99 Percent

We are the 99 percent. We are getting kicked out of our homes. We are forced to choose between groceries and rent. We are denied quality medical care. We are suffering from environmental pollution. We are working long hours for little pay and no rights, if we're working at all. We are getting nothing while the other 1 percent is getting everything. We are the 99 percent.

Brought to you by the people who occupy wall street. Why will YOU occupy?

This blog will make you sad.

What about the children

A perfect example

Everyone keeps talking about jobs. There are no jobs, people can not find work, all the good jobs have been shipped overseas. I have heard it all before. If you ask me, and my experience is limited, the issue is not jobs, it's the idiots who apply for jobs.

See, earlier this week I began a search for a second camera operator for a film I will be shooting in Los Angeles next week. I had literally tons of responses. Having done this sort of thing many times before, I made it clear in my ad what the pay would be, what the hours would be and what the expectations would be. I also required that any serious candidate must attach an updated resume and a phone number where they could be reached today, as today would be the day I spent finding the person to fill the job.

Sounds simple enough.

Since I have done this before, the most important thing is to add requirements like attaching a resume, because the people who can not follow that simple direction will not work out no matter how many skills, cameras and years of professional experiences they have. So I can eliminate roughly 50 percent of all applicants via the lack of a resume. Another 20 percent had no way to contact them other than return email, they too would not be considered. A few more were either in college or art school and had little or no experience. This is not a training position, I have tried that before and met some fine people, but not a single one of them worked out, so lesson learned.

After dumping roughly 75 percent of the applicants right off the bat, I still had about 30 resumes I would have to go through, which is more than I was comfortable with, so I had to come up with another way to get rid of some of these people. Grammar and typos always seem like a good way to judge people, because quite honestly, a resume is their way of introducing themselves to a possible employer and if they can not take the time to spell check and read over their own resume, they should not expect me to do it for them. I lost another 10 resumes by being a spelling Nazi.

I printed out the rest, read through all of them yesterday and into the night, making notes on the resumes and highlighting the parts that I thought would be interesting or something to bring up during our phone interviews. Because I am on the East Coast and the job is in Los Angeles, I had to wait until noon to begin calling. Here are some examples of how those calls went, and for those of you who are always bitching about a lack of work, buy a mirror.

"Hi, I got your resume when you applied for the second camera position for a film I am shooting next week."

"Who this?"

"Did you just say, who this?"

"Yeah, who this?"

"You serious?"

"You Hector?"

------

"Hi, I got your resume when you applied for the second camera position for a film I am shooting next week."

"I apply for a lot of jobs, can you tell me which one this is?"

"I need a camera operator for a documentary film I am shooting in Venice?"

"In Italy?"

"Don't you live in Los Angeles?"

"Yeah."

"Is there a Venice near Los Angeles?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't it make sense that someone would hire a person to work in Venice, and it would be the Venice near Los Angeles."

"You a smart ass?"

"You a dumb ass?"

-------

"Hi, I got your resume when you applied for the second camera position for a film I am shooting next week."

"Hey, thanks for getting back at me."

"Well, I am looking at your resume. You have a lot of work on a lot of films."

"Mostly as a PA, so I know how to get coffee."

"But you know how to work a digital video camera?"

"What type?"

"Digital video."

"Like, who makes it?"

"The camera?"

"Yeah."

"I probably won't know until Monday. I am renting the second camera."

"Well, I probably wouldn't know if I am familiar with the camera until you know what type it is."

"Point made. Are you available all day Monday?"

"No, I work Monday."

-------

"Hi, I got your resume when you applied for the second camera position for a film I am shooting next week."

"Hola."

"Hi, I got your resume when you applied for the second camera position for a film I am shooting next week."

"Si."

""Hi, I got your resume when you applied for the second camera position for a film I am shooting next week."

"Marta, The car es een tha garage."

-----

If you will excuse me, I have at least 15 more phone calls to make. I also just placed the ad in the Pashwar Craigslist, mostly because I am seriously doubting I will find an American who is qualified, interested and available for work next week. Strange times.

