In an extraordinary show of rational groupthink, citizens in Dover, Pennsylvania voted a school board out of office last week for its endorsement of "intelligent design," a Conservative Christian counterpunch to just about everything science has ever taught us.
This is a hot topic these days. The Christian Right is trying to mandate that biology teachers in high schools across the country read a statement to their students that first introduces intelligent design as an alternative to natural selection and then recommends
, a book that explains the theory.
The vote to oust the spineless school board shows that people in Dover understand the separation of church and state. Students can get all the Bible theory they want at church -- schools are for learnin', not prayin'. It also suggests that they recognize this seemingly small concession for what it is: yet another attempt by an activist administration to restore our religious fundamentalist heritage.
"I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: if there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God, you just rejected Him from your city...And don't wonder why He hasn't helped you when problems begin, if they begin. I'm not saying they will, but if they do, just remember, you just voted God out of your city. And if that's the case, don't ask for His help because he might not be there."
Any guesses who said that? Why, it's none other than one time presidential candidate and resident Torquemada,
, who seems to be calling for a little divine wrath, Bruckheimer style.
Robertson: Making shithouse rats everywhere more secure about their sanity.
Of course, Robertson doesn't represent the views of your average Christian. But he does represent the views of your average Bible, which is full of stats about plagues, murder, hatred and retribution (Sodom had a high Earned Retribution Average). And if the Right has its way, we'll all one day be required to acquaint ourselves with Moses's famous blog, Deuteronomy.
Those crazy Christians just won't give up.
This could become the Scopes Monkey Trial all over again. Only now, instead of trotting out the irrepressibly charming William Jennings Bryan to deliver a hand-fanningly bombastic denunciation of science, the Right is attempting to take on evolution mano a mano in the classroom by turning faith into an academic pursuit. "It's simply an alternative scientific theory," claim vacuously grinning proponents, "and should therefore be taught alongside natural selection."
Actually, intelligent design is nothing more than a 2,500 year-old idea that has been dressed up in a rented lab coat.
Here's why it's dumb.
Intelligent design: What it is and why it's dumb.
Intelligent design is the creationist's argument du jour against Darwin's theory of natural selection and the big bang theory. Not that it's new. The idea started way back in ancient Greece with the Pre-Socratics, was later developed into the teleological argument by Thomas Aquinas and was dusted off and expressed as the watchmaker analogy by 18th Century Christian philosopher William Paley. It has since been resurrected and tweaked by the Christian Right, despite being goofed on by generations of philosophers and scientists. But at its core, the pro-God argument hasn't changed much through the years, and it can be summed up using Paley's definition, which goes like this:
Suppose you are walking through a field and happen upon a watch. After observing it's complexity and function, you would reasonably assume it couldn't have formed by chance -- a watchmaker must have designed it. Similarly, the universe is so complex that it is reasonable to assume that it also has an intelligent designer -- i.e., God.
Any questions? No? Good, now let's all pray to the mighty watchmaker in the sky.
To appreciate the differences in thinking that inform the two ideas, it's worth taking a quick look at how each came about. Here's a quick recap:
Natural selection
1831: Darwin travels to Argentina and the Galapagos Islands, where he studies the resident flora and fauna, interviews natives and unearths fossils. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion that differences in the same species of creature found around the world suggest the idea that organisms adapt to climate, geography and competition. From this he concludes that slowly, over perhaps millions of years, man evolved from a lower life form as a means of survival in an ever changing world. He returns to England and publishes several well-regarded books, earning enough "fuck you money" to take whatever gigs he wants. Then, despite having laid the groundwork for genetics, Darwin marries his cousin and they spend the rest of their lives avoiding awkward family gatherings.
Intelligent design
1802: Paley looks at his watch and comes up with analogy that explains everything in the universe.
 Darwin poses for the June 1836 issue of "Great Beards Monthly."
Intelligent design, in all its forms, has been taken on by philosophers, scientists and drunk guys in bars. One obvious problem is that the argument is used by creationists to prove the existence of God as he's known to Christians (White beard, sandals, long robe). Nothing about the argument supports this: it doesn't prove a single god (lots of watches, lots of watchmakers), a being with supernatural powers (when was the last time you saw a watchmaker assail a city with locusts?), a First Cause creator of the universe (someone had to make the watchmaker) and certainly not a being who would want to hang around with guys like Pat Robertson.
A second problem is that natural selection is simply a better argument, since it relies on all that evidence lying around. Where is the evidence to support the claim that watches can't -- given millions of years -- form on their own? Nowhere, that's where, Father.
That should end things: Intelligent design is merely a diverting faith-based brain teaser that has no place in the classroom.
