haven't the brain to string anything intelligent together except afore written obvious thing.
It can be said that this break the crime fiction old while still holding its precepts dear.
The third book is Province Town Follies, Bangkok Blues by Randall Peffer. This book, which I read until my eyes hurt at past three this morning, was fantastic. Like Neil's, it breaks the tried and true structure of crime fiction and is still utterly crime fiction. I hope to actually become cognizant enough to do a write-up which defies the idiocy of this post.
More books lay in wait in my pile of review books. I am in fear of them. After three great books, what could fate have in store for me within this stack of innocent looking books? Tune in tomorrow as "Jen Celebrates a Lucky Streak" or "Jen Pulls Hair from Her Head and That of Strangers Crossing her Path."
Next up on my plate today, teetering down the stairs to the lobby to buy $.75 cans of diet Coke to feed my addiction.
How close we are to that is up for serious debate. One view point, from Dr. Jeffrey Lewis on his blog ArmsControlNetwork, is that we are a little less than a decade away if that end is to come at the nuclear behest of Iran.
"Overall, Iran is probably a little less than a decade away from developing a nuclear weapon. The key question here is how long it will take Iran to enrich a few tens of kilograms of uranium to more than 90 percent U-235.
Dafna Linzer reported that the US Intelligence Community does not believe that Iran could do so before early to mid next decade, a revision of previous assessments that Iran would have the ability to produce nuclear weapons early in the next decade.
Why so long? The answer is that Iran still has to build, install and operate its centrifuges to enrich uranium. "
Dr. Lewis then goes into an in depth analysis that hurt my brain after a bit. I had to rest and then go back and read more. But this is certainly a different take than the imminent demise indicated by some and makes more sense than mere prognostications of doom.
His article on "Where Would Jesus Look for WMD?" is also quite the synapse popper.
The Kingston Trio is still utterly current with the lyrics from the Merry Minuet:
They're rioting in Africa,
They're starving in Spain.
There's hurricanes in Florida,
And Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering
With unhappy souls.
The French hate the Germans,
The Germans hate the Poles;
Italians hate Yugoslavs,
South Africans hate the Dutch,
And I don't like anybody very much!
But we can be tranquil
and thankful and proud,
For man's been endowed
With a mushroom-shaped cloud.
And we know for certain
That some lovely day
Someone will set the spark off,
And we will all be blown away!
They're rioting in Africa,
There's strife in Iran.
What nature doesn't do to us
Will be done by our fellow man
Who do you complain to then?
The Investigators put 18 police stations in 15 southeastern Wisconsin cities to a hidden camera test. We asked them all the same question. How do you file a complaint against a police officer?
We never mentioned a specific incident. And we never named an officer. We just wanted to know the procedure, and if there was a form we could take home."
This is a problem endemic to all of America. It is not an attempt to paint all officers with the same brush. Every member of law enforcement chooses to literally put their lives on the line to keep others safe and all of them deserve respect for that. I've been lucky to encounter some outstanding officers who genuinely care and are really trying to make the world a better, safer place.
I've encountered the other kind of officer as well. The kind who think they are a law unto themselves. There are many levels of corruption - some more insidious than others. Check out Police Complaint Center to get a perspective.
The Sex Pistols, glorified idiots and talentless hacks, have opted out of appearing at their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
The group officially declined the honor -- to be handed out in front of a group of their misguided, money-driven peers, March 13 at a dinner and "performance" at the Waldorf Astoria in New York -- in a lovely handwritten message posted on the band's Web site Friday.
The statement stated that Hall of Fame voters are "music industry people," and decried the price of attending -- $25,000 for a table, "or $15,000 to squeak up in the gallery."
And fuck if I don't agree with them.
This story began with the orgasm, moved quickly to the orgasms chemical joy factor, prolactin, then headed steadily down Duh Street.
Prolactin, for those of you who do not analyze to the smallest minutiae of everything that happens with your body, is a chemical hormone produced by a satiated brain after orgasm. Men and women are gifted with it as a means of balancing the lovely dopamine gift that arousal gives to pre-coitus couples. It is responsible for the grin and the "let's never leave the bed, just order in pizza, sleep occasionally and continue having more sex" feeling.
