Notes from a Provincial Cosmopolitan

Digital Television is Sad

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 07:21:00 +0000

Undoubtedly, digital television is better than the old analog. The national switcheroo going on--due to culminate in February--seems to be going relatively poorly, but, nonetheless, the switch to digial is long overdue.

Nonetheless, the process seems bittersweet. While the technological world I inhabited as a child has long since gone--a phone with a wire attached to the wall? Who uses that?! Who even has a landline?--the digital revolution sort of seals the deal, separates the past from the present.

What is left from those days of my childhood, the early 1980s?

Pay television is gone. Perhaps you’re confused? If you’re under a certain age you are most definitely. But I mean pay television, not cable. Long ago, there were certain channels that broadcast over the airwaves, and to which you could subscribe. If you watched them without the box that came with the subscription, they were jumbled lines, though the soundtrack usually seemed fine. They would show newer movies, uncensored, and were much like HBO was when it started out, though, as I said, over the air.

Looking back, such technologies seem quaint, even ridiculous. Anyone could just go out and buy a decoder—and often did. But still, I remember being upset that my family didn’t subscribe to the local pay station, called Prevue, and playing on Channel 27 in my hometown (the station has since become WUNI-TV, the city’s only Spanish-language station—at least it’s worthwhile, right? Not some stupid CW crap) each night I would watch as the station came on the air: At first, the logo would come on, the music would play, they’d announce the movie…and then the signal would scramble.

I wanted that goddamned channel!

Further up the dial, and a little bit further up in years, there was V-66. WVJV-TV, Channel 66. I don’t know if they had such stations in other parts of the country, but in Boston it was awesome. It was a frickin’ music video channel like MTV—but it broadcast for free! Anyone with a TV and an antenna could watch it. We didn’t have MTV, so previous to that the only way I could see music on television was to watch Solid Gold or, if I stayed up late, Friday Night Videos on…was it NBC? And then, a certain magical moment, typing through stations (the TV we had had buttons on the front, arranged like a phone. If you wanted channel 44, you would type 4-4. I used to type through all the numbers once in a while to see if there was a new station. Every so often, I would be rewarded; I remember being pleased at finding channel 44, 64 and 68, but none so much as V-66!) I came across the V.

The station wasn’t just a lame attempt at recreating MTV—it was the real deal. Remember the video for A-ha’s “Take on Me”? They premiered it. Unfortunately, V-66 faded and was replaced by the Home Shopping Network, later replaced by WUNI. But the memories remain. I’m told someone’s making a documentary on it.

Also—kids of the future will no longer have any understanding of the difference between VHF and UHF. Actually—do they understand that now?!

Remember, though? Remember when the UHF stations were generally those independent stations? They weren’t part of any network—they were usually just some local station putting stuff out. I can still hear their jingles—they all had their own jingles. They were much simpler than TV now; if you woke up early, you would see them “signing on”—that is, turning off the rainbow-like test pattern, announcing that they were going to begin their broadcasting day, playing the national anthem, and explaining t you where their transmitters were… And who doesn’t remember falling asleep by the TV, only to wake up to the national anthem as these stations “concluded their broadcast day”? Between opening and closing they would show an amalgamation of syndicated shows, religious programming, and movies—sometimes uncensored and free (as Channel 27 did, after it was Prevue and before it was the home shopping. I remember turning on the TV, turning on that broadcast station, seeing an announcement that “the following movie is rated ‘R’ and is not appropriate for younger viewers,” and then watching the full, uncut, nudity-included, Animal House.)

Of course, most nights you wouldn’t watch The Movie Loft (Channel 38); you’d be watching one of the three networks that the rest of America was watching: ABC, NBC or CBS. I remember these networks, now fallen giants with the parasitic Fox and CW networks nibbling at them, in their prime. They were what people watched—they played things, and the next day people talked about what they had just seen. They were pretty much divided by audience—NBC was young and hip; CBS was pretty much for old people (think “Murder, She Wrote”). And though there were less channels, there was almost always something worth watching; I really can’t think of anything on TV now better than Cheers; it seems unimaginable that someone could consider Law and Order better than Hill Street Blues.

VHF and UHF… The UHF stations were exciting. There were a couple knobs on most TVs…the one with the VHF stations and the letter “U,” which let you use the second knob, which sort of just turned waywardly until you found a station. I remember many late nights playing with the antenna and the UHF know trying to get the movie show Elvira hosted to come in, not trying to get rid of the snow—that would be impossible—just trying to minimize it.

So things changed. We eventually got cable, back when MTV still played music, and VH1 played music for seemingly old people. How exciting it was that we had almost 60 stations in 1988, all thanks to Greater Media Cable! I was able to see all these previously hidden stations, like Nickelodeon, with its “You Can’t Do that On Television.”

Now all that, like my childhood itself, is gone. Channel 56 is, I think, CW; Channel 25 is Fox. Stations seem to run around the clock now, and there are millions of stations on cable. With all the networks, there doesn’t seem to be a distinction between VHF and UHF (a distinction so culturally ingrained that a movie was made about these low budget stations, starring Weird Al, and called, simply, “UHF”).

And now there will actually be no more VHF and UHF—everything is merged. The past is gone; the shows are gone; even the electronic format they were in is gone.

But at least I can still watch them on Youtube.

I haven't posted in such a long time

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 02:05:00 +0000

It's almost as if this blog is defunct. But I can assure you that it's not, that this blog is still happily in existence. Were it not, you would not be reading these lines at this very moment.

I hope that you have enjoyed this post, and I would like to thank all of the people who have offered me the tremendous inspiration to write it.

Check here soon for more of this wit.

Hippie dictatorship

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 04:13:00 +0000

I have a job working for a political organization. The reason I took the job, which is quite low pay, was so that I could do work that is meaningful and helpful, so that I could work to change the world for the better—you know, the typical live-poor-but-feel-good-about-making-a-positive-impact type of thing. Unfortunately, as I've come to realize over the past few years, in actuality, my work consists mainly of dealing with the United States Postal Service, UPS and Greyhound; writing out checks; and, especially, filling out forms.

Of course, there are breaks from such drudgery: sometimes, when the mail comes, there is a package for me with a political magazine. Aside from that, though, I’m usually doing paperwork and filling out those forms (there’s a particularly exciting—and, I’m using the term “exciting” as a synonym for a term that would be a combination of both “boring” and “dreadful”—form that I have to fill out for the USPS pretty soon).

Given all of the above, I jumped at the chance to go out and do field work, to take a trip to the state of Maine. I was to attend a booth my organization had set up at the Maine Organic Farmers Association fair. A small town fair! How could that not be fun!

Unfortunately, my timeat the fair consisted mainly (get it?!) of sitting behind a table and listening to others talk (the people from my organization in Maine made a point of saying that it’s best if people from Maine have someone else from Maine to speak with…I guess I was just non-Maine backup), sitting in the cold, and listening to lots of stuff about Bolivia. Don’t get me wrong—Bolivia’s all nice and good, and Evo Morales is a stand up guy, but we do have some important things to talk about here in this country. You know… what is that thing that everyone’s doing on November 4? Oh, that’s it: the elections.

