Feaverish

I had McDonald’s for lunch today. I didn’t mean to, but it happened anyway. At first I just wanted something cheap and fast, so I thought I’d go to the little taqueria up the street, but then I was like, man, McDonald’s is three blocks closer, I’ll just go there. I know, I know: I’m everything that’s wrong with America. Believe me, I KNOW! So as I was walking along I was all, man, I’m everything that’s wrong with America, so I made up my mind to go to the taqueria after all, even though it was farther (further?) away.

Yes, I thought, this is empowering. By this one act of non-lazyness I shall redirect the lunch-eating force of this entire nation towards the little guy, towards independently-owned shops which may or may not meet national health guidelines. I’m taking my life in my hands here, and I’m doing it on principle! I personify everything good and noble this country was founded on: revolution! freedom! um…equality! Yes!

But then I actually got to the taqueria (all hot and sweaty from walking three blocks, a more self-centered person than me might add) and there was a line out the freakin’ door. Uh, no thanks. So I just kind of nodded at the guy behind the counter, the guy who calls me SeÃ�±or Aaron, like, Hey man, I’m meeting someone and they’re not here yet so I’ll be back soon. He nodded back, though, like, Yeah right, you just don’t want to wait five minutes for your food, you stupid American. I hope you choke on your fast food and die! That’s what his nod said to me, but then again I don’t speak very good (or “bueno”) Spanish.

So McDonald’s it was. The worst part about getting McDonald’s at PSU is the looks people give you when you’re carrying that to-go bag, like you’re holding the severed head of Ralph Nader or something.

So I won yet another internet contest, bringing my grand total of victories to two (2). Actually, I was just “one of the winners,” but you know how it is. I takes what I can gets.

Coudal had a contest where you submitted great movie quotes you thought should have been included in AFI’s list of the 100 Greatest Movie Quotes. My submission was a Dignan classic from Bottle Rocket: “They’ll never catch me, ’cause I’m fucking innocent.”

I think I won a Pixies disc, which I guess is some kind faerie frisbee weapon, similar to a ninja star.

In other news, I also won this week’s Extreme Paycheck Elimination Challenge.

I’ve been listening to this album all morning day week. You should be listening to it too.

Last weekend we drove to Ashland to see a couple of plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. The first play was George Bernard Shaw’s very funny The Philanderer. Since I had a new notepad, I took notes:

Act One

Scene One

Ooh, I really like the set. Not too busy or over-decor…oh dear god what is that smell? Is it coming from the geriatric case next to me? Whoa, he is ripe. I haven’t smelled a fart like that since…ever. Smells like burning diapers, with, maybe, Thai chili sauce. My sinuses are filling up. Eyes watering. Focus. Focus.

Scene Two

The smell should have cleared by now, but it hasn’t. Also: “smell” is no longer the right word; more like “mist.” And it’s sticking. This guy can fart, but if he thinks I can be intimidated, he’s crazy. I’ve never backed down from a farting challenge before, and I’m not about to start now. All hands to battle stations.

Scene Three

Take that, grandpa! That’s right, let it settle in. Let the sweet breeze waft over you. Breathe deep the epitomizing smell of waste, of destruction, of all that is black in humanity’s collective soul. What’s that I see? A slight twitch? That’s right, two can play at thi…oh. Fighting back, eh? I didn’t think you had two rounds in you, old man. Oh god. That’s bad. Through your mouth, Feaver. Breathe through your mouth. Wait for it. Now let him have it! But don’t strain too hard. Was that audible? No one’s looking at you; they must not have heard. Patience. Work on your arsenal.

Intermission

As I write this, I’m at the back of a line of a dozen men whose cumulative age is in the thousands. We wait for urinals. Evidently we are ordered by prostate size, for there is no sound of hot urine splashing off cold porcelain; only the faintest trickling as molecule-thin streams of liquid struggle, drop by drop, to escape shriveled, long useless penises (peni?).

Act Two

Scene One

I suspect my neighbor was unable to wait for an open urinal, for his latest farts have the spicy tinge of urine in them. My own emissions are becoming quite full-bodied, and I’m experimenting with a little aroma I like to call “burnt broccoli.” We’re in the thick of things now.