But no. Recently, the Christian Right has adopted the language of science to modernize its argument, introducing the concept of "irreducible complexity." This is supposed to account for the criticism that intelligent design is an argument from ignorance.
The idea is that, even as natural selection attempts to simplify life to a series of naturally occurring causes, at some point you hit a functional biochemical system that cannot be reduced without causing it to cease functioning. Remove one component and the system becomes inert. Add to that the second law of thermodynamics -- that processes tend toward disorder and lower energy -- and you have a problem. How can a jumble of useless gunk assemble and ascend to a state of higher energy on it's own? My mother used to ask me that on Saturdays.
Take a mouse trap, for example, says Christian science guy Michael J. Behe. It has a function: to catch mice. But without all of its parts in place, it's just a piece of wood and some wire. So how could it ever have existed prior to its completed state? How would it have survived? It runs counter to the evolutionist idea that small, successive changes account for increasingly complex life forms.
Kenneth R. Miller has an answer. It might not be a functioning mousetrap in any prior state, but each part could have a workable function: As a paper clip, key chain, fish hook, etc. In other words, as they evolve, organisms change function as well as structure.
 Whereas religious fanatics can threaten scientists with God's wrath, scientists have a less effective threat: The wrath of Khan.
There are plenty of other pseudo-scientific claims for irreducible complexity, and an equal amount of superior counterarguments. At the end of the day, irreducible complexity is simply another in a long line of desperate yeah-but-what-abouts from people who want to vote Jesus back onto the island.
And though the argument has taken a more sophisticated turn lately, remember that for every reasonable-sounding creationist proposition, there's a guy who wants to destroy your city if you disagree.
In less than an hour I will have completed the weeklong experiment in gastronomic deprivation known as the Cabbage Soup Diet. If I never eat another bowl of cabbage soup again in my life, I will have considered my time on earth a success. From now on, it's corned beef and anything else. I don't even want to hear, read or speak the word cabbage. The very hint of a dream of a whisper of the word causes my esophagus to make like an epileptic python. I might not even take cabs from now on. Too close. But, I have managed to lose some weight. I stepped on Becky's scale last night and registered 198. That's thirteen pounds less than what my doctor clocked me in at a month ago. And now it's time to gain it all back in the most delicious way possible: The giving for which we give thanks -- Thanksgiving. "Please pass the turkey." How I long to say those words. "Another piece of apple pie?" Yes, yes. Oh God, yes. Sweet potatoes. Stuffing. Gravy. Glazed carrots. Buttered rolls. Mashed potatoes. Beef jerky, fried chicken hearts, this keyboard -- anything but cabbage! I want to eat everything listed in the song "Food, glorious food." Even saveloys, and I don't know what those are. Who cares? Bring 'em on. Unless they contain cabbage, of course. I should have a giant bowl of macaroni and cheese under my chin right now as the clock draws toward midnight. And I should be holding a huge wooden spoon. But I'll probably watch what I eat, at least for a little while. I told my self I'd lose forty pounds. So there are promises to keep. And pounds to drop before I eat. And pounds to drop before I eat. So all that's left now is the obligatory "after" picture. So here it is: Me having a smart vegetarian dinner at Zen Palate. 
 "That crazy bastard won't make it through his ridiculous diet," I can hear you saying. Literally. Well, this bastard might be crazy, but he's got perseverance! (Him being me, and you being all smug.) That's right, buckos and buckettes -- I am more than halfway through my week-long Cabbage Soup Diet! And now that I've improved my eating habits for nearly four days, allow me to lecture you on the importance of moderation. Look at you. Bellying up to the all-you-can eat buffet to pluck your Salisbury steak and scoop your glistening piles of cheese-drowned macaroni. Feeling the dull vibrations of panic as an unshaven suburban troglodyte lumbers between you and the half-empty tray of franks and beans. There is more to life than a three pound plate of starches precariously balancing a corn muffin. The sun does not rise and set on your precious bacon double cheeseburger. Have you ever tasted an apple? I mean, really tasted one? It's not that good, but it's good for you. And that's my whole point: Apples aren't that good. I was once like you. Gluttonous. Slothful. But for the past ninety-one hours I have become temporarily better. Temporarily much better. So eat your Doritoes and your Hot Pockets. Oh, and be sure to wash it all down with a can of carbonated corn syrup. Meanwhile, I will spend the final days of my diet reveling in the self-righteous universe of the recently converted. And that is all the sustenance I need. I can't fucking wait until Monday.
