The Best Use of Batteries, Ever   

Don't Know Why I'm So Ranty Today   

New Frog Found   

" ...the enemy is a guy named Satan."   

When we look back on history, how high and mighty we are, how callous. We malign the ancient civilizations; we freely take their political systems, their art and parts of their culture, mire their heritage in Christian-Judeo Dogma, then mock them for having believed in specialized deities, specifically designed to support, celebrate, and explain certain aspects of their lives.

We are Enlightened. We have made huge advancements in society and science; this gives us the right to relegate their spirituality to myth. Valhalla, once grand; now crumbles empty to all but comic books and opera. Olympus once looked over the whole world; but now we know it's view is limited. And, perhaps most importantly, we have taken away the hammers and swords of the war gods; gone is the glory of Hachiman; Odin and the Einherjar mourn for a battle we recognize will never be, the mighty Ares reduced to an Elvis-impersonating joke.

Please explain to me how as a culture, we can calmly, objectively look at these myths, but then as a nation and World Power turn a blind eye to this:

Dressed in his army uniform, General Boykin told a religious group in June that radical Islamists hate the United States "because we're a Christian nation... and the enemy is a guy named Satan". He told an audience in January that a Muslim Somali warlord was captured because "I knew my God was bigger than his. I knew that my God was a real god and his was an idol".

Before you say this is one man's belief, I remind you the language used by the American government promotes the idea that this war is a religious war. We fight against the "Axis of Evil," and Bush has been accused by critics and religious leaders alike of being messianic and using overtly religious language in his call to war.

Stop being hypocrites. You can not claim to follow a god of peace, then cry in his name for war. Take responsibility for your actions and decisions. No matter what god or gods you believe in, no matter what your faith or spirituality, or lack thereof: War is a device conceived, carried out and suffered by Man. Keep the blame where blame lies.

I end with this reminder:

"It has become too easy to see that the luckless men of the past lived by mistaken, even absurd beliefs; so we may fail in a decent respect for them, and forget that the historians of the future will point out that we too lived by myths.” - Herbert Huller

Sincerely,

Sarcasmo

Dear Purveyors of American Television:   

• Red Dwarf: The original was sharp, witty, and juvenile all at once (although, in my opinion, it jumped the shark when they bought Kochanski back. ATTENTION WRITERS: NOT EVERY STORY REQUIRES AN ACTIVE LOVE INTEREST TO BE ENJOYABLE. THANK YOU.) Somehow, in the American remake, even Cat wasn't cool.




• Payne: Would the individual/individuals whose bright idea was it to try and recapture the brilliance of Fawlty Towers with a different cast, and in an American setting please step forward for your ritual beating? So much of what made Fawlty Towers great was the cast and their chemistry. No question that John Laroquette is funny, but let's be honest; he's no John Cleese.




• Coupling: How is it the American production uses nearly identical scripts, and still manage to kill everything that is charming, funny and real in the original? (*Note: PCB tells me the American version has been "put on hiatus." Hooray for reprieve!)




• Men Behaving Badly: A shallow, uninspired remake of British Men Behaving Badly. It seemed more like "American Men Acting Exactly As Expected." Not quite the same ring, really, is it?

Google Gets Smarter Every Day   

• What is the square root of 1000



• 2 miles in kilometers



• How many bushels in a peck?



• Answer to life, the universe, and everything

Monkeys Have the Power of Mind Control   

"... [Miguel Nicolelis, project leader] says the monkeys appeared to be treating the robot arm as their limb, not an extension. "The properties of the robot were being assimilated as if they were a property of the animal's own body."

Fear Me, For I am All Powerful   

Ease Yourself Back Into Your Work Week   

• The Monday Morning Quiz: You know you want it.



• Can You Still Call It The Fortress of Solitude If It's Open For Tours?: Visit the proposed Amazing World of Superman.
  - via Weird Links.



• That You Do So Well: What can you do when co-workers play your nerves like a custom violin, and violence and mental cruelty are not realistic retaliatory options? Take out some of your frustration with Instant Voodoo. Anonymous mental cruelty more your style? Send them a voodoo doll from Pinstruck. Barring that, get another cup of coffee or find a new job. - via Geisha Asobi Blog.



• Fancy Yourself A Music Expert?: The Album Challenge might humble you, as it asks you to identify albums solely based on cover art. More of a movie lover? Don't feel left out; you ca try the Invisible Quiz over at Film Wise.
  - via Metafilter.



• Cry for Help!: I'm getting tired of the gray here in the corner. I am now taking re-design help, suggestions, and inspiration from you creative folks out there. In particular, I could use some ideas for a new logo design.

Weird, Wonderful, and Just Plain Creepy   

• The Pathetic White Slim Wins: Play One Slime; it's very much like Pong, but on crack. (Helpful hint, move using the arrow keys.)
  - via Coolio's.



• Sorry, But I'm Still Keeping My Manical Laughter: For the aspiring criminal masterminds out there (and you know who you are), you should bone up on the The Top 100 Things I'd Do If I Ever Became An Evil Overlord.
  