While there was some talk of this important event in our nation’s history (the Democratic Party of Maine had a table, as did Planned Parenthood and the League of Young Voters), I was listening to Bolivia-speak for hours, and was seated at a table next to a woman who seemed completely and totally obsessed with the Zapatistas in Mexico.

In any case, it was at this festival that I learned that the Dead Kennedys song, “California Uber Alles” is no joke. I always thought the idea of a hippie dictatorship was hilarious—until I spent a few days under the yoke of such a regime.

For those who don’t remember, here are the lyrics:

"California Uber Alles"
I am Governor Jerry Brown
My aura smilesAnd never frowns
Soon I will be president...
Carter Power will soon go away
I will be Fuhrer one day
I will command all of you
Your kids will meditate in school
Your kids will meditate in school

[Chorus:]California Uber Alles
California Uber Alles
Uber Alles California
Uber Alles California

Zen fascists will control you
100% natural
You will jog for the master race
And always wear the happy face
Close your eyes, can't happen here
Big Bro' on white horse is near
The hippies won't come back you say
Mellow out or you will pay
Mellow out or you will pay

[Chorus]

Now it is 1984
Knock-knock at your front door
It's the suede/denim secret police
They have come for your uncool niece
Come quietly to the camp
You'd look nice as a drawstring lamp
Don't you worry, it's only a shower
For your clothes here's a pretty flower.
DIE on organic poison gas... etc.

Sure, there was no suede/denim secret police, but they were pretty dictatorial. The banned smoking, alcohol and drugs. I understand banning illegal drugs and smoking. But a beer? You can’t drink a beer? It’s frickin’ organic! On top of that, they decided it was necessary to put a general ban on…coffee. Why? Who knows?

Reeling from the hippie-fascist rules, I quickly went for the ice-cream booth, so that I could get a chocolate covered ice-cream cone, or at least a chocolate shake. Since the other stuff was expensive, and the shake (which came in a Dixie cup) cost “only” six dollars, I decided to opt for a chocolate one.

“Sorry!” said the young woman at the counter. “No chocolate here!”

The Zen fascists gave me a maple shake—the closest thing they had to a regular flavor. “Just like vanilla,” she said.

China -- repressive?

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 15:16:00 +0000

So, given that the Olympics have pushed China even further into the world spotlight, even more criticism has been piled upon the Communist Party and government, those villains, that have ruthlessly brought more people, both in raw numbers and per capita, out of poverty than, not just any nation in the world, but any nation in the history of the world.

Obviously, crimes like this seem to have gone unnoticed. How dare they provide a better life for the vast majority of their people! What villains!

Also, China has been accused of oppressing minority groups within their own borders. For example, China viciously allows Tibetans to be exempted in from the one-child policy, in a malicious attempt to preserve the culture of the people of Tibet. Also, they cruelly offer state assistance to the preservation of the Tibetan language!

And then China is accused of mistreating other minority groups and organizations. For example, here is a video that one of those groups, the East Turkistan Islamic Movement, made:

How sweet and lyrical! They are such humane people--look at the pretty fireworks they've even put at the beginning. Everyone likes fireworks. Except for those evil Communists Chinese!

In all honesty, I hope that China has an easy time of killing of the entire leadership of this disgusting ETIM group. If protecting your nation against crazed religious fanatics who want to turn part of your country into a Taliban-style state is oppression, then I'm for it.

Go China! The only reason I'm rooting for the U.S.A. in the Olympics is the only good reason: America's my country, and I love it. But I can't help but smile at China's successes.

Gonorrhea, and remember: Spit, don't swallow! (the Listerine, that is)

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 03:48:00 +0000

The most unpleasant tasting of all the world's moutwhashes, Listerine, is currently occupying my thoughts.

Why, you ask? Perhaps I should say that it's not actually the mouthwash itself that is keeping me preoccupied--otherwise, why would I be thinking of that specific brand? Why wouldn't I be thinking of Scope or Act? Or maybe debating with myself the merits and the cons of each? Act is dentist approved, and has the delightful dispenser top, but Scope has T-whatever, which does something very important to your teeth or mouth or breath. And, though Act is equipped with the luxurious dispenser top, its users must go forth and find their own cup in which to pour it (that perfectly metered dose!) before they happily swish it through their teeth. Scope, however, comes with its own cup--it's what the bottle cap doubles as (absolutely fucking brilliant!)

Actually, perhaps Listerine would be the odd man out in this discussion. What does it have going for it? It has a cup-like cap, true, but it's only cup-like--not an actual cup. The best that can be said about Listerine is that it is like that old Energizer bunny--it keeps on going and going...and going.

It has become, at least in its original variety(now there are all sorts of "less harsh" forms of the product on the shelves), sort of the crazy old man of mouthwashes.

"You young whippersnappers," the bottle might say. "You little bastards with your T-whatever and cups for tops. In my day we didn't care about 'cool mint refreshment flavor,' goldurnit! We cared about killing bad breath. Ugly yellow and bad-tastin'--that's what a mouthwash should be! Why, no one respected us old timers if we didn't hurt the mouths of those who used us! You little pansy kids, with your hootin' and hollerin' about mint flavors--you never even cured a single case of gonorrhea! I cured my fair share of gonorrhea in the 1800s, goldurnit... You sons o' bitches. I ain't changin' nothing."

"Um, grandpa?" says little Act. "Did you say gonorrhea?"

"You're damn right I said gonorrhea. I cured it! What have you ever cured?"

Listerine was, maybe a hundred years ago, marketed as a cure for the clap (as well as floor cleaner, but I don't want to digress from my digression). I found this information on the internet while searching for more information on the poisoning qualities of mouthwash (more on that in a minute).

Now, how the fuck would you use Listerine to cure the fucking clap?! I've never had the clap, but I assume that they give you some kind of pill to get rid of it.

Was there actually a generation of men who, after maybe getting too drunk on absynthe and spending a wild, hallucinogenic, night out, really used Listerine to cure their STDs? How did they do it? Did they just open the bottle and dip their penis in it? What would happen if their penises got stuck in those old glass bottles? Did women just pour it in?

And during those days, when men would dip their tackle into a bottle--was it still marketed as a mouthwash as well? "Kills bad breath--great for the clap!" or "Use only on the penis and mouth."

Imagine all the marriages that were broken up by some bratty, inquisitive kid asking his mother, "Mommy, why did daddy put his penis in the mouthwash?"

"Oh, no, honey! Don't think that! I was just... My penis looked a little dirty, you know, and I didn't want to have to get water, and I saw this bottle of Listerine here, so I figured I might as well... Oh, no baby, don't take the suitcase! I just thought it was dick lotion! Dick aftershave...? No, don't go! Sweetie!"

Now I worry--my roommate is a relatively promiscuous older Russian guy. And, for those who don't know many Russians, they tend to be a little bit--ok a lot bit--behind the times when it comes to things like what to do if they catch the clap--and this chelovek seems like he's not the person who's going to lay any Russian stereotypes to rest.

Does anyone know of a polite way, a subtle way, to ask their roommate, "Hey man... You haven't put your dick in my Listerine have you?" How do you slip that into conversation--hopefuly in a less offensive fashion than the way a person slips their genitalia into another person's bottle of mouthwash? Also, is there anyone who can translate that into Russian?!