Yesterday I started a one week diet that is supposed to help you lose 10-15 lbs. It's called the "Cabbage Soup Diet," and it works by effectively starving you for seven days. Here's how you do it. First, cook up a giant batch of cabbage soup, using celery, green onions, onion soup mix, diced tomatoes, V8 Juice, bullion and, of course, cabbage. For the next week, the soup constitutes the base of your diet. You are to eat as much cabbage soup as you like, whenever you're hungry. In addition, the diet prescribes an ever-changing list of daily foods you must eat along with the soup. Day one is all the fruit you can eat, except bananas. Day two is all the vegetables you can handle, minus a few select varieties. Day three is a mix of days one and two. On day four, you eat bananas and drink skim milk. Day five: Steak. Day six: Steak and tomatoes. Day seven: Brown rice and vegetables. The science behind the madness: While you are stuffing yourself on soup, apples and greens, you are in actuality consuming very few calories. Full stomach + Few calories = Starvation, without those bothersome Stabbing Hunger Pangs. Just seven torturous days of cabbage soup aversion therapy. This is truly a fad diet. I am well aware of this. I am also aware that the cabbage soup diet is scorned by respectable nutritionists (respectable nutritionists being nutritionists who have successfully graduated from college but were still unable to get into med school). That doesn't bother me. The average American is so overfed that he could stop eating for two weeks without doing any lasting damage. An actual doctor said that. Why the crazy diet? The last time I went to the doctor, I weighed in at 211 lbs. That's a whole lot of Q'ner. The doctor told me I had to lose 40 lbs. I asked him: "Any suggestions?" "Exercise your mouth less and your body more." Thanks, doc. Is a personal check OK? Q'ner a few years ago: "Hey, good lookin'!" Q'ner a few weeks ago: "Whatcha got cookin'???!!!" Anyway, I'm feeling a bit too lazy to get to the gym. Or to start jogging, bicycling or any other "ing" that requires me to break a sweat. So I'm going the quick fix route. My reasoning is that by dropping 10-15 lbs. in a week, I'll have the motivation I need to transition to a more reasonable, long term eating health...lifestyle. Let me have my fantasy. So here I am, finishing off day two. Let's start the exciting, blow-by-blow coverage: Day One: It's go time!On Sunday I buy all the ingredients for the soup but fall asleep (with a belly full of Indian food) before I can make up a batch. So on Monday for lunch I order butternut squash soup from Pret and eat some mixed fruit. That night I cook up the soup and eat three bowls. It tastes pretty good. I then eat a bunch of strawberries and hobble to the bathroom as the cabbage tears down my intestinal tract and slams up against the inside of my clenched rectum. Interesting experiment: Eat a handful of cabbage, then drop another handful of cabbage from shoulder height. See which one hits the floor first.At midnight, I turn off the light and climb into bed. Then I climb out of bed, turn on the light and funny-walk to the bathroom. This is going to be a challenge. Day Two: This was still a good idea!When did I start disliking vegetables? In my mind the directive to "eat as many leafy greens as you'd like today" means eating no leafy greens. That's how many I'd like today. But I have to eat something besides the increasingly unattractive bowl of soup that I tucked in my bag this morning, so I resolve to find some palatable veggies. At 11:30, I microwave the whole tub of soup and start chowing down. My officemate Nick remarks that the soup smells pretty good. "Wanna try some?" I ask. "Nah." Instead, Nick opts for a delicious sandwich. I scoop up another spoonful of my luke-warm, anemic sludge and tell him that his lunch smells good, too. After finishing half of the container, I run to the men's room. In the stall I come to the realization that food and poo are the twin obsessions of the fad dieter. You're constantly thinking about various kinds of one while producing various kinds of the other. I finish, stand up and sit back down for round two of a six round bout. At some point I notice an odd, burning odor. Is that the smell of emulsified fat exiting my body? Or am I perhaps already delusional from malnutrition? I leave work for a smoke and decide to go to the deli, which offers an all-you-can eat buffet. I peruse the isle as hordes of cheerfully plump New Yorkers fill jumbo to-go boxes with fried chicken, braised pork, beef, tuna, sushi rolls, mashed potatoes, tofu triangles and crab salad. What can I eat here? Most of the vegetables are drenched in butter, oil, bacon or all three. I spot a steaming pile of broccoli and cauliflower with nobody around it. "Mmmmm" I think, lying to myself. At 4:00, I reheat my container of soup and eat another few bowls. I leave at six for Brooklyn. The ride home is long. I feel cold and uncharitable. My intestines are in a constant state of adjustment. I exit the train and go to the store to get a baked potato. This is the big, day-two indulgence listed in the diet. A single baked potato with butter. I arrive home and toss the potato in the oven and set it to broil. A few minutes later, my apartment fills with smoke and the scent of burning mozzarella. For the past year my oven has served one purpose: to reheat slices of pizza. I've been meaning to clean it. My potato should be nearly done by now. And most of the smoke has cleared out of my apartment. I opened all my windows and shoved a towel under my front door so the smoke wouldn't alarm the rest of the building. I feel like a kid doing bong hits in his dorm room. I must go now to savor my flavorless potato. I'll provide an update in a few days. Wish me well.
