February 9, 2003 (4:05 a.m. CST)
Caramelhead bought the Daredevil Soundtrack yesterday. I haven't had the chance to listen to it yet, as she's been hogging it thusfar. She seems impressed, so I anticipate getting the chance to give it a listen -- whenever that happens. The lead single from Evanescence has been getting oodles of local airplay, and for good reason. It's a damn good song. I tried downloading it earlier this year, but all of the versions I found had some intentional distortion in a few places. I'm sure that had I looked long enough, I would've found a good copy, but I now have the option of ripping it (an option I plan to exercise).

In the wake of the shuttle accident, a number of options are being considered regarding the future of the manned exploration of space. Many credible voices favor placing a moratorium on manned missions until a newer, more reliable orbiter is built. Another large camp favors the status quo, and not succumbing to the kneejerk reaction of losing (another) seven astronauts. The biggest question left to resolve is that of the International Space Station. With a diminished shuttle fleet, it will be harder to finish building and resupply/maintain the ISS. Do we abandon it, or do we place a greater reliance on single-use rockets? Do we continue to use human crews to install new ISS components, or do we hook some servomechanical device into a feed from the ground and risk doing everything remotely? Personally, I think that the Space Program should continue as closely as possible to the original schedule, but with more funding and emphasis to building prototypes of replacement vehicles. (I also think that using a dirigible as a high-altitude launch platform is feasible, so my opinion means next to nothing.)

That's it. I can barely keep my eyes open. It's bedtime for the Pointy-Headed Guy.

February 8, 2003 (1:21 a.m. CST)
One last, brief post before I flee to bed. I need my beauty rest -- aside from the obvious reasons, I work at Penney's tomorrow morning, and will need to be well-rested if I expect to have any chance of dealing with the shrieking toddlers and the ignorant customers. To put it nicely, I'm not looking forward to it...

There are times when I wish that problems still could be solved with a simple downstroke of a cudgel. Life isn't quite that easy any more. It's not like I could go about randomly bashing skulls until I got what I wanted. Nine hundred years ago, in the era of the Angevin kings, that was the time to live. All one would have to do is announce himself as the claimant to some remote dukedom, amass a small mob of supporters (themselves armed with cudgels, of course) then start working his way through his opponents, one caved-in cranium at a time. Alas, things are more civilized now...except in Iraq. And maybe a Congo or two. (There are two of them nowadays, take your pick.)

February 8, 2003 (12:00 a.m. CST)
Caramelhead and I have been trying (with varying success) to stay faithful to our diets. Part of the ordeal is the pre-prepared frozen dinners like the "Smart Ones," "Lean Cuisine" and "Healthy Choice" brands. There are the good dishes (the cheese ravioli, the ziti and the chicken alfredo with broccoli), the middling ones (salisbury steak, french bread pizza) and the downright nasty, (I'm talking to you, rancid sausage pizza!) It's too early to tell if it's working, but I do have an odd craving for the tuna casserole...

Phear the TDS!

February 7, 2003 (9:35 p.m. CST)
I just put up a new Shorthorn article. Don't blame me that the headlines are so similar, because I don't write those. Nor do I write the cutlines (photograph captions), so don't blame me for the inaccuracy. (Wieman created a mass of particles, not an individual particle.) But enough nitpicking for now...

All I have the energy to add is this, a random GIS search result. Nice rack, huh?

February 7, 2003 (12:48 a.m. CST)
Just a short entry tonight. I'm pooped.

I spent the better part of an hour making some significant changes to the Web site tonight. Two new pages have been added: a Journalism page, which serves as a portal for the Toban page and the new Shorthorn page (which looks a bit barren, but should start filling up relatively soon). These changes necessitated an update to the toolbar, with two new buttons replacing two others. All of these changes were spurred by the need to link to my first Shorthorn story: Nobel winner speaks today.

While preparing the follow-up to the above-linked article, I attended Dr. Wieman's colloquium, "Resonant BEC." While I'm hardly an expert on Bose-Einstein condensates, I do play one on TV. At the very least, interviewing a Nobel Laureate does place me at two degrees of separation from the King of Sweden (and three degrees from his hottie daughters). It's been a curious day.