In any case, dicks in a Listerine bottle aren't originally what I wanted to discuss: I'm worried that I may have accidentally poisoned myself.

Sometimes, you see, I get lost in thought when I'm doing some mundane thing--like using mouthwash. Unfortunately, when lost in thought, one loses a little bit of common sense. Therefore, it is understandable that, in an unthinking fashion, I replaced the non-cup cap on the bottle while swishing my mouth, walked out of the bathroom--and swallowed.

What to do...? Should I just not worry? Should I put my finger in my throat? Should I use this opportunity for a lot of unsafe sex?! Any advice would be appreciated. It seems like a bad thing to do, to swallow it--they warn you not to do so on the bottle...

Poor former first-lady of Massachusetts Kitty D.

The importance of tolerance

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 03:43:00 +0000

UPDATE: I've been told that this post comes off as an insane "rant." Upon re-reading it, it does seem that this is exactly what the post is, or at least what it appears to be. However, people who know the guy mentioned below, and who have had to endure sharing an apartment with this person--they could easily relate to and understand the seemingly insane tendencies expressed. Trust me on this.

"I feel like I can tell you anything."

A number of people have told me that. For those of you who know me, it's obvious that the aforementioned statement could be taken in the following way:

"Wow, insert name of guy writing this blog. You truly are a vulgar motherfucker. I can't believe your vile, filthy sense of humor, and I don't think that there's anything I could tell you, outside of a racist joke, that would really offend you. I can't believe that joke you just said about shoving a banana into a camel's--"

Well, you get the picture. But, perhaps to your surprise, this isn't what a lot of people mean. A good deal of people have said the former statement to me, meaning:

"You know blog-writing guy, you're just such a tolerant person, so able to accept people for who they are, I could tell you anything about myself, any devious thing I've done, any vile thought, and you'd just accept that people make mistakes."

For those of you who really know me, you'd know that both of these interpretations are true. Oftentimes, my humor is truly vulgar and, sometimes, downright pornographic. The only thing I require in humor is that it be clever, and it certainly helps if the humor pushes the boundaries of good taste.

But, as with anything, there are exceptions. Racist, sexist humor is not appreciated (which may be why people think I'm a prude at NYC comedy clubs. Seriously: The joke about fucking a goat in the ass while murdering a village? That was fucking hilarious! The joke about slapping your wife, or the "humor" about Black people on welfare? Stick to the goat fucking).

There are exceptions to the tolerance quality as well. There are just some personality traits in people that I can't fucking stand. You broke into a little old lady's house while high on heroin after having sex with your mother and cousin, while simultaneously performing felatio on a baseball team--the fucking Yankees no less!--and then went on kill the old lady's puppy? Well, you know, people make mistakes. But when it comes to the asshole trait--you best be fuckin' off, young man.

I started writng this post, and then rewrote it with the preceding very long introduction after reading the following line, in someone's blog:

Mucho thanks to Trace for all the help with National Grid and getting an electrician.

Ok...calm down...

Ok. Firstly, let's just dispense with the fact that this asshole--and, as we know, all asshole's posess the asshole trait, and everyone who posesses the asshole trait is, in fac,t an asshole--postedto his blog that his electricity went out. Whoopty-fuckin' do! Your electricity went out in the storm! Wow! Do I care? No. Go fuck yourself!

Lest I be accused of hypocrisy--see a few posts previous to this entry--let me point something out. I wrote about the electricity in my crib going out in a way that I thought would at least be humorous to people passing by on the virtual superhighway (is that term still in use? Hey, those of you 18 or under--do you know that phrase?). I tried to point out a few things funny, tried to write in a somewhat clever way, all that shit. This fucking douchebag just writes that his electricity has gone out:

So due to the storm last night, I was without power all yesterday and today it's getting shut off again so it can be fixed. Huge pine branch came down and ripped the power conduit off the house.

No idea when this will be all settled. Out of contact, off the grid until further notice.

Wow. What an exciting post. I read the papers, you know. Most people know there was a fucking storm. Most poeple know that some people lost power. If I didn't know you in person (unfortunately, this guy was a roommate years ago, at a shithole apartment in Massachusetts. We didn't get along very well.), you'd just simply be a person who affirms the relatively unimportant news that I saw without really caring: A bunch of people lost electricity.

Are there actually people who read blogs looking to figure out exactly who lost their electricity? Do they see on WCVB that 10,000 people in the Boston/Worcester area lost power--and then try to find them all on MySpace, Facebook, Blogger?

Anyway, forget all that. I didn't really mean to focus on it. Maybe he's just not very creative (judging by the "music" he used to play on his guitar, and now continues to play in public, a certain lack of creativity seems to be part of his personality. Also, a desire to torture others with revolting sounds...). What I really couldn't help but focus on was that line:

Mucho thanks to Trace...

Trace?! Who the fuck is "Trace"? Who is Trace, and not Tracey? That's such a pompous and ridiculous sounding name. I can't stand it. Maybe, for shorthand, he might call her "Trace"--but I doubt the representative at National Grid referred to herself as "Trace," and I doubt that they are at the level of friendship--given that she's seemingly only spoken to him when he called the energy company--that he can shorten her name. But even if he knew her so well as to call her "Trace"--couldn't he just call her that, and add the extra fucking "y" at the end of the name, just so he doesn't seem like such a pompous ass?

But then, that simple name thing by itself wouldn't be such an issue if he didn't offer her "mucho thanks." Really, when I hear people say "much xxx," I have to supress the urge to stab them in the throat.

"You want to go see Indian Jones? That would be mucho cool."

"There's a mucho great coffee place in the Slope!"

"Mucho love for fixing my computer."

It's not so much the word that bothers me. It's this sort of stupid, hipster slang that has come about--but only in the parlance of people who posess the asshole trait. People who wear too much tye-dye and hang around Washington Square Park, people who've barricaded their lives into the walls, virtual or real, of college campuses, shitty musicians who play pretentious prog-rock, people who really listen to shitty musicians who play pretentious prog-rock, these are the people. And, if that word was ever going to be good for use as slang, they've ruined it by their association with it.

Anyway, if you've read all this, thanks for reading my venting--I'm not sure whether I took offense more to the blog itself or to the person who wrote it: the pampered little rich boy who plays...guess?...shitty pretentious prog-rock...at all hours on a fucking loud-ass amplifier, who attempts to grope every girlfriend/female being/sentient creature you bring around the apartment.

NYC Merchants -- Enemies of Earth?

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 23:11:00 +0000

I love the environment. This is, of course, generally speaking. If you travel around the world, there are many environments that are better or worse than others. For example, the environment of, say, Fiji is perferable to that of Siberia. But, taken together on the average, the environment is a great thing. One of my favorite things about the environment is its ability to sustain human life. What would we homo sapiens do without that?

You would think that everyone would have the same love and affection for the environment as I have just expressed above. But there is a group of people who seem to want to destroy the world's environment, and are doing everything they can to change our environment radically--from the nice humanity-supporting Earth environment we current reside upon to a vast wasteland of plastic and...well, nothing else.

Who are these people? The oil corporations? Well, ok. They seem to hate the environment.

But who else are these people? The coal producers? Ok, sure. Them too.