Parenting 101

On of my favoritest friends is about to become a father and never mind the genetic miracle that actually is and think for a second what it is like waiting for that joyous moment.

He asks me all the time, at odd hours, about parenting, because in reality, I am possibly the best parent on the planet. So I tell him some of my secrets and one of them I am sharing with you people is this - the importance of rituals. Kids love the rituals. Our favorite, with the five kids and me was trophy burning day.

It really started simply enough. See, the core of my parenting philosophy is to degrade and humiliate the children at every opportunity. Hey stupid this and bring daddy another cold one your worthless that. Kids eat that sort of thing up. What it does, or so I have been told by countless experts, is builds character. Which is what good parenting is all about really, building good character, that and being a role model.

Role modeling is important, and when it comes time to be a good role model, my advice has always been to hire a housekeeper named Lucia. She should barely speak English and if at all possible, it would be best if she was just adequate at housekeeping, that way, when she leaves, you can humiliate her behind her back, to the kids, who eat stuff like that up. Learning to speak ill of people behind their backs is a keystone of good parenting.

All 7 of my kids were superior athletes, mostly because from the day they could crawl I would let them play with the rabid raccoons that lived near our house. In fact, and this is really just a neighborhood rumor, at least one of my kids "went missing" while playing with the rabid raccoons. I would not know.

Raccoon play is just one way to instill a competitive attitude in young children. The other is what we used to call Super Violent Indoor Ball Tag (SVIBT). I think the name speaks for itself, and really, the only real rule for this game was how it ends. See, obviously you play super violent ball tag with a ball, that you throw at top speed at any available family member, all well and good so far. The key is that everyone must be running, jumping and attempting to hide from the fast moving projectile. Super fun times. Only rule? You play until someone is crying.

Obviously you survive rabid raccoon play and super violent ball tag you move on to the regular organized sports that all children take part in. My adorable competitive little wonders loved soccer. Soccer is a stupid sport and should be illegal and if Jasper Flem is ever elected, I am sure that would be one of the first things he does. One thing that none of the "parenting" books mention is that in every child sport there comes a time when these fake ceremonies are held and everyone gets a trophy, a plaque, a signed letter and a formal medical release. Then some cake.

I hated these sorts of pompous ceremonies with a passion and from day one, upon returning home, we would start a large fire out in the woods and burn the trophies, paperwork and jerseys. It was our way of saying thanks, but no thanks. A pointless ceremony to honor a pointless ceremony. This went on at the end of every soccer season and as more and more of the children were indoctrinated into the suburban soccer zombie traditions, we would have more and more fires ridding ourselves of the silliness.

That is until one fall day. We had returned home in our minivan (of course) and the hundreds of children who were now living with me all piled out and placed their trophies and other assorted non-essential soccer garbage into a large pile. Sonia number 7 grabbed a gas can and then, up on the second floor deck, one of the children, my oldest girl, walked out, naked a a jaybird, except for the terrible attempt at Native American makeup she had applied using bright red lipstick to encircle her eyes and some sort of white powder all around her face so she looked like a 7 year old drunken clown, and she pronounced that the "ritual of cleansing should begin, but only after your warrior leader does a traditional prayer."

Hah I thought, a prayer, why we are not the praying sort of family. We are the sort of family that mocks the praying sort of families. We are also the sort of family that stands naked on a deck and makes up sarcastic prayers for unearned trophies and letters of accomplishment that were not only unearned, but lacking in any sort of authority. So she began her prayer.

"I pray to the great soccer gods that you take back these useless trophies and your soccer clothes already worn."

She continued, but I was already backing the minivan up and driving away.

Later that day I returned to find that the house has burned down. I was as shocked as anyone, but a fire investigator explained that the heat from the melting trophies had burned so hot that a nearby rose bush had burst into flame and caught a deck post and the rest just seemed to start and soon the house was ablaze.