Stuart Brody of the University of Paisley, UK, and Tillmann Kruger of the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich teamed up to find out what the feeling is all about, Alfie. Boldly, and with beakers extended in supplication, they measured blood prolactin levels in male and female volunteers who watched erotic films before engaging in masturbation or sexual intercourse to orgasm in the laboratory.
One would hope for the sake of the test subjects that the laboratory had some kind of soft throws, a few pillows and candle or two lit for the occasion.
Brody and Kruger were surprised to discover that after orgasm from sexual intercourse, the increase in blood prolactin levels is 400 per cent higher in both sexes compared with after orgasm from masturbation.
So, they concluded, sex with a partner is better sex.
"This explains why orgasm from intercourse is more satisfying than masturbation," says Brody. Since elevated levels of prolactin have been linked to erectile dysfunction, this may also explain why most men need a "recovery period" after sex.
Someone could explain to Brody that there are other reasons why sex with a partner is better but that would most likely lead to another grand experiment that filled the lab with copulating couples.
Christopher Moore is a hero of mine; a guru, an avatar, and many other words that mean the same thing that I could look up in the thesaurus except that I have already no doubt overstated my point.
All of this has been re-iterated for me by his soon to be released, A DIRTY JOB.
Brutal honesty forces me to tell you that I adored LAMB to the point of buying multiple copies to thrust on loved ones and I actually re-read it. Twice. This is a rarity for a women verily drowning in unread books many of which I am actually looking forward to.
Moore did write a few tomes after LAMB.
I enjoyed FLUKE.
THE STUPIDEST ANGEL was an ok read.
A DIRTY JOB is fucking brilliant.
Oh, sweet review gods, you have put a book in my paws I will have to karmically read at least ten crappy books to make up for.
Oh, oh God, it was so good!
This is not overstatement. I may well have been grinning for the whole read. I think I was. My face hurts and the cats are looking at me strangely.
I'll admit, there was trepidation upon picking it up.
When you read something fantastic by an author, absorb their entire backlog like Tantalus finally able to reach water after eons of dehydrated torment, then read a rather good than an ok book, you become a little book shy. Just a tiny bit. As in, you know you’ll by the book, but you’ll sigh heavily and raise a brow (if you’re able to – or, if you’re like me, you end up with a surprised look in place of the skeptical one) before you plunk down your money.
What’s it all about, babble mistress, you may well be asking.
Well, I’ll tell you a little. Just give you a taste.
It’s about death. As in – DEATH.
The day Charlie Asher, beta male*, is given one of the greatest gifts a man can be given in the form of a daughter, a gift he already had, loved and cherished was taken from him. His wife, Rachel.
Charlie had rushed back to the hospital with a favorite cd after his very patient wife had gently kicked him out after he had effectively driven her and the nursing staff insane with his incessant worrying. Worrying being an understatement.
Charlie is met by the sight of a very tall black man in a mint green suit upon reaching Rachel’s room.
“What are you doing here?”
“You can see me?”
It is right then that trouble begins. Or should I say, TROUBLE. No, I shouldn’t. Let’s stick with trouble.
Charlie’s wife had died and this man in mint green must have had something to do with it. When Charlie turns to confront him, the man is gone. As is the CD.
The bereaved, confused and anxiety riddled new Dad is left to raise his little girl in a world filled to the brim with sharp corners. He learns to raise her as he runs a second hand thrift store left to him after the death of his father. A store staffed by Ray, an ex-cop in desperate need of a date and a faster internet connection nudge-nudge, wink wink and Lily, a perpetually annoyed Goth sixteen going on seventeen year-old girl-woman who has just discovered Baudelaire.
A store that seems to be stocked with objects possessing a menacing red glow.
Oh, and people seem to be dying wherever Charlie goes.
Too bad he was out of the store when a delivery came for him. In the envelope, the Great Big Book of Death. It would have explained everything. If Charlie had been able to read it. Before Lily signed for it and made off with it. With no intention of giving it back.