George W Bush? Ok, obviously that guy. But let's skip beyond the obvious.

New York City merchants--those guys who run the convenience stores/bodegas within this multi-borough region: They seem fully intent on ruining the Earth, even digging into their own profits to do so.

I know it doesn't seem realistic. The guy who cheerfully gives you your lottery tickets, or charges you a buck for a cup of coffee--unlike that Starbucks across the street--who even remembers your name and tells you "hello"--he just doesn't seem like a secret environment-ruiner in disguise. He's just too friendly.

But let's investigate:

No matter your protestations, they seem intent on shoving a straw into your bag, no matter what drink you buy. You go to buy a Coke--here's a straw. How about a Snapple? Here's a straw.
"No," you say, holding the gallon of water you just purchased, "I don't need a straw for this. I'll put it into cups."

He pretends not to notice, and puts the straw in your bag, smiling--all the while secretly enjoying the thoughts of the barren, desolate Earth he is helping to create.

"Everyone needs a straw," he says, putting it in the bag, along with the single can of Alpo you just bought.

"Rover really doesn't like to suck his food through a straw..." You don't bother mentioning that the single time Rover did get his teeth onto a straw he ate it, causing you to worry what happens to dogs when they eat plastic.

Sure, they're not expensive, but if you push a straw on everyone ever, the cost is sure to add up.

There are more than 8,000,000 people in this city. How many straws do we go through in a year? How many landfills is that? Since their plastic is made from oil, they all contribute to global warming, we'd have to assume. And as we all know, plastic doesn't really biodegrade.

How many millions of years from now will some other evolved creatures, the ones that replaced homo sapiens after the earth repaired itself after humans ruined their environment through, among other things, careless use of straws, find the vast landfills full of nothing but straws? What will they think? Will they look down on us, assuming that we couldn't figure out how to drink Snapple from the bottle in which it came? Or will they find the notes, the minutes of secret meetings, written by the society of NYC merchants? Only then will these merchants' vile plans come to light.

Surely these notes will spend much time on the subject of forcing everyone to take straws. But another portion of these notes will likely focus on the environmental disharmony they are presently trying to create through extremist overuse of plastic bags.

The plastic bag was a good idea. You can put all sorts of things in it, it is relatively durable, and it costs virtually nothing to use. But, after many years of using them, we've realized that these bags to a great diservice to the environment, and many have realized that something had to be done to curb their use. People have learned that in a lot of places and other places. But the merchants presently discussed pretend not to know about the environmental problems posed by these conveniences. Pretend is, of course, the key word.

Why else would they force them on you? They, like the straws, cost money--probably more money.

No matter what you buy, it seems, they want to put it in a bag.

"No, don't worry, man," you say. "This lottery ticket isn't that hard to carry."

"But the bag will help you to carry it. Very convenient!"

You could try to explain to them that that the plastic bag makes things less convenient, that you have to fish the ticket or whatever else you've bought out of the bag, and then figure out what to do with the offending plastic... but why bother? They'll almost always just give you the sack anyway.

I don't even know how many plastic bags are lying around my place: They're under sinks, hanging on doorknobs, lying on the floor. I feel guilty throwing them away. I have been trying to figure out some use for them. Maybe some kind of avant-garde version of covers that junior high school kids have to put on their books? It might look nice on a book, if you can properly position the little smiley face on the book. But, I don't know any junior high kids, so I can't pawn my plastic off on them.

But they continue to pile up on the floor. Who needs a bag for a pack of beer? It has a frickin' handle! Or a gallon of water? That has a handle, too. But they double bag that.

"Um, you know... I don't think I need a bag for this. It has a handle."

"It's better to put it in a the bag. Easier to carry!"

"But it has a handle."

"You cold drop it, and all the water you bought would be spilled."

"But, if I hold the handle of the bottle, that's stronger than these plastic bags' handle

"That's why I double bag."

"But... Can't I just take the bottle without a plastic bag?"

"No."

"But--"

"No."

"The environment, though, you know, if you read the UN Environmental Program's reports--"

"Shut up!"

"What?"

"Shut up with that talk. Now you take an extra bag and get out!"

ok, some thoughts!

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 04:34:00 +0000

Actually, contrary to my previous post, I do have a few thoughts.

It seems that Israel and Gaza, Israel and Lebanon, Israel and Syria--it seems that there may be peace agreements around the corner in these areas. How big of a corner we're talking, and whether or not the corner is a normal one or one with strange other corners built in, I don't know.

But there has been progress, and that is a good thing. Also, I rather like the Syrian government, at least to some extent, and President Bashar al-Assad. Seems like a good guy. I think I met him at the UN.

thoughts on blogs

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 04:14:00 +0000

So, insomnia sucks. While most people in the world* are sleeping, I'm awake, sitting with my computer, wondering what to do. And to make matters worse, it's not that "oh, I can't sleep, I'm so wired" kind of insomnia. No, it's that, "I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but I still can't sleep" type of insomnia.

That works out for you, though, my dear reader. Because I am not sleeping like a normal person*, you are treated to this new post. However, I fear that I may have nothing to say to you this time. I guess I should thrown in, just for the sake of generating readership, some talk of scat-obsessed shitwomen sexually aroused by dwarves horny horny sex slut cunt ass shit dick... In any case, now that I've gotten in the audience-generating words, I return to my previous point: What to say?

Early, I ruminated on the fact that people blog so that they don't have to keep diaries. But I don't think this is the case. Or at least, not for me. For example, I don't understand people who express their feelings online. Sure, people who stumble upon this site while looking for sexy shit goat porn click her now for free nude pictures of Natalie Portman have no idea who I am, there still are a significant number of people who know. Thus, the whole idea of the blog as the publicly private outlet for this or that emotion is out. I thought a number of things today that I would, were I the diary-keeping type, put into a diary--you know, the general sorts of things that fuel blogs and godawful romantic comedies with Sandra Bullock, as well as the type of things that fuel pornographic films and such... To be more specific, I conjured up many thoughts of relationship issues, desires to be around a certain person that I wish I could see right now, some things that I would like to do with said person... But I'm not the diary-keeping type, and I'm also not about to share all my thoughts with blog readers at large, or friends who read my blog.

Then, of course there are political thoughts and observations about the world--things that I'm generally qutie good at, but which I, in my sleepy sleep-deprived state would not be able to make a passable go of.

To sum up, I have nothing to say at the moment. Or, at least nothing that I would say publicly, and nothing that I would say publicly in a coherent form.

Bet you're excited for the next post!

Lactating plumpers and shitwomen who fuck their pets, sex orgy porno whore girls

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 04:41:00 +0000

For those of you who are easily offended, I apologize for the title of this post, and several others just like it. My intent is not to offend, but to draw readers. While I don't have any sort of overblown notion about how important what I write is, I still want people to read these posts. Otherwise, what's the point? I might as well just keep a diary, and, as we all know, people who keep diaries are lame.