  I would like to add my own advice, which is don't tell the hero the details of your nefarious plot. Dispatch of him/her permanently on sight. If you feel the particular need to demonstrate the true depth of your genius to the world, successfully complete your scheme, than write a best-selling, tell-all novel. That way you get the power, the glory, and the money.
  - by way of Dave Barry's Blog



• Move Over, Chucky: Pop Culture Boy's paternal grandmother is (among other things) a dollmaker. Being in her workshop, surrounded by piles of staring, unsocketed eyes and various chubby baby body parts, I thought I had stepped into the scariest realm dolls could inhabit. Demon Kidz may well prove that assumption wrong.
  - found on Geisha asobi blog



• Now Really People: This is just wrong.
  - blame it on Pop Culture Junk Mail



• To Make Up for the Last One: This is pretty cool. Is there anything people can't do with Legos?
  - Via Ultimate Insult and Jerz's Literacy Weblog

Now Why Isn't Someone Holding This Panel Here   

Is Art in the Mouth of the Beholder?   

For All My Fellow Word Nerds   

When Jack-O-Lanterns Go Bad   

Living Literature   

I'm proud of my tattoo. I've considered others, but have yet to find one that speaks to me in the way this one did. Tattoos are permanent by nature, and shouldn't be entered into lightly. I don't understand people who get tattoos of cartoon characters or corporate logos...to me they represent emphemeral interests and consumerism. I believe if you are going to take on the ink, it should represent your spirit, your beliefs or your self.

(Or, barring that, look really, really cool.)

However, I must admit I am intrigued by Shelley Jackson's Ineradicable Stain project. Ms. Jackson is proposing an unusual type of publishing; the story in question will be tattooed on a cadre of willing participants; one word a piece. This will be the only type of publication the story will see, and the participants are under no obligation to gather together so that the full story can be told.

Much as the renegades in Fahrenheit 451 became the stories they told, participants in this project will become their words.

My feelings on this project are mixed at best. The realist in me suspects this is nothing more than a clever marketing ploy, garnering a smart author/artist fifteen minutes of media attention, and a chance to take what otherwise might be a sub-standard story and send it, unread and celebrated, into the annals of literary history. And, lest we forget, a good way to get the public interested in her other commercial projects.

However, the romantic in me is entranced with the idea. Imagine being part of a secret story...not the metaphysical larger story of life, but an actual story, full of dangerous and enlightening ideas, binding you to strangers, knowing that you are all needed to tell the story. Although people know you by name, you would know you were also "Passion", "Decision", "Path", "Brilliance", "Truth", "Glory" or "Beauty" for the rest of your life.

As interesting as the project sounds, I don't know how likely I would be to do it. To some degree, I am held back by the fact that I have yet to see a word tattoo written in a western language, no matter how artfully done, that didn't look like it was crudely drawn with a razor blade in a prison work yard.

Mostly though, it is the cynic in me telling me that I would not embody "Passion", "Brilliance", or "Glory." Chances are better I would find myself enternally "The", "And" or, perhaps most distressingly, "A."

In the Heat of Battle   

With me is David. He seems impossibly small, terribly young. He is so small that his flack vest, what little armor he has, comes down to his knees; so young that he had to ask for help putting it on.

Now, it is he and I in the darkness. We know our safety no longer matters. What matters is keeping the base safe, somewhere for the others to come back to. Enemies are everywhere. Sometimes they are right on top of us; growling faces, wolves at the door. Sometimes, they come silently, distant flashes coming ever closer.

David cries out, "They're coming!"

"I've got them," I tell him, shooting through an open window, hoping that it's true. There are so many at once. I fire with abandon, hoping I can take them all myself; spare David and keep our hold safe. I hail them with fire, and they retreat.

"Snipers!" Neil warns from the shadows where he too is keeping watch, and I can see the shots coming down from over head. They're getting more aggressive. Coming closer.

Somewhere out in the field, we are fighting too. Dan, reluctant but experienced; Emmett, who makes up in bravado what he lacks in stealth; and a handful of girls, so proud to be fighting. We have no news of them; no way to know where they are or how they are faring. I must trust their instincts, their willfulness, and their desire to overcome.

I take my eyes off my door for just a moment, to check on David. I am worried about him being overwhelmed, overpowered. It all happens in that instant. Neil backs in. "I'm hit." He tells me, pulling himself back into a corner, still firing out the door. "They're coming." I turn to fire out a window and I am hit in the shoulder, powerless. I shout out a warning to David but it's too late. They are crawling all over us, firing through the windows, pushing their way through the doors by sheer force of number.

Without warning, the alarm sounds, and it is over. "Exit this way," the game master calls as the lights come up. "Exit this way." I stand up and clip my gun back to my vest.

Man, I forgot how good laser tag could feel.

On the downside, I seem to have sprained my trigger finger. This, I suppose, is the price of victory.

A Sexy, Fashionable, Witty Doctor?