Well, not so much attack but appropriate the remote control, which to an alpha clicker feels like nothing less than a full on gator roll. My girlfriend, Becky, doesn't watch a lot of TV. I do. But today she got the remote early (during a weak moment, when I was printing pictures on my computer) and wouldn't give it up. The result? Nearly six hours of medical miracles, malignancies and malpractices courtesy of the Discovery Health Channel. Turns out she's fascinated by elephantine tumors, exploding cysts and third-degree burn victims. But this isn't about exploring the wonders of modern medicine. I can hear her oohing, awing and ewwing as I surf around on the Internet in my bedroom. "Look, honey!" she shouts, and I walk in and watch as a group of surgeons cuts a 200 lb benign tumor from a 120 lb woman. The tumor encases the woman like a giant nut sack. It contains, we learn, enough blood to fill five normal adults. Two surgeons slice it away, cauterizing the ropy arteries that connect the mass to her body, then flip her over to finish the job in just under 18 hours. She is a filleted, inert husk wearing an oxygen mask, and will now require, explains the narrator, "several skin grafts" to cover the 40 percent of her that is exposed and oozing. The group wrestles the tumor off the table. "Gross," Becky says. I agree and return to my computer, feeling weak. Next up: Terrifying disfigurement. Becky calls for me again. "Brian, you have to see this." I press pause on my keyboard and the little animated guy in my flash game hangs in midair. I peek around the corner. "Jesus, what the hell is that?" The TV explains: A young girl from Afghanistan was pouring lamp oil into a stove when her robe caught on fire. Ye Gods. The flames turned her skin into something like candle wax, which melted down her ears and face, fusing her chin to her chest and her left arm to her side. When they first show the girl she looks like a monster. Thick scar tissue pulls on her face such that her eyes and lips are stretched downward. For a year after the accident, she couldn't close her eyes to sleep. Her right ear looks like a fist. Afghan doctors wrote her off, but her story got out to an American surgeon, who flew her to the States and is now explaining the procedure. I'm committed. I have to see the little girl get better. I can't live the rest of my life with that image. The surgeon goes to work. First he cuts a line straight across the mass of scar tissue under her face, releasing the trapped chin. Next, a dozen skin grafts, reconstructive surgery on her ear and more skin grafts. Then, more skin grafts. I'm amazed at how brave the little girl is. She makes friends with everyone at the hospital and begins learning English. After a year of painful procedures she looks like a little girl again. I'm relieved. She's staying with the surgeon and his wife and has begun going to school. There is some initial awkwardness as the new students look her over, but soon they accept her and she makes more friends than I ever had at that age. The surgeon and his wife briefly consider adopting her, but realize she has a family waiting for her back in Afghanistan. So they take her back. The little girl's parents cry when they see how much their daughter has improved. The surgeon hugs her goodbye and boards the plane for home. It's a beautiful, bittersweet story. Roll credits. "Ugh," says Becky. "After all that, she has to go back to Afghanistan, where women are oppressed and she'll live in poverty." "She wanted to go back, remember?" "No, she wanted to see her family. But she looked miserable in those video clips in the village." "But now she knows English and has people in the US who love her." I'm getting desperate. "Maybe she'll move there to go to college or something." "Yeah," Becky says skeptically. It's like we just watched a movie and are arguing over it's genre. I want it to be an inspiring story about the triumph of the human spirit. Becky's going the horror route, one of those movies where everything seems to resolve itself before revealing a final, tragic "Whah-Whah." I leave to get some shopping done and pick up dinner. "You're gonna like this next one," Becky promises as I put the takeout bags on the coffee table. She's cuddled up in my Ikea chair. I should have brought her some popcorn and a Coke. The title comes up on the screen: "When surgical tools are left behind."Becky laughs. "Don't go by the title." I'm halfway through my chicken korma when a laconic Hispanic woman begins telling her story. (Bored Hispanic accent): "The doctors, they opened my breast to check for a tumor. It was benign, but later that night my breast grew the size of my head. And the breast, it was purple. I went to the doctor and when he removed the bandages it just exploded." I lower my fork as she clarifies: "The stuff was thick and red, like red Jello. The doctor, he gave me an antibiotic and told me it would be OK. But I awoke that night covered in a thick slime, you know? Like a slimy slime all over my body." "Alright, turn the channel!" I yell. Becky fumbles with the remote, giggling. "C'mon, turn it to anything, I don't care, just turn it. Please. Hurry." She turns it to a shopping channel. Fine, that's a safe home base. We can watch a platinum-blonde woman hocking fake jewlery in the right-hand corner of the screen while Becky hunts for more appetizing fare. After dinner, I go back to my room. There is more: Children who age prematurely, a guy whose grapefruit-sized scrotum leaks a "cup to a cup-and-a-half" of pus every day. A fifteen year old girl who screams as she gives birth to her first child. I'm not going back in there, but I can hear it all from my room. Later, Becky emerges from the living room. "Forget that Freddy Kruger stuff," she says. "Medical procedures -- now that's real horror."