February 6, 2003 (1:42 p.m. CST)
Depending on which computers I'm using at the time, I employ two different versions of Telnet to update this page. If I'm using the PCs in Ransom Hall, then I use some awkward client called Hummingbird, and if I'm on the Macs in the newsroom, then I use Nifty Telnet. Having been away from Macs for several years (since late 1998), I have to relearn many of the keyboard shortcuts and menu locations for simple commands. Plus, if I use Pico to edit these pages, I have to take care not to mix up the CONTROL key with the Apple key.

Another hazard of blogging in the newsroom...having to change computers because you're encroaching on someone's turf. Just happened to me. Feh.

February 5, 2003 (1:37 p.m. CST)
What can I say... I'm on a roll today.

United States Secretary of State Colin Powell appeared before the United Nations' Security Council to offer evidence that Iraq is concealing its weapons of mass destruction. The Security Council seems unimpressed and it looks like the U.N. will refuse to condone any military action until it is absolutely, positively and completely certain that the weapons inspectors have finished their job. This leads me to the conclusion that, for every day that the world community resists an American use of force, Hussein's army upgrades their defence capability. Bunkers, reallocation of ammunition and consumable supplies, maintenance of vehicles and drafting and training of new troops. The longer that things are stalled, the bloodier the inevitable war gets.

But on to happier things...it turns out that WMDs are closer than we think. North Dakota Found to be Harboring Nuclear Missles! We are all marionettes of the North Dakotan conspiracy! You betcha!

OOOOOOH! Motherfucker! NEW SPACE MOOSE STRIP!

February 5, 2003 (11:12 a.m. CST)
I really have to stop relying on the clocks at the Shorthorn offices. Well, not all of the clocks are inaccurate, just the desktop clocks on the iMacs. Up until five minutes ago, I thought I had plenty of time to finish my surfing and walk across the way to go to my physics class. But then I remembered, these bloody clocks run ten minutes slow. I thought I had learned my lesson yesterday, when a similar mistake made me late for an appointment with the Dean of Science, but I guess not.

I get free pizza! I get free pizza! 'Cause I'm going to a seminar! You got no pizza, 'cause your mom's on welfare! An alumnus who works for defense contractor Raytheon will be speaking to science students today. Well-fed science students, it seems.

February 5, 2003 (8:15 a.m. CST)
Normally, I'd still be asleep at this hour on a Wednesday, but I was stirred by the all-too frequent "I slept in, you have to take care of the dogs," from my wife. Waking Gord up at 7:15 am when his alarm isn't scheduled to ring until 8:30 a.m. is a baaaad, baaaad thing. Instead of shuffling back to bed like I normally would, I checked my e-mail to see if I received the information I needed for a story I'm trying to write today. No go.

Boo.

By now, most Americans have seen the public service announcements that attempt to link smoking marijuana with funding terrorists. Most people who've seen the PSAs tend to dismiss them as exaggeration and fearmongering, but maybe there's a shred of truth in there, as a Canadian man was accused this week of smuggling cigarettes to fund Lebanese terrorism. I would play on the risibleness of the issue, if it wasn't for the stark scariness of it all. Lately Hezbollah has been biding their time, letting other organizations absorb the brunt of the fight against Israel. But if they're actively fundraising, it's only elementary to come to the conclusion that they're spending money on training and the procurement of weapons. If war does break out with Iraq, and if the Israelis are dragged into it, then expect Hezbollah to launch strikes against targets in northern Israel.

Something I failed to note last night when I was in my pissy mood, my editor pleaded with me to find a story to write for tomorrow's edition. Journalistically speaking, this means that either he was impressed with my writing, or that he's in desperate need of copy. While hubris leads me to favor the former, the reality of it is that it's at least an equal mix of the two.

February 4, 2003 (11:43 p.m. CST)
Okay, I'm getting a bit bitter. My story got bumped from tomorrow's paper, but it should make Thursday's issue. Should. And I have to endure all of this misery because some fuckwad alumnus general flew his wife around the country. If this keeps up, I may have eight articles in next Wednesday's paper.

The WB dropped the axe on Dawson's Creek, alienating their core demographic of female college sophomores who masturbate to pictures of James Van Der Beek's eyebrows. So what will Michelle Williams do with all of that extra time? Maybe she could go seal clubbin'!

Oh, the sweet fate of random GIS results! Where else could I find this gem...the cover to David Cassidy's guide "Let Me Teach You How To Kiss." Something tells me that his managers didn't tell him just how many hirsute, fortysomething men bought those teenybopper magazines back in the Seventies. Take note of the "I Love You" throw pillow lurking over David's shoulder. I'll let your imaginations run wild as to where (and who) that came from.