Left to his own devices, Charlie pieces together that something weird is happening to him. Something that makes people occasionally drop dead at his feet and has voices calling to him from the sewer with a cute nickname; Fresh Meat.
With this strange gift/curse, Charlie has been delivered of one piece of luck. His daughter, Sophie. Who has a growing collection of formerly living pets in need of constant replacement. A father’s love for his daughter gives a grieving man a reason to live as he comes to terms with the possibility, that just maybe, he might, perhaps, be Death.
This book was so good, so funny and so moving that I am actually pissed that I’m done reading it. Moore has returned to the heights of tight, humorous, profound, allegorical writing he gave us with LAMB. And if you’ve faced the loss of people you love, it’s all the better. He touches on death and dying as one who has grieved and yet returned to the land of the laughing.
A kow tow to the mad man in Hawaii from a grateful grasshopper.
*and this is important.
Needs must be met.
After four days of house/cat/plant sitting for my sister, who is currently enjoying sun and frolics in L.A., I have written scads and slowly come to hate her antiquated, bulked-up monitor, I've blown her computer speakers (there was smoke and everything!) and I've run through almost all the caffeine in the place.
Yes, that last one is what is taking me away from this computer and it's loud, clunky keyboard to my dear sisters car which took half an hour of driving around with a despondent expression featuring full on jutting lower lip before I found parking RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE BUILDING! To contemplate giving up such a wondrous parking spot, you know my needs are dire.
Dianne is a veg-head and I need meat. Meat, I tell you!
And I have one, just one, energy drink left in the fridge.
The correlation between the muse and my need to be jacked up on caffeine need not be contemplated now. Not until a full supply of juju is in the steel box in the kitchen.
Why do I tarry?
A full can sits next to this damned keyboard. It's dark countenance reassures. I have time before my blood squeezes the last of this artificial joy into my nervous system.
It's SUCH a good parking spot, too.
Oh, for you.
Even in such times as these I think of you. Enjoy.
He was spotted at the Little Rock Zoo hefting a trash can chock full of a confused and marginally terrified sheep. Carhanhan was heading toward the exit with is hoved prize when security guards approached and asked him what the hell he was doing.
Thinking quickly, Carnahan told a tale of the sad little mutton chop being terribly ill. He, Grady, was a doctor set to heal the hapless sheep of whatever ailed him. It. Implications that the sheep was headed to a veterinary clinic and not a cardboard box for a night of "affection" followed by being roast over a can of sterno were dismissed by the canny officers.
Carnahan fought with officers and shouts of "You can take my sheep from me but you'll never take away our love!" were not heard as they took him into custody.
He was arrested on a felony charge of violating an animal facility and the misdemeanor charges of criminal trespass, cruelty to animals, resisting arrest, and theft of property.
The sheep was returned to its pen at the zoo, wise now to the old "I've got a carrot in my pocket for you," trick.
Meanwhile, back at the Bat Gas 'n Go Quicky Mart, a mildly stupid and frankly freaky couple were arrested in Pittsburgh after asking a clerk to microwave a faux penis filled with urine. Police say the woman who made up the bold half of the couple was going to use the penis to pass a drug test.
Me thinks the police may have that a little wrong.
But get this, the clerk wasn't aware of anything strange going on until she had microwaved the penis and had "noticed an odd smell."
The Bat Gas 'n Go Quicky Mart hastened to remove the microwave used in the heinous act.
Joy in a can; the consumption of which allows me to forgo sleep as I write and write and write and write and write.
You can only imagine my excitement when discovered that it's available in a 24 oz can. The only thing that would be better - an easy to insert I.V.
Not surprisingly, the inventor (Russel Goldencloud Weiner) is the child of two herbalists from Las Vegas, Nevada (one of whom is a.k.a. Michael Savage). This is where I discovered both Rock Star Energy drink and that Las Vegas, besides being very loud with an overabundance of flashing lights, smells... strange.
The first warm, sunny day of spring had my mind full to bursting with ideas. Distracted, I plopped a bouquet of Gerber daisies and some hot house tomatoes on the counter in the kitchen. It scampered off unseen, unheard as I made dinner.