Which is why, to this day, every single member of our family still has a distaste for almost anything soccer related.

Favorite Friday headline (so far)

Anonymous Donor Dumps Huge Donation In Tokyo Toilet

It's wrong to wish on space hardware

The war on Wall Street

Sometimes I got to this website HERE and I watch the live feed and read the tweets and pay a slight bit of attention, because I still have hope that there can be change. Not the change that was sold like bad cheeseburgers during the 2008 election and mocked by the disturbed and insane republicans during the election of 2010.

Much like what the protesters must have felt in Egypt earlier this year, I am not sure what the final process will look like, but what I know is what we have now is not working for the majority of the population. How does this change? I have no clue, but like these Americans in the park near Wall Street, something substantial has to change.

The is an online report in Crain's that says organized labor will be joining the protests next week with a massive march planned for Wednesday. Imagine what would happen if the people truly impacted by the stupid and greedy decisions made over the past 20 years by the bankers on Wall Street actually showed up and marched and demanded some sort of justice and some sort of dramatic change. Then imagine if a candidate for a major public office actually showed up and supported the mandate of the middle class people.

Interesting enough, a couple of years ago I met an 80 year old woman who was protesting the excesses of Wall Street and she invited me up to her soon to be foreclosed upon apartment that sits above Wall Street and just a few hundred yards from the World Trade Center site. Below is the short film of her and I think her words remain as important and powerful today as they were a couple of years ago.

Compulsive

When ever I am about to travel, and trust me, I am about to travel, I go through all sorts of insane rituals. One of my least favorite is this need to clean everything that I will be coming home to. This means all laundry must be done, shirts and suits to the cleaners, the rest into the machine. I vacuum and scrub the wooden floors and just now, this is gross and if reading out loud to your children or stoner friends stop now, I scrubbed the toilet.

Toilet scrubbing is my least favorite thing, but there is nothing better than coming home from a long trip and saddling up to your own toilet and seeing is in pristine condition. Of course, the opposite is equally true, you come home from your travels, run to good old trusty toilet, which you forgot not only to clean but to flush, and it disgusts you in ways that only a diseased cheating lover can usually master.

I scrubbed the toilet. I was also cleaning out this wonderful ceramic piece of art that has lately been used as an ashtray and it really began to dawn on me. First of all, who has been using art as an ashtray in my bedroom? Second, what sort of person would do that? The nice thing about ceramic art being used as an ashtray is that it cleans up nice, but that did not help answer any questions. I made some phone calls, first to my attorney, she said that sometimes, when she is in the neighborhood, she might stop by, but lately she has not been smoking. I thought about it for a while. At some point I dated someone who smoked,but they smoked crack, and hardly ever here in my bedroom. I would have to get to the bottom of this.

When I was a young boy I had a burro named Taco. I would ride Taco sometimes, but ride really is not a fair description. I would sit on Taco and wait for him to move. Sometimes I would kick him, or hit him, slap and punching also had no affect. We did not have a healthy relationship. Basically Taco went where he wanted at whatever pace he was comfortable going. Taco was slow and lazy. I could read homework assignments while sitting on Taco. Unless, of course, Taco saw our neighbors goat, then Taco would run like the wind. Those days were few, but they were glorious. I loved to ride Taco when he chased the goat. A boy and his burro.

I have a friend who has some race horses and recently he invited me to his stable and allowed me to get onto one of these fine animals. A jockey weighs almost as much as one of my testicles, so I had to promise not to mess around, racing horses are not designed for pleasure rides for over weight elderly Jewish men, at least that was what I was told. I got on a large race winning horse named Sir something or other, I called him Window. I am not sure why, but he seemed to like it and Sir whatever the fuck silly name they gave him, did not seem to fit hi stature.

We walked around for a spell, me and Window, checking out the paddock and looking at other horses. In my estimation Window was the best looking of all the horses, although there were plenty around who looked to be in equally fine athletic shape. I am lucky sometimes, because every now and then I find myself in strange and wonderful positions. One day I ride a slow burro, one day a winning race horse. There was a time I rode Lance Armstrongs bicycle, it was very fast, even though it too was not designed for a short fat elderly jew.