February 4, 2003 (2:11 p.m. CST)
I sat through the first edit of my debut news story at the Shorthorn a few minutes ago. Aside from a few minor stylistic changes, most of my text emerged unscathed. A few of my word choices -- "lured," for example -- were deemed a bit too dramatic for a news story about a visiting physicist. If you've read my writing, this blog for example, you know that I can veer off toward the tropologic at times. In fact, that last sentence is a perfect example.

Among the goofy things e-mailed to me last week by my mother was an MP3, "Working where the Sun Don't Shine (the Colorectal Surgeon's Song)" by Canadian musical humorists Bowser and Blue. Just when I think my mother doesn't get me, she proves me wrong. Good job, Rae!

Horny blokes across the British Isles were furious after the BBC decided that Russian pop singers t.A.T.u. were "too raunchy" and reportedly pulled the duo's video. I can only imagine the furor that sprung up, because it didn't take long for the Beeb to issue a contrary statement, indicating that the video for "All the Things She Said" will continue running, as well as unseen videotape from a t.A.T.u. concert. Group members Julia Volkova and Lena Katina reportedly celebrated by making out and grabbing each others' breasts. Yay lesbian kissers!

February 3, 2003 (2:37 p.m. CST)
The Columbia disaster keeps popping up with new connections to my life. The shuttle started breaking up almost directly overhead from my hometown; my wife was able to hear the sonic boom as it passed. My wife's cousin Jenny is currently in Florida, working on a NASA internship that revolved around the rats used in some of STS-107's science experiments. Today I learned that Astronaut Kalpana Chawla is a UTA alumna. I'd find these ties linking me to Columbia much more intriguing if the damn thing wasn't so sad.

I've finished my first Shorthorn story, which should wind up in tomorrow's paper. Look for it on the newstands (assuming you live in the Arlington vicinity) or look on this page for a link sometime tomorrow. Yay Gord!

Some of my readers -- all six of you -- may wonder about what I'm trying to accomplish here. On the surface, it may seem somewhat atheoretical at times, having no real theme or topic. I'll freely admit to bouncing between political rants, reminiscences of my youth, confusing images and details of the tedium of my daily life. So I don't conform...big deal. But to think that this blog is barren of a unifying concept is incorrect. This blog is a reflection of how I think and feel (and thus is no more or less valid than the average fourteen-year old girl's journal). Any multiple personality disorder that you see on your screen is a direct result of my own identity problems. And to top it off, there are a few inner workings to how the page's material is seleted and composed to which you won't be privy. Muahahah! Muahahah! MUAHAHAH!

February 3, 2003 (7:14 a.m. CST)
An interesting snippet heard on the Edge while on a morning milk run: "It's the 'Burning Love Bear,' not the 'It Burns When I Pee Bear.'" Nothing endears a DJ to his audience more than bankrupting the fond memories of their collective youth.

In high school, I was acquaintances with a guy named David Swinerd. Dave seemed like a nice enough guy, and we got along well until I learned the meaning of his surname. "Swinerd" is an Old English corruption of "swineherd," a point I beat into the ground with phrases like "Hey Pigboy!" and "Here, piggy!". It wasn't long before I had totally alienated Dave, and a few common friends, adding him to a long list of people that I pissed off through my arrogance and self-involvement back in the day. So, faithful readers, if you have a friend whose ancestors were swineherds, then take care not to take too many liberties with their lineage. Folks tend to detest that sort of behavior.

February 3, 2003 (6:04 a.m. CST)
In "things will get worse before they get better in Indonesia" news, there was another bombing in Jakarta today. While most Western nations have rooted out the terrorist cells, it seems that the Indonesian government is having some difficulty doing so.

Arse-Nick wasn't the only pic that I Photoshopped for Kristin and Jenn last night. First, I crudely cut and pasted Jenn's head onto some barechested Indian fellow. Kristin felt left out, and demanded that I did one of her, but "with feet." She didn't mention whether or not she wanted evidence of blackfoot (a symptom of arsenic poisoning), so I did a GIS for "foot fetish." After a bit of lassoing, cutting, transforming and color balancing, the end result is this:

Consider this... Your town has been overrun by thousands of wild chickens and residents are starting to get pissed off. You'd ship them away to any place possible, right? Those chickens would be coated with the thirteen herbs and spices before you could say "charbroiled" right? Not if you live in Key West Florida, who are refusing to give the captured poultry to only the bestest of homes.