In some recent post, I used the title "sexy shitwomen who love mules." The content of my post wasn't about shitwomen or their love for mules--I know this is a disappointment--I used the title as a sort of in-joke with a couple of friends of mine in Worcester, MA. (Big shout out to my favorite Italian shitwomen sisters!) Strangely, based on a web counter on this blog, this seems to be the post that has attracted the largest number of people. These people come from all over the world. The program I use to see how many people visit the site also shows me a map of cities where people come from. While I had been used to seeing the standard list of places: Brooklyn, Massachusetts, and a few other cities where I have friends, I was surprised to find that the "shitwomen" post attracted readers from all over the world. Of course, I wasn't surprised to see that people from France had visited--aren't sexy shitwomen who love mules sort of mainstream there?--I was surprised to see that people from Romania, Jerusalem, India and other far-off places had check out my page.

I've been thinking that my pornographic sounding blogs might be some sort of bridge to peace. With this idea of shit-covered women and their mule friends I seemed to have touched a chord of common ground between people of all walks of life, even sworn enemies. Perhaps the reader in Damascus and the reader in Jerusalem could bond over some sort of fecal sex fetish? Maybe I should put them in touch? But I don't have their information. But imagine if they did: A couple people, both from nations that regard each other as enemies, coming together in friendship and shit. This could be the start of an organic peace process, leading to an end to middle eastern hostilities.

Sure, this post isn't actually about sex orgy porno whore girls, or lactating women who fuck their pets--but it's offered in that spirit! These subjects unite people. So please, don't just read the post. Leave a comment with your e-mail address. That way, other people--people you may well have considered enemies--can write to you, offer to sell you bestiality videos, perhaps even masturbate while you pretend to defecate and make "meow, meow" sounds--whatever.

There is too much war in the world. It's time for people to come together in peace and bizarre sexual acts. I won't necessarily join you in these sex acts--call me a prude, but I'm just not into that sort of thing--I'll gladly be the host of this peace process.

We are the champions!

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:12:00 +0000

Boston is bright from the start!

We are the champions!

It's been 22 years, the Boston Garden is gone--but we are the champions!

Cats

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 03:00:00 +0000

I should disclose that I've owned, or "mastered," a couple of cats: Tiddles, a cat that was actually mine, and Miles, a cat that I took in from a friend. Both of these cats I "gave" to my family, but I tried to maintain visitation rights and all that. These cats are special to me, and don't count in the following message. Also, there are a few other cats that I find to be particularly nice, and they don't count, either. That line is sort of a disclaimer--I don't want friends with cats to not allow me into their home after reading this post--but that doesn't mean what I'm saying isn't true.

Don't get me wrong. I like cats. They are nice, they purr and they are generally likeable. It's just that they aren't really animals for which I would often go out of my way. Also, I wouldn't be particularly upset if I found that a friend of mine supplemented their diet by hunting cats. I might find it a little bit odd--you know, is cat meat really very good? How do you cook it? Soup? Salad?--but I wouldn't find it to be any sort of travesty, the way I would if I found out he--or she; I'm sure women are just as capable of hunting pets as men are--was hunting dogs.

Dogs can do many things that cats can't--for example, they can give a fuck about you. Cats don't seem to be able to do that. I don't hold that against them; some of my friends are the same way. But still, that's not a particularly endearing quality.

Unlike dogs, though, cats can be on their own for a bit (this is probably a function of their not-being-able-to-give-a-fuck-about-you trait), much moreso than dogs. You can leave them alone in your apartment, or, if you live in the suburbs, your house. You put out enough food and water, and they eat it when they need it, whereas dogs just eat everything you put out for them straight away. Maybe dogs are just smart enough to understand the human maxim "there's no such thing as a free lunch." Perhaps they understand that, and think to themselves, "I better eat this shit before someone takes it away, because 'there ain't no such thing as a free lunch.'"

All of the above is meant to underscore a point: I can't understand why M., my ex-girlfriend, has decided to put the onus on me to take care of her cat while she's away.

Why is this a bad idea on her part?

I'm not a cat person. In case you haven't figured that out, here's some helpful information: Cat people would be rather unhappy if they found out that their friend/neighbor hunted and ate cats. Actually, they would probably be upset if their friend/neighbor did either of the described activities.
You can leave cats by themselves anyway.
Ex-girlfriends are ex-girlfriends for a reason. Generally, this means that exes are less likely to want to perform onerous tasks, such as traveling to the fucking Bronx (sort of--I'm talking Marble Hill here. Those of you outside of NYC don't know what that means. Actually, a lot of you in NYC don't know what that means. Fuck it. Just replace what I said with "traveling a fucking long way." And those of you who get overly upset when people use vulgar words, replace my verbiage with "traveling quite a distance.")

So I agreed to go and take care of the cat. Actually, I simply didn't disagree. I told her I'd think about it, but then I found an e-mail telling me the directions to her place, where to get the key, and what to do, etc.

How could I disagree?

Of course, if the cat starves, I'd feel a bit guilty. How could I not? Also, I have already imagined what the situation would be like if I did starve the cat. Sort of like a bad episode of Seinfeld. I'd have to set up some sort of elaborate act to make it seem as if the cat wanted to commit suicide, and refused to eat:

M: What happened to my cat?!

Me: I don't know! It must have been sad you left and refused to eat. Look, I put food everywhere.

M: Sad I left?

Me: You know, cats. They're very emotional. When their owner leaves, they go crazy. Like in Lassie.

M: Lassie was a dog.

Me: They had to use a dog. Cats get too emotional for those storylines. But it's really about a cat. The real Lassie was a cat. Didn't you read the book? It's all about cats crying and chasing after little Jimmy--

M: Timmy?

Me: ...in the TV show. I mean the book. Lassie and Jimmy.

Roman (a poor man's Kramer) enters.

R: Hey (my name), where's the cat?

Me: How did you get here?!

M: What is he doing in my apartment?

Me: He came to cheer up the cat?

R: Cat killer!

M: What? He committed suicide.

R: But (my name) said--

Some Elaine-type person enters.

ETP: Oh my G-d, you didn't feed the cat!

Me: What? No! It killed itself!

R: He said he was going to feed the cat now, because he forgot.

M: What?!

ETP: You starved it?!

M: My kittie! You said it committed suicide!

Me: It did commit suicide!

ETP: Oh, that's just low, even for you!

R: There's good meat on cats.

Me: I love cats! I wouldn't starve a cat!

R: Can I take it?

Everone: No!

General argument, pointing, etc.

I guess I'd better feed the cat...

No lights. Updated!

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 05:54:00 +0000

This sucks. It's like, a trillion degrees out, maybe a little bit hotter than the surface of the sun, and now the electricity has gone out. But here's the irony:

I'm in this big apartment complex, and I've rented a room from people I know. During the Great Blackout of 2004 or 2003, when I was sweltering, this person was bragging to me about how it was great--his buildingg was on a seperate generator, and they had power. But now, I've moved into those buildings, and we've become the place in NYC where there's no power.

Pardon my French, but what the fuck?

So, here are some random, stream-of-consciousness writings, for your enjoyment pleasure/disgust, whichever word suits your opinion the best. They are informed by thoughts I've considered recently, as well as a certain degree of delirium imposed by the lack of air conditioning on this hottest of nights.

...Pardon my French. Where does that expression come from? Are the French known for their vulgarity? Or are swear words actually, truly French words? Perhaps I might someday go to France, to one of their famous cafes, and hear these words in their natural language?