When I sat down to write that night, I felt a soft caress on my ankle. I looked down. Nothing. But I sensed something there with me, staring into the monitor, watching words run across the screen.
By the time I lay down in bed, the sun was reaching through the window. Putting the story to bed was hard but my body relaxed and my mind finally emptied. I was almost asleep when a few muscles spasms sent my legs kicking. I heard something hit the floor.
I turned on the light.
Nothing was there.
As my mind reached back into dreams, I felt something small, hairy and insistent by my ear. Then I was deep asleep.
It was with me in the shower the next day. It was almost as if it was all around me. All I saw was misted tiles and colorful bottles of girl-scented confections for hair and skin. But I knew wasn't alone. I rinsed my hair and got out quickly, not scared but unnerved.
I got used to it after a while.
It even rode with me in the car, staring out the window, the tip of a hairy leg just touching my arm. It loved the beach and would nestle in my hair, peeking out over my shoulder at the crashing waves as I jotted in a notebook.
It fed well.
The chaos of my house while I was caught up in a story meant it never went without a meal.
We had an understanding of sorts.
But once, when I'd forgotten it for a few days, it came upon me suddenly, menacingly. It reached my waist by now and wore vestiges of clothes made of wrinkled paper. It didn't speak.
It didn't need to.
Need filled its eyes.
I slunk off to the office. Hours later, as I stared at the screen, it sighed contentedly. Skittering softly across the floor, it stood next to me, its many eyes staring into mine. I was transfixed.
It opened its mouth and I heard a dull pop. Its jaw had unhinged. Slowly, its mouth reached up to mine. I knew what was going to happen. I wanted it to happen.
"Yes," I whispered.
Gently, it enveloped me.
I was consumed.
With a soft burp, it closed its mouth, climbed upon my chair, and began to type.
The previous hour I had magically gotten the snow blower to start. It helped knowing it has an electric starter. Plugging it in before I threw the switch did make quite a difference. But this snow blower has been around longer than some current pop stars have been alive. It belched smoke, dripped gas and emitted noxious odors that would out stink a school bus.
To plow, or 'blow', the snow I had to push this behemoth up and down the driveway as I held a lever down with my left hand. This was a fuck load of work. I had to stop every few minutes to shake my hand out and to better enjoy afore mentioned noxious fumes.
After forty minutes, I steered the beast back into the garage and headed inside.
Unwrapping myself of winter layers took a bit of time that gave my lungs a chance to acclimate to warm air. Warm not stinky air. I finally sat down in the old chair, huffing and puffing a bit. Then I noticed it.
The smell of gas, old motor oil and sweat. And it was coming from me.
I sat up in horror.
"I smell like a guy!"
There wasn't enough lavender body soap to wash away that terrible moment.
Exxon scientists say the eco system there is fine. Local scientists say the eco system is screwed.
Exxon says they've spent $3 billion in state and federal lawsuits and should pay no more than $25 million.
Last year's profit: $10 billion.
...be glad you're off somewhere I am not.
I have consumed mass quantities of garlic. The scent is emitted every time I exhale. Within an hour, when I workout, it will be emitted from every pour as I sweat.
Garlic is beloved by me and by many others. Medicinally, garlic use traces back to 5,000 years. In Asia it used by nomadic tribes to ward off evil spirits and improve health. My thinking is the evil spirits would be anyone who hasn't eaten with you and can't stand the smell. The good health is from not being exposed to the germ and viral riff-raff those freaky non-garlic eating weirdos give freely to others.
Tibetan monks were forbidden from entering the monastries if they had eaten garlic. This is presumably because of its reputation for inflaming the passions. But my guess is one stinky monk made for horrible meditation for the other hundred.
The glorious stinking rose.
The ancient Greek name for garlic was scorodon. According to Fulder and Blackwood, French physician Henri Leclerc derived this from skaion rodon which he translated as rose puante, or "stinking rose".
But garlic has to be fresh chopped, minced or squeezed to be medicinal. Cook it and all that goodness is gone.