Well call me a moron if I don't drop another self-referential link or two in here. (The links go to a blog archive on another server and to a Toban article. Please humor me, I know that this page is indexed on the major search engine, meaning that Web crawlers will follow every anchor tag. I just want my site to be seen, dammit!)

February 2, 2003 (11:11 p.m. CST)
I took most of yesterday and today off from blogging for a couple of reasons. I worked yesterday night, which took away some valuable blog-writing time, but mainly I wanted to avoid the temptation of writing about Columbia. I do reserve the right to record my feelings in an E2 daylog, so the subject isn't completely verboten. As for other draws on my time, they include a marathon session of Sid Meier's Colonization and sleeping most of this afternoon away (much to the ire of Fungushead).

Okay I lied, I will refer to the Space Shuttle one more time. With the loss of the Columbia orbiter, greater stress will be heaped upon the shoulders of the three remaining craft. Expect an increased focus to be placed on alternative lift vehicles and mechanisms, possibly resulting in federal grants to the developers vying for the X-Prize, as well as more fanciful ideas like space elevators. There are some Texas-based X-Prize teams, including Armadillo Aerospace, on whom I may try to do a feature article for The Shorthorn.

Whistles go WOO WOO! Huh? And here I was under the impression that mufflers were designed to MUFFLE the noise made by cars. If it's illegal to drive without one, then logically it should be illegal to knowingly disable one. You'd also think that San Francisco has noise ordinances, right? I guess they don't.

While talking to my friends Kristin and Jenn, I excused myself to do some dinking around with Photoshop. Kristin is presenting some of her Masters Thesis information on Tuesday, and needed a funny icebreaker image. The problem is that there's very little funny about arsenic contamination in mine tailings. Not having much to work with, I resorted to bad puns. Hence, "Arse-Nick". Now that 98° popster Nick Lachey has wed the fledgling diva with the world's most immaculate dentition (Jessica Simpson), one would think that he doesn't see too much hairy ass anymore. Except on tour.

February 1, 2003 (6:23 a.m. CST)
After three days of flawless service, the pissant UTA servers have crapped out again. I can still load pages, but I'm unable to upload new files, meaning it may be several hours before this update is visible.

So what does one do when he can't upload his journal pages? He finds an image from a semi-random GIS! Here's what I found...the Basco Shoehorn of Doom. Why else would someone need a stainless steel shoehorn, except to bash aside punks and thugs? Basco: keeping Syria's shoe stores and hallways free from thuggery since 1932. I'd image that these are prohibited from being stowed in your carry-on luggage on El Al flights, being Arab shoehorns and all.

Take this, you scurvy goatsuckers! (Never mind the link, it just goes to a blog archive page.)

February 1, 2003 (5:24 a.m. CST)
Many of the people who should read this blog don't do so, foremost among them is my wife, Caramelhead. Second on that list would be my mother. Keeping track of this blog may answer a few of their questions (but it would probably raise a few in return). Whether they read it or not, I feel compelled to take a page out of the Camwhores' Manual and post an ill-timed gift wishlist. Instead of asking for books, CDs and expensive computer hardware, I want my list to reflect the little things that make me happy. So, here's a list of cheap-ass gifts (under $5) that would brighten my day: striped socks, GoodHost iced tea, first day covers, foreign currency from countries in the midst of hyperinflation, cheese, political campaign stickers and Matchbox cars.

Man, did Vanessa Carlton dump out in a hurry. Hmm?

It's time to surf for some pornography. I feel the need to find some buxom maiden on whose ample breasts I'd plant myself like a hungry nursling. I would go on, but that would be counterproductive to trying to get my wife and mother to read this on a regular basis.

January 31, 2003 (11:21 p.m. CST)
Google doesn't seem to want to list most of the pages from my Web site's backup on Angelfire. Maybe it just needs to be nudged in the right direction. Well then Google, I will begin linking those pages to my blog out of spite. You hear that, Google? I'm talking to you, bitch!

One of my fish plays dead. I've never seen a fish behave like this before: one minute, he'll be floating on his side at the surface and the next he'll (she'll) be swimming happily around the tank. For all I know, it's probably going through some kind of fishy death throes.

