Thursday, June 30, 2005

Rant of the day

So, goddamn it you guys, I'm totally hooked on this fucking show, and can't stop watching it, and now it's two in the motherfucking morning and I have to be at work in the a.m., as you well know, Tifanie, and I'm still debating watching another episode. You have ruined the editorial life. My lab is neglected, the zombies are starving, my research staff has been drinking beer and fucking off for hours. The emergency ammunition hasn't been restocked in days. I feel like one of the crack squirrels in Central Park, only I'm not quite up to that level of rationality. It could also be all of the codeine and scotch, but who's counting . . . anyway, the next time you loan me DVDs, warn me first that all other activities will cease and I'll sit here for an entire night and obsess over funeral directors! All right? Thanks.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

May as well skip this one; I should have

So everyone has a different way of dealing with suddenly running into ghosts when they least expect it. There are certain times and places where ghosts are almost de rigeur; spooky old castles, crumbling graveyards, the Editor's closet, etc. But what do you do when a ghost pops up in the middle of a downtown bar? Well, some might run, some might ignore the disturbing apparition, others might just shrug and order a slightly stronger drink. The Editor has a beer with it, calls it a close friend, and proceeds to agonize over it for hours or days or years. However: this is a moment of change. I have enough trouble with zombies as it is to allow other sorts of undead to have any kind of impact. Enough already. I never understood before now why people seem to be hung up about their pasts for ever and ever and ever, to the ultimate destruction of everything they try to build. It is simply because it's actually harder and more painful to admit that everything one has held dear, or had faith in, is irrelevant, thus admitting that one's own judgement is lacking, and that all the time that's already been spent on said irrelevancy is time completely wasted.

Therefore, the Editor has made an executive decision. No undead, besides the ones in the lab, will be allowed to affect the Editorial lifestyle; the others can go and fuck themselves. No more time wasted, no more pointlessly self-indulgent wallowing in self-pity, whining, stress, and moments of angst. In short, no more melodrama. I think I'll move on to comic opera, it's a lot more fun.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Presentation of Articles Written by Foreign Students Here

Pyongyang, June 19 (KCNA) -- "Song of Praising Great Man," a meeting for presenting articles written by foreign students studying at Kim Il Sung University was held at the Taedonggang Club for the Diplomatic Corps on June 18 on the occasion of leader Kim Jong Il's start of work at the Central Committee of the Workers' Party of Korea. At the meeting which began with chorus "Song of General Kim Jong Il" students presented their works carrying their ardent reverence for President Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il.

In occasional notes "Before an immortal monument to his autographs", poem "Song of the eternal sun" and other works performers expressed deep reverence of humankind for the President and Kim Jong Il who is carrying forward his cause.

In poem "Song sung on Ryonggun Peak" and record of impression "A country of Songun politics", Chinese and Iranian students stressed that as led by Kim Jong Il the DPRK is throwing bright rays all over the world as a great country shining with Songun politics. Diary "Along the trace of the great man" and written impressions "My pride" expressed eulogy for Kim Jong Il. Korean songs including immortal masterpiece "Azalea" and "My Blessed Life" were sung.

The meeting ended with chorus of the Korean song "Dear Name".

It almost makes Fox News seem like actual information, doesn't it?

Sunday, June 19, 2005

A Personal Moment

The Editor rarely indulges in diatribes about events in my private life; after all, as a zombie researcher, there's not much that's fit to be made public. It's all too gruesome for general consumption. However, in this case an exception has to be made.

About two weeks ago, I realized that I truly do have to get out more. To put it simply, with all that time spent in the lab, and the hours devoted to employment (zombies are a calling, but they do NOT pay the bills, you may be surprised to learn), and the bits and pieces left over being given to these posts, there was very little left for the Editor to have what might be called a love life. So, in order to avoid actually leaving the facility, and interacting with people in a social environment, I put a personal ad on a website.

To my great surprise, the response was good. Several of the emails I received appeared actually to have been written by Homo Sapiens, and living ones, at that. (That's a big thing for me; I spend so much time with dead people, that it's nice to occasionally have a conversation that's not mostly groaning, and attempts to eat my brain. Meeting people in bars is truly challenging.) So, to make a long story short, the Editor went on an actual blind date, a first for me and hopefully a last as well. (I do not mean this to reflect poorly upon my date, as a person; they turned out to be great company, and attractive. But the stress of the event itself, or rather the buildup, was a bit much.)