There are moments in life when I think we are supposed to realize how lucky we are. Historically speaking, this is a great time to be alive. If you think about it, really, it was not that long ago where the option was farmer or dinosaur food, or something like that and historically that period ended about 35 years ago. Since then, we have cars and planes and the internet and internet porn and something else, but my mind stopped functioning with the advent of internet porn.

Which brings me back to Window and not riding very fast. See, metaphorically speaking, even when you are told to take it easy and slow down because you are doing something that you should probably not be doing, sometimes you have to test your limits. So I tightened my legs around Windows midsection and whispered something in his ear, like, "let's go fella" and then we were moving, briskly at first, and then, shockingly, Window shifted gears and we were going very fast, his ears back now, his head forward, me leaning forward too, holding on for dear life because falling did not seem like a wise option. At first I was intimidated and worried that maybe I did not really know how to ride a race horse, and then it all came back to me, because at one point in my life I lived on a farm and rode horses and chased cattle and swam in cold rivers on hot summer days. I whispered a little louder, "hey Window, open it up," and he did.

I'd imagine most people will never get to ride a race horse at full speed, mostly because they respect the wishes of the race horses owner, or something silly like that. For me, opportunity rose and I met the challenge, or something like that. Window stayed the course until my weight and the pace got to him and he began to gently slow. I think I speak for both of us, it was a brilliant ride, he did well and I did not fall. When we got back to the barn I slid off and Windows owner came over, a big smile on his face and said, "sure can move, can't he?" I think I smiled, a giant, broad smile that certainly indicated that I would never again get onto a horse with a wicked sense of humor.

Supporting Perry

For 8 years I supported a former Texas governor as the president of the United States as he tortured innocent people, as he lied us into wars, as he bumbled and stumbled and was so weak that terrorists saw him as the perfect fool to attack with our own passenger plans.

So, like many of you, I have been suffering with the current president. Sure, he is handsome and well spoken, educated, calm and considerate. Plus, he killed the man who led the attack on the United States. That said, he needs to go, he will be a one termer, so the big question remains, who can take his place?

Rick Perry, that's who. The current governor of Texas has all of George Bush's charm and none of his intelligence, which says a lot, because George Bush has very little intelligence. I like my presidents kind of stupid. Leaders lead, and Rick Perry is kind of a leader, not a real one mind you, but the kind who says things and then does things, and when he does these things, he smiles and says stuff like "shucks" and then he goes hunting, or allows the state to kill possibly innocent criminals.

I know what you're about to say, but what about Sarah Palin? Oh sure, Saint Sarah may still throw her thong into the ring, but seriously, she is too good to be president. My sense is a brilliant mind like hers has already seen the future, where the country goes bankrupt, where people are eating people and China takes over and needs a queen to rule its new nation, and guess who that queen will be? Marcus Bachmann not available? Sarah Palin could do queen duties in her coked out sleep.

Until then, Rick Perry is the kind of dumb cowboy without a clear thought in his empty head that this country needs right now. Imagine Perry ruling this country with republicans in charge of both houses. It will be like the good old days when Bush took over in 2000 with a budget surplus and republicans in charge of the senate and congress. Look what happened then. Bring back those good old days.

Excuses can be made

As many of you know, someone, or Fox News, hacked my cellphone and somehow released a variety of images, photos, videos, drawings and stick figures of me in a variety if sexual, graphic and disgusting poses.

As I have said, and as my lawyer, Beth Libitard has been leaking to the major media outlets, those photos were private, the videos semi private, the stick figures hard to explain at all and the drawings we incomplete at best.

That said, a lot of people are not stepping forward and hacking my phone on almost an hourly basis and stealing my latest photos. This is where I have to draw the line, well, to be honest, this is where I did draw the line, but someone hacked it and now it's out there, for everyone to look at.