I welcome spring when, sprouting up around the feet of all my rosebushes, garlic chives emerge from the ground. The scent keeps the affids from the roses and the shoots of gorgeous green shoots are fantastic in salad. At times the scent of the roses is completely submerged beneath the wafting smell of the chives as I tend the garden.
If you love garlic as much as I do, you will enjoy the Garlic Herb Society and might want to attend the annual Garlic Festival in the US and The Isle of Wight Garlic Festival in the UK.
The stink is on!
It seems a good bedside manner does not call for reaching inside other people's uniforms, asking questions of an intimate nature, putting the wrappers from sweets down someone's front or slapping colleagues with a frozen trout.
To top off the fishy offense, Jennings then took the self-same trout and, hands on it's jaws, mouthed "give us a kiss" to her co-workers. The audacity! And there's more!
She told fibs about her work record and "bound a clerk's head and mouth with bandages while he was on the phone."
If you are afeared of landing Jennings as a nurse, afear no longer. She has been struck off the nursing register. At this point, she should be going through massive caffeine withdrawal in a dark closet somewhere.
· There are 37 million Americans living below the poverty line. That figure has increased by five million since President George W. Bush came to power.
· The United States has 269 billionaires, the highest number in the world.
· Almost a quarter of all black Americans live below the poverty line; 22 per cent of Hispanics fall below it. But for whites the figure is just 8.6 per cent.
· There are 46 million Americans without health insurance.
· There are 82,000 homeless people in Los Angeles alone.
· In 2004 the poorest community in America was Pine Ridge Indian reservation. Unemployment is over 80 per cent, 69 per cent of people live in poverty and male life expectancy is 57 years. In the Western hemisphere only Haiti has a lower number.
· The richest town in America is Rancho Santa Fe in California. Average incomes are more than $100,000 a year; the average house price is $1.7m.
The Song Tapper takes the tapping of your fingers and finds songs that match. This is wonderful if you:
a) want to play Name That Tune by yourself
b) half know a song and you're desperate to figure out what it is
c) are bored beyond belief
Sometimes it seems that all buildings are just straight lines, concrete and glass. We live in forests of the stuff with little to stimulate the eye and the mind.
Unique Daily has a photo collection of buildings that have taken a different slant.
What does "bourse" mean?
Bourse is the French word for stock exchange.
This word, and it's application in the buying and selling of oil, is why the country I live in is going to war with Iran. It is a last ditch effort to make the US dollar maintain its sole worth for, you guessed it, the buying and selling oil. Because that's what it's all about.
"'The Iranian government has finally developed the ultimate "nuclear" weapon that can swiftly destroy the financial system underpinning the American Empire. That weapon is the Iranian Oil Bourse slated to open in March 2006. It will be based on a euro-oil-trading mechanism that naturally implies payment for oil in Euro. In economic terms, this represents a much greater threat to the hegemony of the dollar than Saddam's, because it will allow anyone willing either to buy or to sell oil for Euro to transact on the exchange, thus circumventing the U.S. dollar altogether. If so, then it is likely that almost everyone will eagerly adopt this euro oil system.'Whatever the strategic choice, from a purely economic point of view, should the Iranian Oil Bourse gain momentum, it will be eagerly embraced by major economic powers and will precipitate the demise of the dollar. The collapsing dollar will dramatically accelerate U.S. inflation and will pressure upward U.S. long-term interest rates. At this point, the Fed will find itself between Scylla and Charybdis-between deflation and hyperinflation-it will be forced fast either to take its "classical medicine" by deflating, whereby it raises interest rates, thus inducing a major economic depression, a collapse in real estate, and an implosion in bond, stock, and derivative markets, with a total financial collapse, or alternatively, to take the Weimar way out by inflating, whereby it pegs the long-bond yield, raises the Helicopters and drowns the financial system in liquidity, bailing out numerous LTCMs and hyperinflating the economy.' "
Having said that, all options are on the table."
-- President George W. Bush, February 2005
"This is my third visit," said one customer, Liu Qiang. "Of course, there are other restaurants that serve the bian [penis] of individual animals. But this is the first that brings them all together."
From yaks to horses to donkeys to seals to goat to Russian dog.