Scene Two

War is hell. Also, it does not prove who’s right, only who’s left. These have been some of the most harrowing moments of my life, but I’ve learned some important lesso…

Apologies. I may have passed out. One thing is certain: my neighbor has a colostomy bag. And it’s open. For there can be no other source of the stench that now surrounds us. There had been an unspoken pact to stick to conventional weapons, but my adversary has violated that agreement. I despair.

Scene Three

One of us has shat his pants. I cannot be certain it isn’t me. The air is damp with vaporized fecal matter. Nothing matters now. The play and it’s actors, the audience ââ�¬â�� all are casualties of our private war.

Finally. Curtain. It’s over. The audience rises for an ovation. My soiled neighbor partner and I remain seated, stuck to our seat cushions. What began as a contest, or perhaps a dare ââ�¬â�� a dropped glove, if you will ââ�¬â�� quickly escalated into full-blown fartmageddon. And it’s brought us closer. We’ve exchanged nothing more than gas and aerosolized liquid, but I feel like I know this man, this old, great man, better than any of my dearest friends.

The End

Wow, this Flickr thing is really fun. I’ve licensed all my photos under the Creative Commons’ Attribution-ShareAlike license, so if you tried but were unable to grab one before yesterday, give it another try. Also, if you want something bigger than 800×600 or whatever, just send a self-addressed, stamped C-Note let me know.

I was going to submit this to This is Broken, but since my last submission ignited a firestorm of controversy, I thought it better to keep it to myself.

With my recent creation of a Flickr account my assimilation into the Social Internet Borg (SIB) is complete. What was once my personality will in short order be reduced to a binary stream of tags, links, and listening statistics. Please don’t make a Greasemonkey script out of me.

To the person who arrived at my site searching for “invented iTunes”: Welcome! You’ve come to the right place. It’s a little known fact that the program used every day by millions of people worldwide was whipped together in a few hours in my college dorm room while I was supposed to be reading Milton. Of course, it was slimmed down a bit when Apple bought it (the original GUI was a clown face, with the clown’s eyes, nose, and mouth hole serving as the buttons), but I’m happy to see that my vision of bringing order to billions of illegally downloaded songs remains more or less true to its roots (discarded clown face notwithstanding).

A couple days ago I was sitting in the pub with a friend who bemoaned the fact that, despite having over 10,000 songs on his computer and iPod, he could never find anything to listen to. I made a trenchant remark to the effect that, when your music library consists solely of U2 and Willie Nelson songs, you’re bound to experience some stagnation, but in all seriousness I’ve made a bunch of playlists and whatnot to make sure this never happens to me, and I’ll graciously share them with you after the jump.

(more…)

I finally passed the 20,000 song mark at Audioscrobbler!

I just got back from the coffee shop with this monster:

a.k.a. The Largest Rice Krispiesââ��¢ Treat I’ve Ever Seen.

Not impressed? Perhaps this will drop your jaw:

…and on its end (note that simultaneously focusing on the Treatââ��¢ and the iPod is beyond my camera’s capabilities. Such is the depth-of-field we’re dealing with):

…and one final shot for the ladies:

Should I eat the whole thing? No.
Could I eat the whole thing? Probably not.
Will I eat the whole thing? Probably.

Update: I ate the whole thing, as predicted. Jaws hurt. Also: feeling sick.

Last weekend was a three-day here in the States and in our household that means one thing: house party. So yeah, remember in the Matrix Episode Two when everyone’s in the cave dancing to that tribal techno shit? It was pretty much like that, only in a twenty-footââ�¬â��square backyard. And the people were wearing more colorful clothes. And also fatter and less attractive. But I was off somewhere gettin’ it on with Carrie-Anne Moss. So there’s that.

At one point we ran out of Diet Cokeââ��¢ and you know what that means: party’s over. So I was sent off to get some more. The Quickie Martââ��¢ didn’t have any cold six-packs so upon returning home I stuck the cans in the freezer. Later that night (or was it the next morning? Party Hard All Night Long!) L and I heard these loud banging noises like someone was trying to kick our door down or like someone had already kicked down our door and was proceeding to knock all our pictures off the wall. Turns out it was just the Cokeââ��¢ exploding. Take a peek: