I don't even like Michael Jackson, but this is soooooo cool.
Yay limey yoots!
We used to hang by our knees from the subway handrails to weird out and amuse our fellow travelers, but this is a waaaay better idea.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Very Fun Flash Tutorial
Yeah, it's put out by a mega corporation, not a university, but it's still a very fun learning tool.
It's laid out in one of those crappy "intuitive" styles, but of course it's not very intuitive at all.
The intro takes about a minute or so, when the "light year" page loads, you can click through the rest of the segments, going from right to left as size decreases. Not all of the pages have text, but take the time to read the one's that do.
The thin, gray tiles (with the tiny, tiny print) along the bottom of the image area are your navigation bar. The silhouettes on the graph are clickable, just mouse-over for names.
CLICK HERE for "Universcale"
It's laid out in one of those crappy "intuitive" styles, but of course it's not very intuitive at all.
The intro takes about a minute or so, when the "light year" page loads, you can click through the rest of the segments, going from right to left as size decreases. Not all of the pages have text, but take the time to read the one's that do.
The thin, gray tiles (with the tiny, tiny print) along the bottom of the image area are your navigation bar. The silhouettes on the graph are clickable, just mouse-over for names.
CLICK HERE for "Universcale"
Friday, January 25, 2008
Rilo Kiley
My friend Phil at work suggested this to me, but he got it all dyslexic! He said Kilo Riley! Haha!
Seriously, this is some really fine music with a solid female lead.
Seriously, this is some really fine music with a solid female lead.
Ouch
Cut my middle fingernail off a little bit today. Typing very carefully...
Been a spell of that goin' round the old workplace. The Sous sliced his thumb eight stitches worth, I got instant karma for laughing at his dumb ass.
I'm suspecting stress related mishaps, now that I have to explain my stupidity.
Had to watch some Office Space clips just to cheer up. Wondering what my next career move will be, gonna come to a head soon I'm sure.
Fuck these motherfuckers. Yeah, I know, never ever post about your job if you wanna keep it...
"I have an extensive collection of hairnets and name tags" -Wayne
Been a spell of that goin' round the old workplace. The Sous sliced his thumb eight stitches worth, I got instant karma for laughing at his dumb ass.
I'm suspecting stress related mishaps, now that I have to explain my stupidity.
Had to watch some Office Space clips just to cheer up. Wondering what my next career move will be, gonna come to a head soon I'm sure.
Fuck these motherfuckers. Yeah, I know, never ever post about your job if you wanna keep it...
"I have an extensive collection of hairnets and name tags" -Wayne
Well Ok then.
Just please tell everybody you know that you dumped me because you were sick of me spending all my money on guns.
Monday, January 21, 2008
My First Job
I was hired as a dishwasher by my neighbor Hal, a white boy with a mushroom tattoo married to a lovely, fat-bootied black girl. They had the cutest little pickaninny kid... but ah, I digress.
Hal asked me one day if I'd care to come down to Scarpelli's on Nicolette Avenue and bust a few suds. When I figured out what that meant, I said, "Sure!"
Sign me up for makin' some scratch fo sho bro, I'd been applying for jobs for a year with no luck.
Hal was a baker at Scarpelli's, a 450 seat cavern of connected storefronts in a building that I'm sure has long since been torn down. They served up mid western Italian cuisine on a grand scale. The cauldron I was tasked with cleaning as soon as I arrived for my shift was 150 gallons. Coated in burned marinara. I learned my first trick, the fact that burned on marinara is still acidic, and requires only 15 minutes of contact with water to release it from stainless steel.
My fellow dishwashers were two hardcases, one just a year older than me and the other a 20-something mercenary type. The younger guy was off to join the Marines, hence my hiring.
When I asked, "Aren't you going to miss all that hair?", he replied, "'Tis a small price to pay for a guaranteed future."
He actually said "'Tis".
I realized at that moment I would never see the inside of a barracks. That scrawny little fuck is probably a General these days.
The other fellow, Mike, hated me on sight. He had me pegged as a lazy, pot-addled suburban layabout white boy fuck. Goddamn if he wasn't right.... well at least my first four days.
I caught on quick, my first clue coming when I asked "When are breaks scheduled?" and everyone.... I mean everyone, like, 15 people in a ten yard radius, burst out in belly laughs.
I had this very tired sinking feeling that never left me at that job.
After my cauldron cleansing every afternoon, my job was the removal of every single item in that cave of a walk-in cooler, stacking it all out on a series of milk crates in the hallway, then wiping with bleach every single wire shelf in the cooler and replacing said merchandise before mopping the metal frosty floor with ammonia. After those lungfuls, I had to hightail it to the dish-pit where I was greeted with the steamy effluence of many solvents, enzymatic cleaners and degreasers, not to mention the rinse agents. HOLY CRAP, what an inhalation. I'm already exhausted, the aforementioned tasks had to be completed in 45 minutes to prepare for the dinner rush and get all the prep cooks' pots and pans out of the way of the incoming salad plates.
Then it really started. The joint was full, every night. It was the place to go if it was your first date, if you wanted to break up, if you were just too hammered to make it to the show. It thrived on the edge of downtown and so did I.
I found customers, loyal ones, for my fledgling pot business. God bless cooks and waitresses, they know their fellow humans like no other. For better or worse. Let me tell ya, it takes no small amount of marijuana to deal with you useless fucks day in and day out. When they got really pissed off, they'd take the salads into the walk-in and plant pubes in them. Word to the wise, always be nice to your food-bringers.
Those bus-tubs would roll in non-stop, 'til it got to the point where I fucking hated the word "Incoming!"
It's only cute once, sweetheart, not all goddamn night. The place just screamed from 5:30 PM to 11 o'clock, the cooks would cut themselves and make marinara jokes as their very essence spilled invisibly into the spaghetti.
Schooner glasses would shatter all over the dishpit, shards staying in my forearms for weeks, fumes wafting out of improvised soak tanks for the mannicotti broiler dishes. The waitresses would complain about the dishwasher throwing temper tantrums and salad plates to a selectively deaf manager. ("He shows up for work, I can't fire him!")
Had I realized at that juncture, this was the easiest job I would ever have, suicide would have been the only acceptable route.
Thankfully, we toughen with age.
Hal asked me one day if I'd care to come down to Scarpelli's on Nicolette Avenue and bust a few suds. When I figured out what that meant, I said, "Sure!"
Sign me up for makin' some scratch fo sho bro, I'd been applying for jobs for a year with no luck.
Hal was a baker at Scarpelli's, a 450 seat cavern of connected storefronts in a building that I'm sure has long since been torn down. They served up mid western Italian cuisine on a grand scale. The cauldron I was tasked with cleaning as soon as I arrived for my shift was 150 gallons. Coated in burned marinara. I learned my first trick, the fact that burned on marinara is still acidic, and requires only 15 minutes of contact with water to release it from stainless steel.
My fellow dishwashers were two hardcases, one just a year older than me and the other a 20-something mercenary type. The younger guy was off to join the Marines, hence my hiring.
When I asked, "Aren't you going to miss all that hair?", he replied, "'Tis a small price to pay for a guaranteed future."
He actually said "'Tis".
I realized at that moment I would never see the inside of a barracks. That scrawny little fuck is probably a General these days.
The other fellow, Mike, hated me on sight. He had me pegged as a lazy, pot-addled suburban layabout white boy fuck. Goddamn if he wasn't right.... well at least my first four days.
I caught on quick, my first clue coming when I asked "When are breaks scheduled?" and everyone.... I mean everyone, like, 15 people in a ten yard radius, burst out in belly laughs.
I had this very tired sinking feeling that never left me at that job.
After my cauldron cleansing every afternoon, my job was the removal of every single item in that cave of a walk-in cooler, stacking it all out on a series of milk crates in the hallway, then wiping with bleach every single wire shelf in the cooler and replacing said merchandise before mopping the metal frosty floor with ammonia. After those lungfuls, I had to hightail it to the dish-pit where I was greeted with the steamy effluence of many solvents, enzymatic cleaners and degreasers, not to mention the rinse agents. HOLY CRAP, what an inhalation. I'm already exhausted, the aforementioned tasks had to be completed in 45 minutes to prepare for the dinner rush and get all the prep cooks' pots and pans out of the way of the incoming salad plates.
Then it really started. The joint was full, every night. It was the place to go if it was your first date, if you wanted to break up, if you were just too hammered to make it to the show. It thrived on the edge of downtown and so did I.
I found customers, loyal ones, for my fledgling pot business. God bless cooks and waitresses, they know their fellow humans like no other. For better or worse. Let me tell ya, it takes no small amount of marijuana to deal with you useless fucks day in and day out. When they got really pissed off, they'd take the salads into the walk-in and plant pubes in them. Word to the wise, always be nice to your food-bringers.
Those bus-tubs would roll in non-stop, 'til it got to the point where I fucking hated the word "Incoming!"
It's only cute once, sweetheart, not all goddamn night. The place just screamed from 5:30 PM to 11 o'clock, the cooks would cut themselves and make marinara jokes as their very essence spilled invisibly into the spaghetti.
Schooner glasses would shatter all over the dishpit, shards staying in my forearms for weeks, fumes wafting out of improvised soak tanks for the mannicotti broiler dishes. The waitresses would complain about the dishwasher throwing temper tantrums and salad plates to a selectively deaf manager. ("He shows up for work, I can't fire him!")
Had I realized at that juncture, this was the easiest job I would ever have, suicide would have been the only acceptable route.
Thankfully, we toughen with age.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Visitor Booted from National Archives, Home of the Constitution
...for wearing a t-shirt printed with... The Constitution.
"On Jan 12, members of John Niremberg's impeachment march(which started over a month ago in Boston) were either denied entry to or expelled from the National Archives for wearing clothing printed with the articles of the Constitution concerning impeachment."
Had enough yet?
Friday, January 11, 2008
Ah Luvs Me Sum Sheriff Ed Brown!
Sad story, but... DAYUM! This HILLBILLY Sheriff takes the cake!
If only EVERY unjust death got the same coverage...
Friday, January 4, 2008
Nelson Rocks Preserve
The VERY BEST, I'M NOT KIDDING, THE FUCKING GREATEST DISCLAIMER EVVVAR!
"By entering the Preserve, you are agreeing that we owe you no duty of care or any other duty. We promise you nothing. We do not and will not even try to keep the premises safe for any purpose. The premises are not safe for any purpose. This is no joke. We won't even try to warn you about any dangerous or hazardous condition, whether we know about it or not. If we do decide to warn you about something, that doesn't mean we will try to warn you about anything else. If we do make an effort to fix an unsafe condition, we may not try to correct any others, and we may make matters worse! We and our employees or agents may do things that are unwise and dangerous. Sorry, we're not responsible. We may give you bad advice. Don't listen to us. In short, ENTER AND USE THE PRESERVE AT YOUR OWN RISK. And have fun!"
Thursday, January 3, 2008
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