A booking brings you a trained waitress and a nutritionist to explain the menu and its medicinal virtues.
Nutritionist Zhu Yan said that women may be short shafted in the restuarant. "I wouldn't recommend the testicles. The testosterone might interfere in fertility. But many women say bian is good for the skin."
For those that have never partaken in penis eating before, Ms Zhu recommends the hotpot. In it are a sampling of six types of penis and four of testicle. All are boiled in chicken stock, the great unifier.
Canadian seal penis costs a hefty $517 and requires ordering in advance because they have to go to Canada and beat the seals to death before they harvest the penis in question. So get those orders in now!
On Sunday, April 13, 2003, at about 5:00 p.m., Diane Bond, a 48 year-old mother of three, stepped out of her eighth floor apartment in 3651 South Federal, the last remaining high-rise at the Stateway Gardens public housing development, and encountered three white men. Although not in uniform, they were immediately recognizable by their postures, body language, and bulletproof vests as police officers. Bond gave me the following account of what happened next.
“Where do you live at?” one of the officers asked. He had a round face and closely cropped hair. Bond later identified him as Christ Savickas.
“Right there,” she pointed to her door.
He put his gun to her right temple and snatched her keys from her hand.Read the rest here.
"With my new plan perhaps the Republicans might create a ticket that would offer Rockwell Manufacturing for President; tough on terrorists (The B1 bomber) but still forward thinking and cutting edge: (Rocketdyne! The Space Shuttle! The semiconductor!) Then balance the ticket with the friendlier and more gregarious sounding Beatrice Foods for Vice President: Progressive, (Beatrice sounds like it could be a woman) yet traditional (Orville Redenbacher) and concered with domestic security ( Blue Bonnet Margerine , Chef Boy Ardee!). Also, since Beatrice foods is a division of ConAgra, the minority vote would be assured.(Rosarita Refried Beans! Hebrew National! LaChoy! Swiss Miss!)
In opposition the Democrats might run the very relevant to the twenty first century Presidential candidate of IBM; big on leadership (consultants in 170 countries!) and stability (a continuous history since the 19th century!) then add to that the friendlier more youthful and up-to-date Apple for Vice President. (I-tunes! Ipod ! Mac!!)"
What is the story with the snow?
It was 53 degrees here on Tuesday. It was balmy. Balmy, I tell you!
Now, eight inches of snow and I can't get the snow blower to start. And it's still snowing.
What the hell?
I didn't sanction this!
No one asked me if this much snow was a good idea!
Time for coffee and a heating pad on my back to loosen the muscles I pissed off when I pulled the cord on the blower eighty kazillion times in a five minute period.
This according to Hideto Tomabechi, who helped deprogram members of the Aum Shinrikyo cult in Japan. What can deprogram some can re-program others. And from this was born an idea.
Tomabechi is cashing in on a ringtone he says will make breasts grow larger just by listening to it. The ringtones name:
Tomabechi says it's really a simple concept.
"Most would think it's a lie, but the techniques involved in the process have been known for some time and are the result of research I carried out in the '80s and '90s. I use sounds that make the brain and body move unconsciously. It's a technique involving subliminal effects."
This is no joke!
"It's a part of cognitive science. I suppose you could call it a kind of 'positive brainwashing,'" he says. "Sound waves travel in patterns that can be properly re-played."
There is a customer testimonial!
"I listened to the tune for a week expecting all the time that I was being duped," says Chieri Nakayama, a 19-year-old pin-up model, tells Shukan Gendai. "But, incredibly, my 87-centimeter bust grew to 89 centimeters! It was awesome!"
For those not in search of bodacious bustiness, he'll soon have ringtones for memory improvement, baldness, nicotene addiction and a ringtone to make the opposite sex crave you.
But we're not done discussing the wonderful things that cellphones can do for you!
A new generation of mobile phones will be able to tell you if your breath smells.
A German electronics group called Siemens has developed a small sensor that lets you know if your breath is stinky.