What are you looking at anyway? Sure, that 3 minute video of me playing bongos was kind of interesting. Monkey diaper changing was one of my favorites and according to YouTube, over 13 million people have already viewed it. Here is what I don't understand. what is wrong with you people? I see my naked and almost naked body on almost an hourly basis and let me tell you something, it is hardly ever pretty.

So, dear phone hacking specialist, do what you will with all my naked, nude, disrobed and possibly hetro photos you find hidden on my phone, computer, camera, laptop, Ipad and a number of other devices. Oh, sure, I know I should not have all these weird and strange photos circulating on electronic devices, but what's a man to do?

Let the insults continue

For a few years I have had this wonderful friend who happens to live in Washington DC. We met while he was working for a law firm in Pittsburgh, we seemed to enjoy each others company and sometimes we would have lunch together and laugh at the corporate types trying to impress with their sexy suits. Did I mention he is gay? And African American? Super handsome and fit? Former Marine?

A bit of background. For a long time I had some children living with me, apparently genetic spawn, but that has never been proven either in a court of law or on the Maury Show. I continue to wait for the results, but until then, I allow them to use my name and sometimes my American Express card. These "kids" thought they were funny, at first, in standard kid ways. Pouring salt on the table was hilarious. That sort of thing. Once they managed to learn the language, their attempts at "humor" became more pronounced and often times less funny, so we developed a definition of the word joke. A joke was something that made others laugh. Simple, right?

So, when one of these "kids" would walk into a room and do something kid-like that was supposed to be incredibly funny, like loudly fart, and I would sternly look at them-as fathers are required to do, and they would look at me like angels, following the kid script and say, "it's a joke." I could quickly recite the very definition of joke that we had all agreed upon, joke equals funny, loud fart, rarely funny.

So so it went.

Last week I was on my way to Washington DC to do a few things, one of which was to visit my gay African American friend and catch up on old times and stuff like that. I called from my car midway drive and we were talking and he was lamenting his life because his family continues to cold shoulder him in some ways because of his gayness and he feels some people at work remain intimidated by him because of his super macho African Americanness.

In retort I think I said something funny, like, "well, at least you can hide the fact that you are gay."

Yes, there was a lot of silence. And then he asked me what I meant by that. I back peddled as fast as anyone driving 75 miles an hour in a 55 zone can back peddle. I told him it was a joke. "I thought a joke was supposed to be funny," he said, and hung up.

Taking it to the streets

The complaint from the protesters on Wall Street this past week has not only been on the greed and abuse from the nations bankers and financial "leaders" but also towards the "main stream media" who seemingly remain unaware that there are actual protests taking place outside their windows.

What is funny is how focused the media generally is on Wall Street and almost anything that happens in the canyons of the nations corrupt and obscene center of wealth and power. Then again, I have long wondered about not only the media ownership and how the massive corporations who own the media end up calling the shots, but also how the actual reporters and journalists who work for the media giants remain independent and I think what we are witnessing is the evidence that they are not.

I used to note this when the debate would take place in congress over the almost annual tax cuts for the wealthy. See, many of the network anchors are part of the wealthy elite who would be making a nice piece of change left over in their pockets. So the question that would pop into my head would be, how independent can you remain when you are reporting on legislation that could leave you personally with an extra few hundred thousand dollars in your checking account.

The last year has seen massive marches and protests in the Middle East as people have thrown off 30-40 years of dictatorships and abusive regimes. Maybe what we are seeing on Wall Street is the beginning of the American Spring, where people in this country are finally getting fed up with the massive tax cuts for the wealthiest, failed political movements that bring no change to the actual people who live in this country and absurdly enough, cutting taxes for people while the country fights two wars. Insane.

All this goes on while the media sits on its collective hands and pretends that the people protesting on Wall Street are just a bunch of hippies and idiots. Here is the link to the protesters website.

The future of everything

Welcome to your new job, please excuse the smell of bleach and lack of health benefits, fair pay or self esteem. Enjoy.

