Story of the day

What if Howard Stern turned to a life of crime? That's what this story makes me think. Running across that story and then being treated to Will's yard art picture this morning made me think it's bound to be a good day today.

Site of the day

This just totally cracked me up so I have to share it. A just forwarded me an email thread between herself and her cousin about mohels, and within it was the URL for Dr. Diamond's site (he is the mohel of choice appparently). His slogan, of course, is "Nothing cuts like a diamond."

I'm beginning to believe bad puns are a genetically linked disease not unlike Taysachs.

And another thing: NOAM, the National Organization of American Mohelim, really sounds like an organization from a David Foster Wallace novel.

2007 Darwin Awards

They've announced the Darwin Awards for this year, and I really think the wrong entry won. The winners of this years' Darwin Award were a couple who apparently died after falling off a slanted roof upon which they were doing the nasty.

But the second place guy is a class by himself in my book:

Michael was an alcoholic. And not an ordinary alcoholic, but an alcoholic who liked to take his liquor... well, rectally. His wife said he was "addicted to enemas" and often used alcohol in this manner. The result was the same: inebriation.
The machine shop owner couldn't imbibe alcohol by mouth due to a painful throat ailment, so he elected to receive his favourite beverage via enema. And tonight, Michael was in for one hell of a party. Two 1.5 litre bottles of sherry, more than 100 fluid ounces, right up the old address!

When the rest of us have had enough, we either stop drinking or pass out. When Michael had had enough (and subsequently passed out) the alcohol remaining in his rectal cavity continued to be absorbed. The next morning, Michael was dead.

The 58-year-old did a pretty good job of embalming himself. According to toxicology reports, his blood alcohol level was 0.47%.

In order to qualify for a Darwin Award, a person must remove himself from the gene pool via an "astounding misapplication of judgment." Three litres of sherry up the butt can only be described as astounding. Unsurprisingly, his neighbors said they were surprised to learn of the incident.

Now that's commitment.

What we talk about when we talk about copyediting

The New Yorker has published a copy of Raymond Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" including Gordon Lish's copyediting. Pretty amazing stuff. Lish turned a good story great. If you've ever doubted that truism, "Everyone needs a copyeditor," have a look.

QOTD

"It's not uncommon for hunters to be shot by their dogs."

Help me out here people

I'm trying to think of an occasion where having the capacity to play .mp3s on your taser might be important, useful or convenient but I just can't come up with anything.

I will say if I had such a device, I'd be sorely tempted to load it with tunes like "Shock the Monkey" and Lou Christie's "Lightning Strikes."

If you can't say it, you can't bomb it

As I've noted here in the past, at some recent time "nu-cu-lar" became an accepted pronunciation according to Merriam-Webster (and others, I'm sure). Still, I'm old school and every time our frat boy leader says "nu-cu-lar" it grates on me. Of course, the whole "shucks, I'm just a country boy" routine makes me want to projectile vomit after my head spins around a little. (And is it just my imagination or is Edwards leaning on that southern drawl more than he used to?) The American anti-intellectual spirit that goes something like "We're so busy setting fence posts on our ranch we don't have time to worry about book learnin'," is both embarrassing and infuriating. Reagan and Bush have both managed to push their homespun images to a point of near parody, and the country as a whole seems perfectly willing to go right along with them in their pork-rind-eating, cowboy-boot-wearing, hayseed-chewing matter of fact feeling that we can't be burdened by the hifallutin business of learning the law or consulting the Constitution. Common sense (read ideology) trumps all that intellectual stuff.

I made the great mistake of listening to the news this morning which is what inspired this post. Generally I try to just read the news so that I don't have to actually listen to Bush's voice at all. I tuned in toward the end of Olmert's long intro piece that was being simultaneously translated, and at its close, Bush pipes up, "The interpreter got it right," which was another but apparently funnier way of saying, "I'm a monolingual idiot and this is all over my head." Jesus, could we just elect someone that doesn't generate the same sort of shame that the drunk relative at the party engenders? Even if I don't agree with him (or her) I'd just like to have a president that I didn't feel like sending apology notes to other heads of state about.

So I decided this morning, while listening to Bush yap about the middle east, that one shouldn't be allowed to declare war on (or invade) a country unless you can pronounce its name right. So no war on "Eye Ran" or "Eye Raynians." Sorry.

Never mind cats and dogs

It's raining gazelles and giraffes out there. Bison even.

Couldn't get through the pass tonight to get to K's house. Went part way and then quailed and made a shaky waterlogged u-turn to come home. To the guy who powered by me in frustration burying my car in a zero-visibility wake, thanks buddy. Luckily for me I managed to not drive into opposing traffic even though I could see less than nada and the road was submerged under feet of water.

In short, it was a scary ride. I am still jittery from the adrenaline. I had to park on the street because the water in my space in the lot is more than ankle deep. It's about a hair's breadth from the door crack. Another hour of this rain and my carpets would have been sloshy.

It's supposed to continue through the weekend by which time everyone in Malibu will be living in a houseboat I suppose.

Anyway, I've set all of my soaked clothes out to dry and am happily tucked in bed with my computer, my fat cat, and the last book of the Harry Potter series (finally, I know). Happily I have both popcorn and ice cream on hand.