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A few news sources are carrying this story: A man got stuck on a toilet seat in a Kentucky Home Depot after some little bastard smeared the seat with wacky glue. Now he's suing because the head clerk ignored his cries for help for 15 minutes, thinking it was a hoax. The victim's account of the ordeal is so carefully worded, you might almost think he consulted a lawyer before speaking to the press. Now, one would hope that your typical staff writer would be champing at the bit to relay this story, considering all the fun word-play you could have with it. But I must say, I was let down by the first two accounts. CNN filed its version under Law. It's handled in a nuts-and-bolts tone. No delicate puns. No bathroom humor. Professional, save for one play on words that the Web site administrator probably couldn't resist: The URL includes the string /toilet.suit.ap/. Get it? The London Free Press also handles the story professionally, allowing only the following indulgence: "Hardware retailer Home Depot finds itself in a sticky situation..." (Italics mine)  How sad. A story like this deserves something more. But what? I searched around a bit, finally finding this account, on newsfromrussia.com. The story is the same as the one on The London Free Press, but the staff included this lovely picture. Thank you, Russian news outlet.
I'm not saying these books and authors suck. I'm just explaining why I can't get into them. But some of them do suck, though. In any event, please enjoy my first official blog rant. A) Authors I won't give a fair chance.I won't read John Grisham. I don't care about taut courtroom thrillers. I don't need to read insider lingo that could only be written by an ex-lawyer. He might be a good writer for all I know. I won't even spend two hours watching any of his movies. Tom Clancy loves his military shit, but I don't. I can't even follow the plots in his movies. Was that the same guy from earlier who warned that other guy about the leak? I don't know, both were 50-ish white guys wearing navy baseball caps. Michael Crichton. I'm probably not even spelling his name right, but I don't want to look it up. I started the book Timeline a while ago, but the writing was just so awful. Martin Amis pegged it: He's not writing books, he's writing book-length screenplays. That chick that writes that stuff about relationships? I don't like her. B) What was I thinking?Stephen King can tell a story. He's good at plot. But that dialogue is some seriously stilted, phony shit. I didn't notice that when I was sixteen. If you once read and enjoyed The Shining, do yourself a favor and don't read it again. Just savor the memory. I picked up Books of Blood, by Clive Barker, which I last read in 1993. I used to think it was great, literate horror. But now I think it's overwritten, cliched melodrama. C) PostmodernistsMason Dixon is a masterpiece. It says so right on the cover in a New York Times quote. I've tried to break the seal, but I can never get past the first thirty pages or so. And then there are like 700 pages after that! And there are only eleven periods in the whole book. Maybe I'm not smart enough for Pynchon. I think I can live with that. David Foster Wallace can do the tangent like nobody's business. Broom of the System is supposedly more approachable than Infinite Jest, but I can't force myself to pick it up again. It's sitting on my bathroom floor. I'm at the part where a cockatiel starts speaking all this mixed up literate babble. I know it's a metaphor for something -- maybe DFW's writing. I tuned out after a chapter about a guy who wants to eat himself so fat that he takes up more and more of the universe, thereby making everyone else closer to him. This is his prescription for avoiding loneliness. If you find that sort of writing cerebral and cute, read Broom of the System and tell me how it ends. James Joyce, the grandfather of the postmodernists, was a genius. Dubliners is perfect, written with a "scrupulous meanness." Not a single superfluous word in any of the stories. Then, he lost his Irish mind. Reading Ulysses is like trying to eat a hamper full of laundry. I shouldn't lump him in with guys like David Foster Wallace, though. That's wrong. Maybe I'll try Ulysses one more time. D) Other heavyweightsThe Wind Beneath Her Feet, by Salman Rushdie, rang false. He's writing about a pop star and you get the feeling he's out of his element. It's like a bookish, foreign exchange student explaining his take on Kurt Cobain to you at a party. All the terminology is a little off and his sense of humor edges toward corny nerdiness. Has Philip Roth lost a little something on his fastball? Portnoy's Complaint was hilarious and dark, but The Human Stain is colorless, mannered and allegorical. I couldn't get into it. E) New writersJonathan Safran Foer starts out Everything is Illuminated with a bang. The narrator is from the Ukraine and he writes in hilariously broken English. That lasts for four genius pages before the story lurches back in time