The stress came mostly from those first few moments of walking into the coffee place chosen for the rendevous, and wondering if I had arrived first, or if any of the singularly unappealing specimens before me was the individual I was doomed to be pleasant to for a minimum of an hour. That was sheer terror. Rarely is the Editor fully unmanned by the strain of impending doom, and this was one of those times. And to make matters worse, the Editor was without an internet connection, and therefore unable to turn to Homeland Security for solace. So there I was, drinking a cup of tea and waiting for the unknown, without even a comforting diagram of an exploding nuclear warhead pointed at the crotch of a walk signal to get me through. That was a dark ten minutes - until my real date walked through the door and turned out not to be a beastmonster. And that is the scintillating true story of the Editor's dating life, the only one which will ever be published here. Back to what's important.

Ideasculptor noticed the very same little Homeland Security picture which most appealed to me - the one of the guy looking thoughtfully at the biological agent, as it comes out of the container and onto his face. The drawing of his thought bubble, which contains a biological contaminant symbol, is indeed particularly fine. "Hm," he seems to be saying, "that sure does look like something that'll curdle my gonads. Kinda seems to be squirting right into my face. Maybe I should just stand here?" Does that reflect the federal government's overall approach to Homeland Security? Are they too busy trying to settle the New York traffic department's copyright lawsuit, based on the suspicious resemblance of the little radiated man to the walk signal, to actually do anything useful? These are all questions which may or may not be answered at a much later date. For now, just remember: If there is an explosion or other factor that makes it difficult to control the vehicle, pull over, stop the car and set the parking brake.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Feeling insecure? Well, you will be.

Whereas, I have recently acquired my laptop from Ideasculptor; and whereas, he has informed me that I must post once per week to avoid repossession of said cheap and good hardware; and whereas I want to keep it; I am now posting. Congratulations, Ideasculptor, you have successfully blackmailed the Editor. That's actually quite difficult to do, as I'm usually the first to inform everyone whenever I do something illegal, stupid, or just plain embarrassing. Why hide it?

It makes me wonder about you, though, Ideasculptor; these posts don't seem worth an almost new laptop. But whatever you say. I'm not arguing.

So, for everyone's delectation this evening, I direct you to our very own Homeland Security website. Have you ever wondered what radiation looks like, when it's directed at the groin? Wonder no longer. There are stick figures standing by to inform you. Questions about the possible results of chemical warfare? They will be answered, in short, easily comprehended sentences. Frankly, anyone who needs this website, deserves their lung-vomiting eye-bleeding fate. And really, if you're in the last stages of Ebola, trying desperately to drag yourself into the kitchen for some water, or maybe just to die, do you stop in along the way to run "biological weapon exposure symtoms" through google, and then go to the website, and gaze blearily through blood-clouded eyes (if they're still attached to your head) at the small round-headed graphic man standing behind a radiation shield, hoping that all of your internal organs will return to a state of solidity? Actually, that'd probably be about as productive as anything else, at that point. We are all doomed. Doomed, I tell you! Fire and brimstone! Plagues of squirrels! Midgets with AK-47s, descending upon the suburbs in very small helicopters!

Thank you, Homeland Security. I feel much more secure now, in the knowledge that every time I need to see a small, badly-proportioned diagram of several suspicious looking containers of nuclear material, I have somewhere to go.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Howie Part II: Revenge of the Literate

Howie, my pet. Since posting my last, it came to me that perhaps some of my previous comments may have seemed hurtful, nay, even mean. Let me just state for the record that I feel it to be my bounden duty to educate those whom I feel to be in need of my help. In fact, I feel like feelings, those that you truly, deeply feel, feel more heartfelt when felt up under a cashmere sweater . . . sorry, sidetracked. (Using the same word, over and over and over and over again, has a bit of a drowsy, soothing, hypnotic effect, does it not? Of course, what can one do, when one has the vocabulary of an invertebrate? A difficult quandary, to be sure.)

And I apologize to any more junior members of my audience, who may or may have ever felt up anything at all.

Now, it seems, I must apologize yet again, as I may have just insinuated that no human female voluntarily comes within several leagues of the Fearless Defender of Truth and Italics in the History of Education.

Should I display how truly, deeply, really sorry I feel, yet again? I feel like this examination of all of our feelings might become monotonous at some point.