"Pratyush, your word is 'fashizzle'." Yes, Jimmy Kimmel is the man.

January 31, 2003 (3:56 p.m. CST)
After spending much of the last week concealed behind a veil of clouds, the sun has revealed itself to North Texas once again. Because my apartment sits atop a ridge, much of the surrounding area is visible from my living room window.

"Hello, Pizza Hut? I'd like a Stuffed Crust Gold with Canadian bacon. And a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. How much is that? 13.49? Great...oh yeah, my personal teleporter address is TTN-344.234.063.234-A. Eight minutes? 'Kay... bye."

All of a sudden, that Scottish Rugby Union t-shirt that Caramelhead bought me seems a bit less cool. It's not that I'm ashamed that flanker Budge Pountney was driven to retire after losing a testicle; it's the way that he claims the Scottish squad was treated by the SRU officials. Hell, if my club buys the troops a shitload of beer after a big win, why shouldn't the SRU?

FUCKING MORMONS! I was called away from the keyboard to answer a knock at the door just now. I opened the door a crack to see two twenty-something men dressed in business attire. Then I saw the nametag. (Anybody who's had missionaries from the Church of Latter Day Saints knock on their door knows about the big, honking, black nametag that the LDS field soldiers wear.) After seeing the nametag, I glanced down to see the Book of Mormon in one of the men's hands.

Gord: "Sorry, I'm not interested."
LDS Guy: "Do you know what we're doing?"
G: "Yeah, you're Mormons."
L: "Do you believe in Christ?"
G: "Uh, not really." (I begin shutting the door at this point.)
L: "What is it..." (Door shuts.)

Caramelhead walked in less than three minutes afterwards, asking who they were. I gave her a rundown of the story, after which she reminded me of the apartment complex's "No Solicitation" policy. I called the front office, who immediately dispatched someone to drive the Mormons off. If they come back, I'll hire some agitated old lady to beat them off with a broom.

January 31, 2003 (3:37 a.m. CST)
I need to run to Albertsons to pick up a choke chain for one of our dogs tonight. I probably should get that done soon, as I'll need to get back to bed soon.

Baltimore's Poe Toaster made his annual visit to Edgar Allen Poe's gravesite earlier this month, his 54th consecutive pilgrimage.

I paid a visit to the Social Security office to get a replacement card printed. The wait was long, but not completely intolerable, as I had plenty of peoplewatching subjects. There was the usual assortment of elderly pensioners, babies with slobbery chins, newlywed wives needing to change their name and mothers needing to get social security numbers for their children. The waiting room was crowded, but largely free of stench. Nothing makes a wait seem interminable more than stinky people.

And before I go, I'll throw up a not-so-random GIS result. Underneath is a map of the hiking trails around Bushkill Falls, Pennsylvania. The falls, "nestled deep in the wooded Pocono Mountains" straddle the New Jersey border, though it seems like the better scenery lies on Pennsylvanian side.

January 31, 2003 (2:50 a.m. CST)
Five golden blings!

As a child, who was your favorite superhero/heroine? Why? -- Wolverine. I identified with him because he was Canadian, a loner and did whatever he had to in order to finish a job. I also sympathized with his inability to find lasting love. The women he loved were either married to other men (Heather Hudson, Jean Grey) or died early deaths (his wife, Mariko).

2. What was one thing you always wanted as a child but never got? -- I always pestered my father for a toy gun. My friends and I would play army in our back lanes, and I was always jealous of the plastic tommy gun that my best friend Devon had. I was forced to improvise, eventually nailing scrap wood and a piece of PVC pipe together to make my own crude gun.

3. What's the furthest from home you've been? -- I seem to recall this question from a past FF (March 7, 2002), but that would be approximately 1392 miles, the distance between Winnipeg, Canada and Houston, Texas.

4. What's one thing you've always wanted to learn but haven't yet? -- I'd have to say learning how to speak Scots Gaelic. I've tried, but haven't had the time to dedicate to learning the language.

5. What are your plans for the weekend? -- I work Saturday evening, and possibly Sunday. I have some homework and reading to do, but that shouldn't take more than a few hours. The rest of the time will be devoted to diddling around online, catching up with Caramelhead and sleeping.