to tell a whole lot of back story. That wouldn't be so bad, but the change in tone is annoying. It goes from being quirky and different to writing that is so self-consciously beautiful, you can almost hear it being applauded by writer's workshops across the country. I was so excited to read Middlesex after having read the brilliant Virgin Suicides. But get to the point, Eugenides! Talk about back story: this guy presents a brilliant premise -- a hermaphroditic narrator -- then spends over a hundred pages on a romantic telling of his Greek grandparents coming to the new world. I'll try it again. I really want to get to the hermaphrodite's story. A Million Little Pieces has one of the best cover designs ever. James Frey wants to be the next big thing. He famously dissed Dave Eggers. He boasts about how he got clean of drugs through sheer determination. His prose short, hard and repetitious. But his true story starts to sound bullshitty after a while. The supposedly real-life characters sound like they were heisted from a crime drama. And they all die in the end, meaning no one can contact them to verify Frey's harrowing time spent in a rehab clinic. I didn't buy his story. He sounds like a rich kid talking tough. A much, much better rehab book is "Dry," by Augusten Burroughs. It's funny, dark and truthful. This isn't any of those. Well, that's my first official blog rant. Hope you enjoyed my bile. I might change my mind about some of these books tomorrow. Just try and stop me. We blog ranters are a fickle bunch, all angry one minute and rabidly fanboyish the next. My girlfriend says I'm a curmudgeon. Maybe I am. But on the other hand, Bah!!
If you know nothing about zombie movies, learn as much as you can, then promptly forget everything you've learned. (The easiest way to forget, as I understand, is to have a friend drop a coconut on your head.) After completing these steps, go look at the video stills of We Are Going to Eat You, a horror movie with equally horrifying production values, which was shot by my friend Psaur back in, as he notes, 1984 or 1985. Now that's a zombie movie. Ah, 1984 or 1985: Reagan had just begun his second term, or was a year into his second term. Pepsi was red-faced after burning Michael Jackson during a commercial shoot, or Coke had just released the disastrous New Coke. Clara Peller asked the nation: "Where's the Beef," or Microsoft released Windows 1.0. You remember 1984 or 1985. A quick check on IMDB.com reveals no record of We Are Going to Eat You. Was it too controversial? Or is it not there because it was just a video shot by some 15 or 16-year old Long Island kids? Look at the stills and judge for yourself. UPDATE: As Mo'sh points out in the comments, the film was shot on Super 8 film not video. And Mo'sh was involved, too. I was so transfixed by Psaur's enormous zombie head that I forgot it was an ensemble piece. You can see more stills on Psaur's home page: Don't Parade in My Rain.
 A grislier view of my demonic creation. Muhuhahahaha!
 Becky and I did a little pumpkin carving today. This is my masterpiece. I call it: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"
 The other day, Jon and I were talking about how George Carlin has gone through three stages in his standup career: Hippie dippy (60's - early 70's), smart observationalist (late 70's - late 80's) and crank (early 90s - present). Of course, we were oversimplifying. Observational humour has been at the foundation of his comedy since day one, and the angry tone of his more recent work is really just a hardened version of the pranksterish iconoclasm of his hippie dippy days. He's always been Carlin: he's just becoming more so. Something we didn't include in our classification is Carlin's consistent brilliance with words. Just take a look at the promo for his upcoming HBO special. I can't think of any writer who could sum up the current generation with this kind of poetic perfection.
 A Japanese telephone company is developing a remote control device that can be used to control humans. They suggest that the new technology could be used to enhance video games, but we know better. Writer Yuri Kageyama tried out a prototype of the device, which uses a special headset that deploys low voltage electric currents into the cranium via a remote joystick. From the article: "I found the experience unnerving and exhausting: I sought to step straight ahead but kept careening from side to side. Those alternating currents literally threw me off. The technology is called galvanic vestibular stimulation -- essentially, electricity messes with the delicate nerves inside the ear that help maintain balance. I felt a mysterious, irresistible urge to start walking to the right whenever the researcher turned the switch to the right. I was convinced -- mistakenly -- that this was the only way to maintain my balance. The phenomenon is painless but dramatic. Your feet start to move before you know it. I could even remote-control myself by taking the switch into my own hands." Disturbingly awesome. Awesomely disturbing.