And it just did. For a moment there, I thought I might have accidentally strayed from my own blog to Howie's. Hmmmmm. But, back to the matter at hand. Just to refresh everyone's memory, here's the previously quoted passage from Howie's blog:

I am not a so-called «bot» and I am not stupid. I am an education major at Princeton University and you do not get into an Ivy League school by being stupid. My GPA is a steady 3.8. I wish to educate those who I feel are uninformed, and I have been vilified. I feel that once you open your mind, you will feel that there is a progressive answer to today's issues. You have to open your mind not keep it narrow. I am messenger for progressive change. My views are shared by many people.

Howie, Howie, Howie. What are we going to do with you? I pray to all gods and idols that were ever made, not release you upon an unsuspecting elementary school class. Can you even imagine walking innocently into your first day in the third grade and finding . . . Howie? Perhaps he'll do us all a favor and join Teach for America, and get himself sent to the worst, most crime-ridden high school any ghetto has ever seen. As a true liberal, and lover of the people, he would no doubt love them even more at very, very close range. He can tell them about how, coming from a college which costs more per year than their entire family's income, he really, truly, knows how they feel, understands them, and wants to educate them.

So Howie. I will now, out of what piddling quantity of goodness remains in my cold, bitter soul, let you in on a secret. The best way to lose all, and I do mean every last single drop, of credibility as a member of the hoi polloi, is to . . . anyone with me here? Anyone? That's right, go to an incredibly exclusive university, populated almost entirely with the very wealthy, and set oneself up as an intellectual. Yep, that's it all right. The only people who will, for the rest of his life, be able to look at Howie without hatred are well-educated wealthy white people. And they will not tolerate him until he learns to spell.

It seems that in order to complete our analysis of the paragraph above (which is, after all, from one of the greatest philosophers of our time; it would be foolish to dismiss it hastily) we shall have to post yet again, perhaps even later this evening. The Editorial fingers weary, and zombies need to be fed. Wait a minute . . . and I had to ask what we were going to do with Howie, when the answer was right at my rotting, gnawed fingertips!

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the wonderful world of HOWIE!!!

Well, thank you, thank you . . . I know it's been a while, I'll have to wait for the frenzied cheering to die down before really beginning my post . . . anyway, by popular demand, the Editor has taken a few moments from the ever-absorbing laboratory (I need a new batch of expert assistants, by the way, some more have been eaten) to post a few words.

So. My attention has been drawn to an individual named Howie. Might I add, my unfavorable attention. In lieu of sending a cadre of zombies to his no doubt pitiful, filty, and louse-infested abode (because after all, even zombies have standards, for god's sake), let us examine a specimen of his prose. It's slightly less grotesque than your average stool sample, but only very slightly - don your Hazmat suits please, or at least some goggles and dish gloves. It's really too bad that anyone who is able to read Howie's words of wisdom are already too intellectually advanced to profit from them. I wonder, has he tried reading his posts aloud to the local home for developmentally disabled children? They might enjoy them, or they might at least derive some amusement from vomiting upon him. As would we all, I might add. However. To the point.

Here is a recent posting from Howie's page:

I am not a so-called «bot» and I am not stupid. I am an education major at Princeton University and you do not get into an Ivy League school by being stupid. My GPA is a steady 3.8. I wish to educate those who I feel are uninformed, and I have been vilified. I feel that once you open your mind, you will feel that there is a progressive answer to today's issues. You have to open your mind not keep it narrow. I am messenger for progressive change. My views are shared by many people.

So, let us take this one little baby-logic-step at a time. After all, the Great Howie, Educator of all he Surveys, may deign to stop in himself at some point, and I do so want him to be able to follow along. The rest of you, who are in all likelihood able to construct a paragraph, please be patient as I lower my Editorial style to a sufficient depth.

We can leave to the side the first sentence, since statement one is patently irrelevant, and the second, open to a longer debate than I, at least, happen to have time for. The fact that he is an Education major at Princeton is quite possibly true; it is unlikely that anyone, were they to invent a provenance for themselves, would choose something so ineffably dull.

Now, it seems that my supper is ready, but I would like to point out to you, oh Howie the Infinitely Educated, that George W. Bush, whom you deride continually, if without wit, is himself a graduate of an Ivy League school. Whilst I'm away having a peaceful dinner, please do decide between these options: a) G.W. Bush is actually intelligent; or b) you may or may not in fact possess the intelligence of an average sized tapeworm. I'll be looking forward to hearing your commentary on the topic, when I get back . . . and I will be back.