"Our ceramic sensorised chips are smaller than one millimetre but they can pick up the smallest quantities of gas," Maximillian Fleischer told The Times. The sensors reacts to airbourne (or breath bourne) chemicals and generates a signal when there's something fishy. Or beery. Or oniony.
Many of the sensors are strong enough to pick up other people's gaseous emissions or body odours.
Like you can't do that for yourself.
Kanchana Ketkaew, 36, set a world record in 2002 for spending 32 days in a glass cage with 3,400 scorpions.
Bunthawee Siengwong, 29, set a Thai record for enduring 28 days with 1,000 centipedes.
They got married on Valentine's Day in a haunted house.
Her dress had, not sequins, not lace - scorpions. Living, crawling scorpions. Bunthawee, as can be seen in this lovely photo, with centipede in mouth, kissed his bride.
Want another icky bug-related story? You're in luck!
Belgrade, home of men who put pencils in their penises, is also home to a woman who was a home for an 11 centimeter long intestinal worm. She wasn't aware of this until doctors removed it - from her eye.
The worm most likely belongs to the Ascaris family, a common intestinal parasite in pigs and people.
There are photos of the worms here but I wouldn't look if I were you. Really. Seriously.
"This is the most tacky, tasteless, smutty, down-in-the-gutter tour ever created," Jane Tollini robustly reported to the pack of people (adults only) who piled onto two trams. They spent a little over three hours hearing tales of animal fetishes and gay penguins.
Tollini began with penises and moved deftly on to vaginas, including ones "so large you could lose your family and your SUV in them," and to cloacas or "multipurpose holes" useful for urination, defecation, egg-laying and sex.
Apparently the tapirs are among the zoo's most well-endowed residents. Jack the Tapir once injured by stepping on his.... self.
"We soaked it in a tub of betadine for a couple of weeks," Tollini said. "It turned purple, then black, then it atrophied. Then it fell off, and he ate it."
Zeljko had experienced erectile difficulties in the past. He was greatly saddened and ashamed by this. His every waking hour was filled with thoughts of what he could do to correct this problem.
In my not so subtle way, I have directed you to Zeljko's solution.
Not a good solution, is it?
Yes, Zeljko needed emergency surgery after sticking a pencil in his penis to keep it high and mighty for his new partner. The romping was cut short when the pencil shifted. Zeljko, and yes I do take great joy in repeating his name, began to experience pain - in his bladder.
The Z Man had to call an ambulance, tell the doctors and nurses what he had done and then convince them that, yes, he was really that stupid.
Doctor Aleksandar Milosevic from Belgrade's Zvezdara hospital, who succesfully removed the pencil, said: "At first the patient did not tell us what really happened, but x-rays proved the truth.Tupic said he had no idea there were things like Viagra available but agreed that in future he will try pills before he takes any more chances with pencils."
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And, from Anderson Cooper's Blog,
2.) Vaginal Rejuvination:
"Someone told me that women are having their vaginas rejuvenated. That's right, rejuvenated and reconstructed and revirginized even. I thought they were kidding. But my producer and I looked into it, and sure enough, it's an emerging surgical trend."
I ask myself that.
Why are you such a crank?
Why does every book you pick up suck?
Why does even the sun beaming through the window annoy?
Why has your capacity to deal with all sensory imput been nullified?
I feel like a:
Or like I'm:
I feel like telling the whole world to:
Hear that world?
Was that loud enough?
That frown will NOT turn upside down.
Is it because of the exalted travesty that is February 14?
Maybe it is.
My view of this day is skewed.
When I was in school, wwwaaaaaaaaay back,
we spent a day in school making little mailboxes.
Into these mailboxes on February 14
classmates would deposit little store bought Valentines.
Not like the ones out there now,
with Sponge Bob Squarepants or Powerpuff Girls or Bratz.
They had animals.
Mostly cute ones.
But, kids can be cruel.
All kids know which animal is a good animal,
and which animal is a slight.
A not so gentle poke.
Those are the Valentines I would receive in
my little mailbox
if I received any at all.
I was very sad.
On Valentine's Day.
Now, I am grown up
I am cranky.
I'll try to be:
I really will.
But, at some point, I will revert to form.
Fuck Valentine's Day.