January 31, 2003 (12:31 a.m. CST)
Only Jimmy Kimmel would have a second-rate pet psychic -- who happens to be a doctor of metaphysics (just how many universities offer Ph.D programs in the metaphysical sciences?) -- communicate with Snoop Dogg's pet cat. Snoop was concerned because Frank (short for 'Frank Sinatra') 'peed on Uncle Rheo's pimpsuit.' Only in America!

Found on FARK.com today: Civic leaders from Goodlettsville, Tennessee were aghast to find references to "donkey porn" on their Web site. Nothing tops bestiality humor!

January 30, 2003 (3:27 p.m. CST)
An odd thought struck me this morning while walking to a class in UTA's Pickard Hall: "I have socks that are an almost exact match for this carpet." Normally, this wouldn't be an epiphany -- consider all of the greys and beiges in the industrial flooring palette, then look in your sock drawer for comparison. By the third floor in Pickard is a different story, as the whole floor's carpeting is covered in alternating red-orange, beige and brown stripes. Caramelhead bought me a pair of striped socks (of which I am immeasurably fond) from J.Crew this Christmas. I suppose I'll have to reserve these socks for wear on Tuesdays or Thursdays only, those being the days when I have Calculus in Pickard. It takes a man of great style and daring to coordinate his wardrobe with unfashionable carpets. Almost.

While I'm on the subject of Pickard Hall, why is it that every college campus has at least one building that could be considered to be an architectural curiosity? Pickard was built in the shape of an isosceles triangle, making rather disorienting the first few times you walk its halls. The University of Manitoba had its own notable example to this rule: the Wallace Building (Geological Sciences) with its primary color scheme and brightly-painted exposed ductwork (which gave it the appearance of a Super Mario Bros. level). Don't even get me started on the University of Alberta's "Butterdome."

As I walked across the pedestrian bridge onto campus this morning, I quietly chuckled to myself when I saw the number of students wearing thick down-filled jackets and felt coats. I must have looked out of place, as I was walking around with only a t-shirt on. Well, pants too. And socks (see above). And my new shoes. And my weathered Adidas cap. And gotch...I can't forget the gotch. Hell, I considered wearing shorts today, but that's only because Fungushead has been sick and hasn't been keeping up with the laundry.

January 30, 2003 (10:26 a.m. CST)
From what I gather, my first assignments for The Shorthorn will be to cover the visit of Nobel prize-winning physicist Dr. Carl Wieman, who will present two talks at UTA next week. I figure that interviewing a Nobelist would be a pretty good way to revitalize my career as a journalist, even if it is for a campus newspaper. Truthfully, I abandoned my aspirations in journalism some six years ago, and I seriously doubt that I would change career paths at this point in my life. It is a god thing, however, to leave doors open, n'est-ce pas?

In speaking of revitalizing careers, while folding polo shirts last night at work, my friend Michael and I were discussing how to make Michael Jackson relevant again. My idea incorporates two simple and easily achievable points, and my co-worker added a third:
-- Jacko should hire somebody whose sole purpose is to follow him around and make sure he doesn't do foolish things. "No Mike, normal people don't dangle infants from balconies. Stand there, take the towel off his head and just smile." "Tommy Mottola may be the devil, but I think we should let the world find out for itself." If he had done this, say in 1994, we might have been spared the rhinoplastic mess that garnishes Michael's face. And Mike may have spared himself the pain of being categorized as a modern-day sideshow freak.
-- Few people doubt that Michael Jackson is a musical genius. In order to emphasize his abilities as both a singer and a songwriter, Jackson should record an album that concentrates on those two skills alone. Write and record a batch of ten stripped-down songs -- not Christina Aguilera "stripped," just songs that verge on under-produced. Make people focus on your voice and your lyrics. That being said, most of Michael's work since Bad has been a derivative of his earlier stuff. Break the worn-out formula, Michael... don't dance in your videos, limit yourself to two days per song in the mixing booth. Hire a producer with indie cred, who doesn't overdub and overproduce songs. If you really, really want to have a nine-minute version with an instrumental break for a choreographed dance routine, then save that track for a CD single.
-- Jackson should borrow an idea from Carlos Santana and recruit a handful of hot, young stars to duet with him. We all know that Justin Timberlake idolizes Michael, so it shouldn't be that great of a leap to predict that he'd jump at the chance to record a single with Jackson. It'd sell millions. Remember that Michael used to love duets... do you recall "Say, Say, Say"?