It does not always get better

Seattle sex columnist Dan Savage started a campaign trying to persuade gay teens to stop killing themselves because life does get better if you can get the fuck out of high school and the bullies and idiots who live there.

Which is all nice and everything, except that sometimes high school seems like it lasts forever.

Back in May, Buffalo teen Jamey Rodermeyer contributed a video to the "It Gets Better" campaign. Though only 14, Rodermeyer felt he had a message of hope to send whoever was watching. Now, four months later, he's dead of a suicide.

Jamey's parents, who found him dead at their home early Monday morning, say that he had been bullied because of his perceived sexuality for years, but that they thought that he was doing better, having started high school three weeks ago. Following his death, they now suspect he'd just gotten better at hiding the effects of being harassed. Friends at his school say he was still being teased and worse on a regular basis.

So, that's fucking terrible. Today, when we celebrate the repeal of one bit of federally legislated anti-gay bullying, let's remember that it also still of course exists in myriad small ways, for many people, all over the world.

Thanksgiving

A moment in time.

College. My friend Bill and I ended up in a dive club in New Yorks Lower East Side. A room the size of my living room. A small band took what was barely a stage. Bill brought a beer, we shared it. The band played. I could have walked up and danced with the lead singer, there was no security, no need. There were maybe 50 people in the club.

Wasted effort

I had a date with the professor again last night. Not really a date, more of a meeting of the minds. At some point the professor asked me if I ever felt like I was wasting paper and paint when I was in my studio.

No one ever asked me that before. I'm not sure if I answered, or if I seriously answered, because I was kind of hitting on the bartender.

There is a point here. For many years I would rummage through garage sales and thrift stores, in search of already painted canvases that I would take home and "improve." There was even a once yearly sale in the neighborhood that I would stake out and buy all the donated canvases and take them home and paint over whatever someone else had labored to create.

So, I sat there, wondering if all those people had ever thought if they were wasting canvas and paint when they were creating. Then today, while I was working so hard to save a mess of a painting it dawned on me, just how many times I do waste paper or canvas and just gallons of paint. Not waste really, because often times I do paint over my own flawed work and try and come up with something new. In some cases the canvas will have a real heft to it, which generally means I have painted over a variety of screw ups.

So there I was, dancing around this large piece of paper, laying on my floor, absorbing paint upon paint, and I would step back and look and sense something could be done, so I would find something else, some other color, a new mood as it were. Finally, I stepped away and when I came back it dawned on me, I had been painting something that was just a complete mess. No saving, no paint overs, just a mess.

This hardly ever happens.

This just in...

I troll the internet, so you can get on with your life. Enough trolling, and you find the gems. Some intellectual posted this, and for the life of me, I can't figure out if this is satire or a meth head debating politics with the voices in his head. Enjoy.

"I hope all teabag candidates win in 2012, and we get rid of the liberals and the nigger and we get real conservative values and bring back this once great land to the people. End welfare and social security and medicare and all the other socialist programs. Abortion should be illegal, always. The supreme court should be 8 Clarence Thomas's and 1 stupid fucking whiney liberal just to remind people what pathetic trash those nigger lovers are. We get that done, we will be the polar opposite of those towelheads in the Middle East. We will be the bible loving version of those koran licking inbred camel jockeys. I say any republican will beat the shit out of maddog nigger man and biden that lib asshole cock licker, and once thats done, and the white house is white again, this country will bring back the jobs for the working man and cut the taxes for the richest 1 percent and create 75 million jobs and even nig nogs will work because welfare will be gone and it will be illegal to have babies out of wedlock any how."

This very old house

Interesting moment. I came home late last night, or early this morning, depending on how you look at these things, either way, I was home, walked into my bedroom and plugged my phone in to recharge and all the power went out in my room. Not in the house mind you, just my room.