As my faithful readers know, I am a fully licensed and accredited psychic. Occasionally, I like to drop a few predictions just to keep my skills up. You probably remember the post in which I foretold the prognostication of a certain groundhog before he even poked his head up. ("I see him seeing shadow," I bellowed. And I was right! And so was he! Six more weeks of winter. Bleah!) Sorry folks, but I've got to tell the truth, however uncomfortable it be. But enough! Here is a new batch of my famous and never wrong predictions, presented for your smirking skepticism, which is soon to be humbled approbation. Let's start with a warmup one: Fur of newt Gill of bat Tell me, spirits Where it's at! PREDICTION: Harriet Miers will withdraw her Supreme Court bid. Any doubts? Check this out. Surprised? Not me. I never am. OK, let's look deeper into the future. Deeper. Images grow watery. They are still in flux. Events, not yet transpired, whip about the vast prairie of outstretched time. Deeper I gaze. I look very serious, but also very handsome. There is a bit of product in my hair, but not so much that it feels stiff to the touch. Deeper. Further. Handsome. I stare. Here goes: Ear of fish Foot of slug Tell me the future So I don't have to shrug! PREDICTION #1: I, Brian Kunath, will try and shed some unwanted pounds. It will be difficult. The feast of Thanksgiving will prove a speed bump, as will the holidays that follow. But I will try. This time I will. PREDICTION #2: I, Brian Kunath, will stop smoking. Seriously. No fucking around this time. I will briefly consider getting the patch, but my ego will prevail and I'll quit "cold turkey." Later, I'll wonder if that strategy was erroneous. Perhaps. Perhaps. PREDICTION #3: The gym, four times a week. Why not? It's right next door to where I, Brian Kunath, am employed. I know it's easy to want to go home after work, especially when it gets cold out. But if I am to fulfill PREDICTION #1, I must first fulfill this prophecy. And now the future obscures. All future light and sound draw back with a great swirling, sucking sound until I am deposited again in the here and now, drenched in the sweat of success. I am exhausted and will sleep for several hours under my desk at work. Prognostication is a rough beast to wrestle. As for my predictions, just you wait. After all, it's all you can do -- you who know only the past and present. I pity you. Sometimes I do.
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Whew. Great vacation out in San Fran. Just got back. I'll post about it soon, and I'll even include some pics. Until then, here's a top-o-the-head rundown: San Fran is like a smaller, friendlier, prettier and more manageable version of NYC. Wanna go to Chinatown? There's a nice little gate that you walk through to enter that part of the city. Ready to leave? Walk two blocks east or west. The cab drivers tell you things about the city. One reset his meter because he got off course a little. They talk to you! They listen to Air America and offer political opinion. When you tell them where you need to go, they know where to go without requiring consistent direction. And they talk to you! Some quick highlights:
- Anchor Brewing Company: We did a tour of the great brewery. A tour that ended with a comprehensive tasting of all their selections.
- Asia SF: "Gender illusionists" entertained us, while serving up a fantastic meal.
- Zeitgeist: A surly biker cook prepared bratwurst and cheeseburgers while we drank pitchers of local brew on a picnic table in the courtyard.
- Brew pubs: Lots of them.
- Alcatraz tour: Touristy? Yes. Amazing and informative? Yes and yes.
- Sourdough bread and seafood: Check.
Lot's more to discuss. And when I have more energy, I'll do just that.
