One Reporter's Opinion

Proud sponsor of The Partnership for an Idiot-Free America. Andy's random observations -- a potluck of politics, a mix of music musings, and whatever else transcends the transom. (Unless otherwise specified, all pictures are copyright of this blogger. Some rights reserved, subject to the terms and conditions specified under the Creative Commons license.)

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

When The Moon Hits Your Eye...

Aliens Raped My Eyeballs

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."
Uh, blogger?

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

UPDATE: I've gotten a couple of emails regarding some of the content in my post below. According to those readers, I should not have said that Mr. Thompson should have turned the shotgun on Judith Miller or "Jeff Gannon."

And that's absolutely right.

Thompson used a .45. One Reporter's Opinion regrets that error.
I doubt that many people are unclear about the handle* on my blog, or at least I was until I started publishing this random detritus more regularly. I am not a reporter, nor, as the saying goes, do I play one on TV. I have too much respect for the profession to make much of myself as a journalist. A journalist journals. I don't have the discipline. I don't think that I couldn't have it -- it's simply not a practice that I've subscribed to much. So much of the journaling process seems to be introspective, mindless wankery, and I'd rather have something to say or a picture with which to say it.

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

Great Backyard Bird Count, Day 2.

Turkey vulture:

Carolina chickadee:



Downy woodpecker:

Tufted titmouse:

Blue jay:

Carolina wren:

Red-breasted nuthatch:

House finch:

(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...)