Which was strange enough, but I went downstairs to the electric panel to find the circuit breaker that must have broken, because that is how these things work, and none was broken, so I went back upstairs, and the power remained out in my room. It was very early in the morning, but I thought it would be nice to have some electricity in my room, so I went in search of the problem.

Since everything was working before I plugged my phone in, I immediately unplugged my phone. The power did not come back on. I started unplugging everything in my room, and nothing helped. I walked down and checked all the breakers again, no luck there. No power and because it was so late in the night or early in the morning, I went to bed.

When I woke up, there was power in my room. I plugged my phone in and it began to recharge. No problem. I stumbled downstairs and made some coffee. All was well.

An hour or so later, the coffee pot electricity shut off. As did the power in my room, but no where else in this old house. I checked the circuit breakers, none was broken. Again. I turned off all the power to the entire house and checked all the wires to each individual breaker, to make sure the connections were secure. All seemed secure and I was already well past my area of expertise.

I turned the main switch back on and all the power to the house was amazingly back on. Except the fish tank in my daughters room. That was no not working. Then in was. Then it stopped. I took the fat of my hand and slammed it against the circuit breaker box and everything worked perfectly. So far, everything continues to work as it should.

Lesson learned. I think.

Flash mob

Settled

Ironically enough, almost two years to the date after Pittsburgh Police thought it would be wise to beat me with batons to stop me from photographing their brutal arrest of a female cyclist, a settlement was offered and accepted.

I am parsing my words carefully here and even as I write this, my full time lawyer, Beth Libitard, is standing behind me, pretending to read every word. In fact, she thinks I should stop now. I should thank the good people who work at the city of Pittsburgh, some other independent legal group and an unnamed insurance company and drop it.

She is right. Confidential this and not a word of this that. I really need to make sure not to hurt any feelings. It is always about feelings.

The police officers, with their badges covered up in black riot gear, were never identified. They will never face any sort of charges. I never did get any sort of apology from the police, which in the end was all I ever really asked for. That and a request to fix my camera.

They say time heals all wounds and I am a big believer in that, I am. I recently sat in a conference room while a gaggle of over paid lawyers read over the medical reports from the hospital and doctors who treated me after the beating. I actually had forgot that my hip had to be x-rayed because of the severe bruising, that one hand had a baseball sized swollen area, that my right index finger would no longer bend because of the baton swings that had hit it trying to break my camera free and my ribs had been bruised and beaten. Contusions were recorded all over my body, from my face to my buttocks, and all of them, each and everyone of them, I forgot about. Sitting in the conference room with the lawyers in beautiful suits, I winced as they read the pages of reports.

Time heals. Of course, an apology would have been nice.

Ron Paul Twenty Twelve

Best headline ever: "Does Mexican Coke really taste better?"

If there's one thing this country is really great at, it's coming up with clever new ways to take what is a completely normal product, apply a bit of subtle psychological manipulation, convince people that it's something special, and sell it at a jacked up price.
I'm talking here about Mexican Coke, and I do so not without a hint of irony, because I myself am a firm believer in its superiority over regular old American Coke. I mean, how could it not be better? Real sugar instead of corn syrup. Glass bottle instead of aluminum or plastic. The cachet of seeing the words refresco and no retornableprinted instead of plain old pedestrian "refreshing."

But here's the thing. More than once in the past, I've discovered that the brain has a powerful effect on the taste buds. Free-range eggs taste better? Nope. Darker colored eggs taste better. Is New York pizza better when made with New York tap water? Nope. At least my panel of experts couldn't tell the difference. I've done tests where I've fed an entire room full of people two batches of identical carrots, labeling one as organic and the other as conventional. Unsurprisingly, they unanimously pick the carrots labeled organic as superior in flavor every single time, even when they are two halves of the same carrot.

Is it possible, however unlikely, that somehow we—the cult of Mexican Coke lovers—are all being hoodwinked? Does Mexican Coke really taste better? This week, we're gonna find out.

We put huge lines of real Mexican Coke out on the table and snorted until our fucking heads exploded man, and let me tell you, that shit is wild.