"Ass shit fuck cock balls dick dick?"

"Fuck bitch whore ass!"

"Oh! Dick dick fuck shit."

"Asshole whore balls?"

"Bitch."

Is that a conversation in French?

...Why does the battery on my computer suck?

...I wonder why the people in the building across from me, which also has no power, seem to be doing some kind of morse code with their flashlights. Dozens of people seem to be aiming their flashlights at each other--including someone who seems to want to do morse code communication with me, as he is aiming his flashlight through my window. Is this some sort of Russian thing that was learned during the blackouts of the Soviet days?

...Was that an anti-Soviet comment?

...I wish they didn't stop making Za-rex. That stuff was awesome.

...Atari.

I was just about to post the line "Fat kids," and then realized that this would make no sense. So, as I continue to drift into a senseless stupor, which, as I noted earlier, is based upon my lack of sleep and, more importantly, my lack of airconditioning, I'll sign off.

Vive le fat kids!

Updated!

Well, yesterday evening was horrendous, obviously. At least the post above seems to make some amount of sens. But this morning... I got up and found that all the lights were on--of course. My phone wasn't charged, the computer wasn't charged.

Ok, I thought to myself, whatever. I went to take a shower, and noticed that warm, instead of hot, water was pouring from the faucet. This is fine--It's been, to say as we do in the Grafton Hill area of Worcester, Massachusetts, wicked hot, kid. But, as people do when taking showers and washing their hair, I closed my eyes to ensure that no soap would run into them. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that my entire body was covered in some sort of brown sludge. Worse, more brown sludge was raining down on me from the shower faucet.

Let me be eloquent here, and express my thoughts, once again, in French: What the fuck?! Was that pipe sludge? Sewage?! Returning to French: Fuck, fuck, fuck! A million times, fuck!

I spoke on the phone yesterday to friends, late in the evening, and complained about a few things, including, of course, the power outage and the heat, as well as an earlier phone call I had received. I may have referred to that aglomeration of heat/no electricity/troublesome phone call as a "shit storm."

Now, I'm worried that my shower was a shit storm.

The real "Harry Potter"

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Sat, 31 May 2008 04:32:00 +0000

Troll is the greatest movie of all time. Of course, there are those who would disagree with this assertion; they are wrong. These people can't tell a good movie, because they're too busy looking for a coherent storyline, intelligent dialogue, realistic special effects, good acting, or some other thing that really doesn't have to do with the quality of a movie.

What makes a movie awesome?

Sonny Bono playing a swinger who is eventually turned into woodland.

A couple of main characters named Harry Potter and Harry Potter, Jr (played by the kid from Neverending Story)--in a 1986 film.

June Lockhart conversing with a strange thing that looks like a mushroom from Super Mario Brothers. Of course, this creature must live in a flower pot.

The following plotline: This family moves into a new apartment in a building inhabited by the aforementioned Sonny Bono character, a right-winger played by the guy who played Travis on WKRP in Cincinnatti, and a couple--the woman being, of course, played by Julia Louis-Deryfus--that is all 80s chic, and considered smart because "they read books." The dauther of the family is taken over by a troll, who goes around pricking people with a ring, turning them either into forests or other trolls. The son has to figure out how to stop her, with the help of a sorceress who lives upstairs, and his parents--Mr Potter, Sr and wfie--don't seem to notice anything's wrong, except that their daughter is having "trouble adjusting to the move."

Highly recommended! Except to those elitists who want their movies to be "good" and to "make sense," and who don't are about how awesome a movie actually is.

Miley Cyrus pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Sun, 04 May 2008 04:16:00 +0000

Ok, so, it's not the type of thing that I would generally post about. But, the point of a blog is, I think, to get people to read it. Judging by the number of people who came to my blog after searching for things like "sexy mules" or something like that, I would assume that a salacious story that's been in the news, and would attract dirty sexfiend types, would certainly generate a lot of hits. I'm guessing that the title of this post is exactly what the aforementioned dirty sexfiend types will type into google, or rechercher, or whatever the name of the French website was that directed people to my blog for "sexy mules."

If you're reading this, and I don't know you, you're helping to prove my point.

I would wonder, however, why anyone would be searching for these photos, even the dirty sexfiend types about whom I've just written. It seems that, at least if you live in New York City, you are completely unable to escape reproductions of the photo: It's in newspapers plastered all over the place. Then, of course, there are the constant reproductions of it on television, descriptions on the radio, and so on.

Don't the Vanity Fair people copyright their works?!

And why is a magazine that runs the work someone like Christopher Hitchens mentioning Hanna fucking Montana?! Has she become part of respectable New Yorker/Vanity Fair/The Atlantic magazine culture? Has she somehow stepped out of more appropriate journals, such as the National Enquirer and the ever-so-respectable People Weekly? If she and others of her ilk--maybe the School Music people, or Britney Spears or Lindsey Lohan become appropriate for Vanity Fair, what will happen to those who used to be appropriate? Will Christopher Hitchens be displaced? Will he be forced to adapt, becoming "Hitch," dressing skankily, and write books (if he continues to write) about being being arrested while doing cocaine off of some useless celebrity's ass?

Important point: AM New York, the free newspaper, ran an article on this "scandal" almost immediately after the police who murdered Sean Bell were acquitted. Though the latter story was positioned further up in the paper, It didn't seem to take up as much space as the Cyrus article. Is her photograph really as important as the ongoing police brutality against African Americans in New York City?! End of the only point of any importance in this blog post.

In any case, my only reflections on the photo are this: Why would anyone want to look at it? As I've said, we've all been bombarded with it, and, to be quite honest, and not to begrudge the actress of anything--who knows? Maybe she's talented even?--the photos are fucking freaky. According to the press, she's been "sexualized." Um... have they seen the photos?! Sexualized? I dont' think so. She looks like one of those girls in Japanese horror movies--their face all white, their hair all messed up and stringy, a bizarre facial expression, blank eyes... That's some scary shit. It could be a poster for the next Ring sequel.

Anyway, friends and misdirected perverts, I'm signing off for now. Please, enjoy my post, and try not to have to many nightmares in which an evil Miley Cyrus invades your DVD player.

sexy goat porn

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 00:54:00 +0000

So, I realize now that the way to get more people to read my blog is to use titles that are more...interesting. The recent post, "Sexy Shitwomen Who Love Mules," had a fairly sizable audience. Of course, it was about cucumber-flavored Pepsi, and the subject line bore no resemblance to the actual message itself (the line was culled from an e-mail message from some very clever friends, actually). Nonetheless, it seems that people visited my blog to look at that post from as far away as France. (What does this say about the French?)

I find it amusing that, when looking at the pages from where people were referred, this comes up: (cut and paste the whole thing)

rechercher.aliceadsl.fr/recherche/cgi/recherche.cgi?qs=mules sexy&dom=s&lr=&hits=10&offset=60

I wonder how many people are reading this and now feel bad for trying to find sexy goat porn?