1999: Special Ed.In April, I packed up my Ford Ranger with whatever would fit in the truck bed and drove from Raleigh to Piermont, NY, where my old college friend Dave was living at the time. I remember it raining a lot on the way up. I fishtailed off the Beltway in DC and then blew a tire on the Jersey Turnpike. I'd brought $400 with me to New York and had already spent $80 of it on a new tire. I stayed on Dave's couch the whole summer, hunting through his railroad apartment for loose change and going to Manhattan in the day to find work as a writer. I'd rattle around midtown in my truck, desperately trying to locate a parking spot ten minutes before an interview. I went to about a dozen headhunters and dropped off my "book," which was an old, paint-streaked leather art case my artist friend Kerri gave me. I got turned down again and again. One headhunter gestured to a stack of beautiful portfolios in her office and explained how poorly my book rated in comparison. "If you're serious about this, you'll take a portfolio-building class at NYU or SVA. It's really the only way anyone will give you a chance." "Of course, I would need a job to pay for something like that," I said. I'd been living on pizza and tap water for the last month. She smiled, lifting a hand to adjust her square-framed glasses, and told me to come back after I took the course. I kept answering the want ads. I played a little poker at a local bar called the Sidewalk Cafe, winning, then losing, then losing again. During the week, the bar offered skinny glasses of Sam Adams for a dollar. Dave and I would get there at three or four in the afternoon and hang around until whenever. He was a writer, too. I set up my computer on Dave's kitchen table and wrote a few online self-help articles for various dot-commers, getting paid anywhere from nothing to $100. Some afternoons, we'd pop a Ritalin pill (Dave had a prescription--he called them "cuckoo pills," or "kooks," for short), and then go to our computers to peck out crazed fiction for hours. One of my stories was about a bitter magician who'd lost an arm in WWII ("The nub poked out of his sleeve like a fat summer sausage"). Another was about an old, morphine-addicted ex-Nazi officer who was haunted by drug-induced hallucinations from his criminal past. I'd write a couple of stories, then take another kook and write some more, until the inevitable cuckoo pill crash hit, putting me down for ten hours of twitchy sleep. I had no sleep pattern. Sometimes I'd awake, slick with nervous sweat, as hot afternoon sunlight spilled through the living room window and onto my face. Meanwhile, Dave was trying to start up a company with a couple of friends. His plan was to produce and sell instructional kits to schools that specialized in teaching basic life skills to mentally challenged adults. By the time I'd arrived, he'd already begun the first kit: A comprehensive CD-based course that would teach kitchen safety to institutionalized men and women who were just functional enough to get work as a restaurant janitor or dishwasher. I decided to join the team. As the only one of us who had ever worked in a restaurant, it was agreed that I would act as chief factual consultant for the project. My first job was to review the structure of the program. The syllabus, which Dave had set, comprised a series of challenging lessons, such as why it's important to wash your hands, and how mopping up spilled liquids helps us all to avoid taking a nasty fall. It looked pretty solid to me. The all-inclusive instructional kit contained a booklet, a map of a hypothetical restaurant kitchen (drawn by Kerri from my recollections as a waiter) and a CD that featured the character "Gary Cleanberg," as voiced by Dave. The idea was that Gary and his friends would spend a fun, fact-filled hour or so outlining the essentials of kitchen safety and cleanliness. We figured an hour provided enough instruction to render employable the kind of people who required months of patient classroom study to learn how to count change correctly. In addition to my consultant duties, I also played the part of Professor Plimpton on the CD, who was a safety expert with a vaguely Bostonian accent and a penchant for making withering remarks about Gary Cleanberg's intelligence. ("Here's a couple of dollars, Gary. Why don't you pop out and get me a cup of kava-kava tea? And treat yourself to a couple of Snickers bars while you're at it.") I was provided no script and had to improvise most of my lesson, which consisted of me posing questions like: "You see that someone has dropped food on a countertop. What should you do?" To which I would invariably answer: "Ask your supervisor." I figured we couldn't get sued for providing false or dangerous advice if every correct answer was: "Ask your supervisor." I must have said that phrase ten times throughout the lesson, and just to be sure, I ended the whole segment with: "And remember: Always ask your supervisor." The narrator was voiced by Seth, a friend of Dave's who drove a Hazmat truck and whose father had once been a D.J. (Seth soon dropped out of the project--mysteriously disappearing from the CD after the first ten minutes). Though the course material was disorganized, the facts questionable and the narration abandoned, the CD was full of cool sound effects and catchy songs that drilled home key learnings. One such lesson was sung to the tune of Iron Man, by Black Sabbath. It went something like: Always wash your hands, In a dirty house or by a dingy lake. Of the hour allotted to the entire kitchen safety course, twenty minutes were devoted to reminding students to always wash their hands. But the real creative coup was the addition of original music. Dave and I convinced two musician friends of ours, Mike and Jim, to write songs for the CD. I can only hope that some of the lyrics to those classics find their way into the comments section of this post. After the CD was complete, Dave packaged the whole thing and sent out notice to a catalog that sold educational aids. The project was complete. We sat back, popped a couple of kooks and waited for the orders to come pouring in. It never happened. Dave did eventually manage to sell one copy, but it didn't pay for the expense of the two-dozen kitchen saftey kits he'd produced. Those sat in a box in his own kitchen (which, by the way, was filthy) and were subsequently trotted out to impress potential girlfriends. With no job prospects coming from the city, and no money from our joint venture, I figured I had to get some kind of job. So I drove to a brewpub about 20 miles north of Piermont and applied for a waiter position. I went one day -- got trained by a 20 year-old girl who kept talking about a party she was going to that night -- then came home and found a message on the answering machine. A financial magazine needed a writer. Was I available for an interview? Yes I was. To say that the job sucked would be an understatement. But I'll say it anyway. That job sucked.
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