Gays, Hitler, Jews - everything you need

Stay classy in those tributes

A new diagnosis

Here is a fun new game some friends and I have been playing. At almost any time of the day or night, and by any time, I literally mean a phone call at 3AM, I will get a phone call or email, with a subject line that reads, in all caps, "TERRIBLE NEWS". If I am stupid enough to answer the phone, I will hear a desperate voice at the other end, "are you sitting down?" I usually say, "no, I am laying down, I am sleeping, or I was."

"I just got the report from the doctor."

"You just got the report from the doctor at 3AM?"

"Yes, it's a clinic with strange hours."

"I can tell."

"The diagnosis, well, I have" (here you fill in the blank. Part of this new game is to come up with something interesting and then detail how it is changing your life. Or not. When my friend called at 3AM his disease was one that made him make stupid phone calls at obscene hours of the day and night. It was incurable, sad really.

Recently I called my friend Drunky McDrunkington, who, when I called at 2AM my time, which is drunk time-his time, I began by asking, "are you sober, because I am not sure you are ready for this."

"Is it AIDS?"

"No, but that't a good one, I might have to get AIDS next time."

And so it goes.

Yesterday I diagnosed myself with ADHD, which is not nearly as rare as one would think. I called my dear friend Hippy Chick and she was all, like, "dude, what does that even mean?" Which was exactly what I had hoped her response would be, so I yammered on for a good 20 minutes on how my life was drastically changing, how my diet would need to be adjusted, my sleep time, even my clothing, I no longer could wear cotton. That one took her by surprise, but I danced around it telling her that ADHD reacts to exterior stimuli on a cellular level, which seems like it could make sense, it it were true, although sadly, it is not.

Just now my phone rang, a weak voice, barely audible whispered, "can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you, can you hear me?"

"Yes. Are you sitting down?"

"I am now."

"Good."

"Is this bad news?"

"I think so, yes."

"Well, you did call."

"That I did. You are sitting down, yes?"

"Yes."

"Well then, I just got a letter from my doctor."

"You got a letter from your doctor?"

"Yes, that's what I said, I got a letter from my doctor."

"You got a snail mail letter from your doctor?"

"Exactly, that is what I'm saying. I got home late and there was this letter from my doctor."

"Seriously, you have to step you your game. My lord, no one gets snail mail letters from their doctors. You don't even get bills from doctors offices anymore. What century do you live in?"

"You never get a letter from your doctor?"

"I get email."

"You get medical information email?"

"Test results, prescriptions, medical appointments, everything."

"Bullshit."

"Seriously. Anyway, continue. Do you have this...letter, in your hand?"

"Yes, right here."

"Well, go ahead and read it."

"I already have. I have chronic difinkulitus."

"Oh my. That sounds bad."

"It is. I have less than 2 weeks."

"You have less than 2 weeks?"

"Yes, that's what it says, the letter says I have less than two weeks."

"From when? From when you get the letter, or from when it was sent? What if you were on vacation? Does the clock start when you open it? What if you never opened it? What if they delivered it to the wrong address? Hello? Hello?"

Ride

Test

My new friend

Good day
This is Elena. I think my email for you is surprise. And i hope it is a
nice surprise.
I think you will have a question about "where did i find yours email
address. I used a services of Search of relationsagency.
They asked me what kind of men i like, and then they offer me to start a
correspondence with you via email.
This agency said me that your email address they found at dating site.

As i said you before my name is Elena. And i am 31 years old. And i am
absolutely lonely girl.
I was born and live now in Russia in small town in central part. The name
of my town is Glazov.
My birthday is 21 of August 1979. I have no children, but i love them.
I work as a librarian in school library. I like read books very much, and i

happy that my work with books and children.
Maybe learning more about each other we can have true relations.
I search my love. I want
to have serious relations.
It is a little about myself. I hope it was interesting for you.
I will be waiting your answer very much.
You will interest in my letter

Yours new friend from Russia. Elena.