That's all kids, see you in a few hours.

January 30, 2003 (2:27 a.m. CST)
I'm going to open with a almost random GIS image. It's doubtful this ship will see any action in the Persian Gulf, but it's never a wrong time to pay tribute to the brave men and women of the Royal Danish Navy. This vessel is N44 Lossen, one of Denmark's two Lindormen-class minelayers.

When I served in the army reserves, I would jump at any opportunity to pick up a few extra days of pay by plugging away at some brainless task. These tasks were always about in an infantry regiment, especially one with antiquated equipment and laissez-faire storesmen. I managed to weasel numerous taskings, including:

• Building hanging racks for snow shovels.
• Creating a bulletin board organizational chart using thumbtacks and cardboard keytags.
• A bagpipe lesson. (Normally, one would say 'A bagpipes lesson,' but I only used the chanter, and never the full set of pipes. Hence the singular form.)
• Updating the various training manuals with newer pages.

The sweetest jobs to land were mess dinners. Whenever the regiment's officers and/or senior NCOs had a swanky formal dinner, a handful of privates and corporals would be called upon to assist the caterers and serve as wine bitches. It'd usually be a full day's pay, complete with a professionally-prepared four course meal. Generally, there would be a half-dozen or so half-empty bottles of wine at the evening's conclusion; these would be fair game for whoever had the need for a drink. The military knows its men well enough to buy cheap rotgut insteadof anything with a semblance of taste, usually resulting in this nasty brand called "L'Ambiance." (It was affectionately called "L'Ambulance" by Cpl. "Barney" Pearson; a bottle retails for about $CDN 6.50.) It's funny how tolerable stale, nasty wine can be when it's paid for by the federal government.

January 29, 2003 (11:00 p.m. CST)
And you thought that you could get away without me updating the site tonight! Fools!

Man, The Smoking Gun comes up with some of the best dirt. After exposing Joe Millionaire hunk Evan Marriott as a part-time sock-crotched underwear model, we get some...um, juicier news. It seems that finalist Sarah Kozer moonlighted as a part-time fetish video starlet. Although she doesn't flash any titty, Kozen dresses up in cheerleader and nurse outfits, gets tied up and uses chloroform on unsuspecting men.

One of the strangest bits of miscellany to surface in the wake of the Super Bowl was Old Spice's naming of the game's Sweat MVP. I'm sure that the Raiders' Sam Adams couldn't be more pleased. Old Spiced name Super Bowl MVP Dexter Jackson as the least sweaty player. To determine who sweat the most (and least), Old Spice employed a formula that took into account "by the amount of time the players were in the game, their heights and weights, and the weather" I find it hard to believe that Jackson broke less of a sweat than kicker Martin Gramatica. C'mon, Gramatica's 5'8", 170 and was on the field for all of 18 plays. I'm sure that John Madden perspired more than our little Roberto Benigni lookalike.

There is quite a resemblance, isn't there?

January 29, 2003 (3:32 a.m. CST)
Well, paint me aroused! UTA = UP.

The makers of The Glenfiddich (one of the most popular single malt scotches) are selling a special batch of whisky -- one aged for 21 years in the traditional method, then poured into casks that formerly contained Cuban rum and aged for an additional, unspecified time period. The result is the Glenfiddich Havana Reserve 21 Year Old. Sounds tasty, right? Well, if you live in the U.S., you won't be able to purchase it. It seems that even residing in Cuban-built barrels is enough to violate conditions of the Helms-Burton Act, the bit of American legislation that prohibits trade with Cuba. The scotch itself never set foot on Cuban soil or entered Cuban territory, but that seems to be irrelevant. If you do want to buy some, it retails for $120-150 (Canadian funds). That isn't that pricy, considering that Glenfiddich offers bottles of scotch old enough to collect pension -- the Glenfiddich 1937 -- all for the low price of £10000.

There's a new E2 write-up to show you guys: Matchbook-O-Rama

As I slowly wind myself down to a state of slumber, the urge to bring to you one last nibblet of chaos: a less than random GIS image. Below you will see a bin of the Norwegian delicacy lutefisk. So what is it that these Norwegians have contributed to world cuisine? Well, you take dried codfish and soak it in lye (mmm...soapy!), then boil until gelatinous. Ufda.