Tuesday, February 22, 2005
So far as I know, this is a completely original construction from my fevered brain:
A race of aliens, strangely resembling the bounty hunter Bossk (albeit brighter green in skin tone, and brighter yellow of eye) , took over the planet after my failed mission to sail two fake battleships through an indoor lock system.
Their weapon? A pair of long, nearly invisible filaments which they could insert silently into your lachrymal ducts, and then a bioelectric current would shock you internally.
I awaken, my wife asking me what was I dreaming about -- and I recall muttering, "Aliens raped my eyeballs."
What the hell is wrong with y'all these days?
Previews don't work... can't edit my template for days at a time...
Pull your heads out, for chrissakes.
I've noticed that when I see 3-letter abbreviations on Tennessee license plates, my feverish recall of acronyms kicks in.
AEL - auto exposure lock
BSD - Berkeley Systems Development
CVB - Camper Van Beethoven
DMA - direct memory access
EDS - Electronic Data Systems
FCS - frame check sequence
GRE - generic routing encapsulation
HST - Hunter Stockton Thompson (RIP)
ISP - Internet service provider
JRE - Java Runtime Environment
KSU - Key System Unit
LVM - "left voice mail"
MSA - Metropolitan Statistical Area
NID - Network Interface Device
ORU - Oral Roberts University
POC - point of contact
QOD - quote of (the) day
REM - Michael, Peter, Mike, and Bill
SQL - "sequel"
TDS - terrestrial data service
UTM - uniform terrestrial mercator
VRF - virtual route forwarding
WTF - what the f***?
XTC - the best pop band ever
YYZ - cheezy Canadian sci-fi set to music
ZZZ - the interest quotient in this post
Monday, February 21, 2005
And that's absolutely right.
Thompson used a .45. One Reporter's Opinion regrets that error.
So let me indulge in a trifle more mindless wankery:
Hunter S. Thompson, a journalist in the proud American tradition of the craft, is gone.
There are a number of zygotic thoughts running around my head, but I'm doing my best to avoid much handwringing until a bit more information is made available. That said, and in the wake of the controversy swirling around the margins of the putative world of American journalism, take note. Here was a man who asked hard questions, demanded hard answers, and lived a hard life. He embodied his profession, and goes to his grave a consummate professional.
Why he didn't turn the shotgun on Judith Miller or "Jeff Gannon" will remain, for me, one of life's cruel and eternal mysteries.
Yet we may never have the real answers behind his final moments. And so ends the life of one of America's most original contributors to essays and letters; an enigma to the last.
* For those who don't know, the title is ganked from a song from The Minutemen:
what could be romantic to mike watt? he's only a skeleton. his body's a series of points with no height, length, or width. in his joints he feels life. his strongest connection between the yelling & the sleep. pain is the toughest riddle. he's chalk. he's a dartboard. his sex is disease. he's a stopsign.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
(Third day called on account of rain. No pictures. The final count was something like 24 distinct species in our backyard alone -- and most of those appeared within the first couple of hours of viewing on Day 1...)