A tale of two city...parks

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 02:46:00 +0000

I was supposed to be in Philadelphia today, helping out the Obama campaign, but due to a scheduling gaffe, I won't leave until the morning. Sorry Barack! In any case, instead of wasting the day away, I decided that I would meet with a friend downtown, and go to see the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall, or whatever the titular character's name is. In any case, as this is one of the first jacket-less days of the year, I asked myself: Why not take a nice walk, instead of going on the dark, dank subway system? What's more, I was awaiting a phone call from friends, and how could I get the call if they decided to call while I was underground?

I made up my mind. I would walk to Union Square, where I was supposed to meet my friend, R. As my residence is in Harlem, a long walk was ahead of me. Instead of walking straight down Lexington, I made the decision to walk through Central Park, and then walk from 59th Street to Union Square.

Having resided in New York for nearly six years, I thought it was high time that I should take a walk through Central Park. Of course, I've been in Central Park countless times, but always in this or that spot: the frog pond, the great lawn, watever, and then out again. I've never walked from 110th to 59th, the northern and southern borders, respectively.

There was, as it turns out, good reason. This park is less a beautiful nature preserve than a maze, made all the harder to navigate by the countless tourists. (Why do they come to the park? Where most of them are from, there actually is nature. I would think that the vast majority of people in this square would be New Yorkers that felt a primal yearning to be somewhere near a tree. Why come from Nebraska or Kansas or Oregon or wherever to be near a sad attempt at nature, when that is the one thing they can actually see at home?)

I went up hills, down hills, around hills. After walking for quite a long while, I came to a fence, something which, I might add, does not occur in the natural settings that the above-mentioned Nebraska types would find. This fence impeded my progress to such an extent that I had to back track almost to where I entered the park. Then I found the right path, and came to a reservoir that had a nice little path around it. Unfortunately, some power-obsessed park official decided that there is a rule that you must walk around the reservoir counter-clockwise, and this direction was posted on signs nearly everywhere (these signs, of course, are also not part of the natural world). Unfortunately, as the direction I needed to go was clockwise, and going the other direction would have put me many...blocks? Are there blocks in parks?...out of my way, I had to backtrack yet again.

As I trekked on, I realized that the blossoming trees, which I thought were rather pretty at first, were not helpful. They put their pollen into the air, as is their right, to such an extent that it seemed to coat my mouth and face. As a person who suffers springtime allergies, I was not amused.

As I walked further along, there were more and more...and more...people. More people than I generally have seen in the park. I noticed that some where wearing shirts with pictures of the Bishop of Rome, and realized that there were must have been thousands of pilgrims out to see the pope, or at least where the pope had just been, near Saint Patricks.

So I left the park and got on the bus. Even now, I still have not walked North/South or South/North across the park. At least I've rid myself of the desire.

In any case, after a while, I stepped off the bus and walked over to Union Square Park. This place I like a lot more, as it does not bother to make any pretense of being "natural." It is mainly cement, with buildings all around, and a few trees and statues.

When going from the first park to the next, it becomes quite apparent how different they are, not just in terms of their setup, but also in terms of their denizens. Whereas the former is mainly full of tourists from other states or countries (all taking several million photographs of each other, so that they can go home and show them to their friends: "Look! See? That's me, in front of the tree! That's a real New York tree!"), Union Square's residents are insane political activists, slightly less insane political activists, people who are strangely affectionate, people selling random things, farmer's marketeers and their customers, and people who pass by and enjoy looking at the people in the previous categories. (I would place myself in the latter category, for the most part. But who knows? Maybe I could make money growing and selling pumpkins.)

While waiting to for R., I was able to witness a short stumpy man yelling at a tall stumpy man for photographing the former without permission, a group of somewhat deranged people nearly come to blows with a farmers' marketeer--he committed the offense of asking them to be nice--and the same group taunt park security for being "fascists"(somehow, they equated asking people to not fight with putting people into prison camps). Also, there was the man who seems to have been there for at least the better part of a decade shouting for a "proletarian revolution."

At leat it was warm out, and the movie was good.

Sexy shitwomen who love mules

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 04:10:00 +0000

Just F everyone's I, I've returned from Massachusetts, and am currently in the city-state of New York.

I have recently learned that the word "Moxie" actually comes from the popular beverage of the same name, and not the other way around.

Where did the original beverage makers come up with the word? More importantly, where can you buy it in NYC?

Even more importantly than that, where can I get the delightful-sounding Japanese beverage, Pepsi Ice Cucumber?

Why can't we Americans come up with something so delicious as cucumber flavored cola?

I'm in Massachusetts

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 03:59:00 +0000

On a whim, I decided to come to my home state of Massachusetts--actually, home commonwealth, as that is what Massachusetts officially is. I have taken some photographs, and some videos, and have some videos from 2007 that I should post, but not now, as it is quite late in the evening.

The main point of this post is now to discuss whether or not I have videos or whatever, but rather to discuss New York City, and residence there.

When I was younger, I wanted to move to NYC quite a bit--you know, all that stuff that people look for when they move to New York: The big city, things to do, a vibrant feel for the city, and so on. So when I moved there back in 2002, I was quite happy, as it did fulfill all of those desires.

However, nearly six years into my residence, it's begun to feel more like a tour of duty than a pleasure trip. What is the point of living in New York if you weren't born there? It's a fast-paced, big city, very vibrant--but so what? Even the vibrancy of the city becomes somewhat of a bore, with the pleasures of a laid-back smaller town lifestyle becoming more of a novelty, seeming more pleasurable.

Of course NY has more cultural opportunities than anywhere else in the U.S.--but what's so great about this? There are only so many cultural events a person can attend per week. Anyone's cultural needs can be satisfied in Boston, Chicago, or some other decent sized American city. Maybe even places like Cleveland are satisfactory. I've spent time there; there were things to do. In any case, for all practical purposes, a New Yorker doesn't have there time filled with more activities than someone in most other decently sized American cities.

So it's not better--but is it worse? I would say so. Aside from all the subjective reasons (my friends are mainly concentrated in Massachusetts, with a few stragglers in New York, Madison, and elsewhere...), ther are some good reasons that New York isn't the best place to be.

Getting anywhere is a hassle, even with the extensive subway system.

Any place you live is infested with cockroaches; when you go to take the trash out, you are likely to be bitten by rats.

Everything is incredible expensive. Here in Massachusetts, I could own a frickin' house. Someone was telling me they were selling a house for $175,000. Shit! The only thing you can do with that amount of money in the City is to buy get on a years long waiting list to buy a co-op apartment, and then after all those years buy the place, and still pay a monthly maintenance fee. Currently, I am in an apartment where they charge you $1,200 for the privilege of residing in a shoebox sized, cockroach infested apartment that doesn't even have a full kitchen. I could get a bigger place for $500 in Massachusetts, leaving me with enogh money left over for trips to Boston, which is maybe even more of a cultural mecca than Boston, and other such things.

I've become disenchanted.

What are good reasons to actually be in NYC, aside from work? Can anyone think of any? I mean, I don't have the choice to leave, but it's helpful to complain about these things...

At least you don't have to look at L.A.

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 03:00:00 +0000

This morning, as I was walking to my office, I noted, once again, numerous large metallic boxes, designed to be hooked up to a mack truck and driven away. But, unlike regular trailers, they had several sets of doors and stairs leading to these doors. This is, of course, the tell-tale sign of a movie being shot in the neighborhood.

For the record, I am a cinema enthusiast. But, in a reversal from several years ago, when virtually every movie that took place in NYC was shot in Vancouver, the fact that there seem to be hundreds of big budget movies made in New York each year is getting quite annoying. It's often inconvenient: Having to navigate between these large trailers is a pain in the ass. When they took over Washingto Square Park to shoot the lackluster Will Smith movie "I am Legend" ... well that sucked. There were wires and all sorts of things running through the park. And when they decided to shoot some high school football movie at a school in Brooklyn, where I used to have an apartment, all night long--that really sucked. They lit the place up like it was day, and the lights shined through my window all night long. When I pulled the shades down, there were simply glowing shades, the light coming out of which illuminated my room.

And then there's the part about the films themselves. It seems like no one has any imagination as to where to shoot a movie. You want to do a comedy? Shoot it in New York! A romance? Shoot it in New York! A horror movie? Forget the dark, deserted house; shoot it in New York! It's become so boring to go to the movies and see virtually every single movie taking place in the same place. But this is a big, great nation, and it seems that Hollywood (New York?) could come up with some other places to shoot.

Granted, at least it's not Los Angeles, and for that I believe that most Americans thank New York. But still!

Magic Eye!

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 04:24:00 +0000

I remember the magic eye. I couldn't understand them at first; people were just staring at these sort of random looking computer generated images. Supposedly, they said, if you looked right, you would see a 3D image. But you had to look at them the right way; if you didn't, you would only see nonsensical static.

It took me maybe two months to finally figure out how to do it. I read all the instructions: Pretend you're looking behind the picture. Or hold the picture close to your face, and then move it away, not chaning the focus of your eyes... The put a new one in the comics section of the newspaper each week, and I tried and tried until...finally it worked! I hadn't seen them in a long time, but I just found some online. (Can you see what it is?)

I think magic eye should be revived, and gone into further. I want to make the first magic eye movie. I guess it would be animation...

Vacation fun time!

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 03:24:00 +0000

Are you tired of the rat race?

Could you use a little time away from the office?

Wouldn't you like to be...

HERE?

We know you do!

Come to Great American Fun Adventure World!

It's fun for your whole family!
781-555-2869

Late night horror, '84 and '08

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 04:30:00 +0000

Yesterday I used the Netflix "watch it now" utility to watch one of the great classics of cinema, Don't go in the Woods, aka Don't go in the Woods Alone.

How I love the horror genre! Everything from the more well known slasher fests of the 1980s, like Friday the 13th or Nightmare on Elm Street (not technically a slasher, of course) to the b-movie knock-offs of them like all of the "Don't do this or that" movies. (So many things we weren't supposed to do: Don't go in the woods, don't go in the house, don't answer the phone...) And then there were the zombie movies, the cannibal movies, the Italian horror movies that gave birth to all these movies, and the various other European sleaze/art horror films that appeared.

I've always loved these movies, and I can't say why. I remember, even when I was particularly young, finding these films as great entertainment to relax in front of after a long day. As a younger child, I didn't have access to all the movies to which I have access now. Before the whole Internet and DVD revolution, some movies were quite hard to come by. If I wanted to get a copy of, say, Cannibal Holocaust, I would have to order a bootleg VHS version from some company in Tennessee that specialized in making bootleg copies of movies. But even before that, I was confined to what was on all those UHF stations of yesteryear. My only outlets were the weekly Creature Double Feature on WLVI-56 in Boston (inexplicably hosted by someone called Uncle Dale), and of course Elvira's Movie Macabre, which had better movies, but was on a station that came in much worse, a lot more snow. This was from back in the days when it was actually common for movies on TV to have hosts--remember that?--and Elvira was the perfect host for most of the movies she played. Of course, now the techniques used for the show (cutting from the movie to the reaction of the hostess and back) would probably offend my sense of integrity for the film, but it seemed great at the time. And I think it was this show that introduced me to Tombs of the Blind Dead, part of the great Blind Dead trilogy. (What is more bad ass than blind zombie-knights who still ride on horse back and use eerie-sounding sonar to guide themselves?!)

So, in any case, I spent yesterday evening in a darkened apartment, watching a low-budget 80s slasher movie on my computer. There must have been some sort of subliminal connection-making going on, because I fell asleep halfway through the movie (as I used to do almost each week when I stayed up late to watch Elvira's stuff), and when I woke up, I instinctively reached for the light switch... the one that would have been there if I was in the same room in which I used to watch horror films in 1984. What a trip.

Now it's easier to get the movies I want, but I miss those old hosted horror shows as well as the independent UHF stations that seem to have vanished in the 1990s.

Cookies and cops

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 00:46:00 +0000

At least this guy didn't murder a city councilor and blame his behavior on a Twinkie.

Rice Pudding and Beard Papa

noreply@blogger.com (Eternal Progress) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 02:36:00 +0000

I was walking through Noho the other day, rather late at night. I had had several beers, so it was therefore rather easy to impress me. As I walked along with the girlfriend, I was looking this way and that...

Then I saw it.

Rice to Riches, the only store that specializes in all rice pudding, all the time. Any flavor you want, they got it. I was so happy! The outside of the stoor was all done up, and inside it was pristine white and...um...pudding-y. I ordered a small rice pudding, and a bottle of water, and paid--seven dollars.

That's right, I spent five bucks on a plastic cup of rice pudding. The largest portions go for 50 dollars.

The next morning, I mentioned this to a friend, and he pointed out to me how ridiculous such a place was. To think I hadn't thought of it. We looked it up on the internet, and came across its site. The store was one thing, but the site just went too far. Who the hell came up with the idea of a rice tornado, that is somehow good, but rips down all of the houses in its path? And all of this for one store?

The bourgeoisie have way too much time on their hands.

I think I'll keep away from "Rice to Riches" and its workday-of-pay servings, and stay with my old favorite, Beard Papa. (By the way, I didn't realize it, but Beard Papa doesn't just make cream puffs in obscurity, he actually has a story to tell! "They don't call me Beard Papa for nothing!")

I've always liked cream puffs, but I've never come across anything as good as that white-bearded cartoon character makes. I grew up in Massachusetts, and occasionally Italians would feed me cream puffs, which I adored. But then I moved to Iowa, where cream puffs, as well as donuts, seem to be some unheard of novelty.

The only place in the whole state of Iowa--this was in the 90s; maybe things have improved since then--where I could find anything even called a "cream puff" was at a Hy-Vee. Don't get me wrong--I loved that place, but more on that some other time. This so-called puff turned out to be something akin to a bread roll into which a culinary version of a mad scientist shoved vanilla cake frosting.

For a decade, I had no cream puffs.

It was so long, this dark desert of dessert, that I forgot about cream puffs altogether.

Then, in the year 2005, I was walking around 42nd Street, near the public library, and I stumbled into a cafe. In there was a Beard Papa. Initially, I was somewhat frightened of this man, as I couldn't shake a very mistaken notion that he was a child molester. But then I saw people hand making cream puffs, and all of my love was reignited.

I bought a dozen, and ate them all, right then.

The misfortune in all of this is that I am tied to the locations where Beard Papa lives and works: New York, California, Hawaii and Japan.

Sincerely,
Pudding Daddy