Roadnotes: Austin Greyhound to Dallas

The following is based on events that happened on March 27.

I'm first in line at door 2, the gate to Dallas. The announcer calls out, "Last call for Dallas, door 2."

I take this as my cue to exit through door 2 so I can get on the bus before it leaves. Naturally, I start walking through door 2.

Apparently, though, the bus isn't ready yet and instead of telling me this, the security guard simply pushes the door back in my face, shoving me back inside. Excellent communication skills.

Later, the security guard opens the door and treats me like an idiot for trying to board earlier. I tell him they said it was last call. He tells me that they said "line up". Now, even supposing he's right (and he's not), it's hardly acceptable for him to communicate my supposed blunder by shoving the door back in my face and then ignoring me for ten minutes. Will there be a nasty email to Greyhound about this? You bet. Will it matter? I don't know. I complain on principle.

Also, the bus winds up leaving an hour and a half late. Come on, Greyhound, I can get lateness from Amtrak. If you're going to treat people like shit, at least leave on time.

Roadnotes: Austin 2

The following is based on events that happened on March 26 and March 27.

At the Broken Spoke, I am comforted by the fact that even in Texas, one can walk into a men's restroom and find anti-Bush graffiti.

The next morning, I eat at Las Manitas, a place with good food, good service, and excellent copy--whoever wrote the story on their menu did a fantastic job.

Roadnotes: Austin, TX

The cognitive dissonance has built up to the point that I'm INCREDIBLY disturbed by the amount of waste involved in travel. My plastic cup on the airplane is thrown in with metal cans and napkins. Wha? It'd be sweet if airlines could compost and recycle, like some businesses have started doing.

I put a "Do Not Disturb" sign on my door handle this morning, yet they STILL came in and changed out my towels, remade my bed, replaced some soap, etcetera. Waste!

It's awful. I'm out on the town of Austin tonight. Are you? Track me down. I'll be exploring 4th or 6th or 2nd. I forget which.

Inga: Would YOU Give Her the Keys to your Place?

What do you think?

Roadnotes: Vancouver, B.C.

The following is based on events that happened February 26 through the 28th.

I'm in Vancouver for work, so there is little funtimes to be had (although I do love my job). However, there is always time to eat (or else you die), so we walk for an endless amount of time to get to Vij's. Oh, so good!

The next day, Nuba is recommended as a lunch place, so we have ecstatically wonderful falafel.

That night, I keep waking up in the middle of the night and wondering how my farts can be so powerful that they break the blanket-seal and coat the room in a heady stench of post-cuisine. I'm flabbergasted, and nearly dying for fresh air, but too tired to care about whether I make it through the night.

Onward, to the paper cup shortage!

You may have heard: there is a bit of an oil shortage.

But see, oil is just the tip of the iceberg!

Jonathan Evison is stalking me

Seriously, this guy is everywhere.

First, I noticed him reading at the same reading where I was reading (the latest KNOCK release party). There, he walked up to me* and said, "Hi." The nerve!

Then, "somehow" he wound up on the same plane as me when I traveled over Christmas. (Incidentally, he made me** have lunch with him during the layover in Texas).

Finally, the other day I went to a party and he showed up wearing red pajamas (backward). I swear -- I had a picture of this but I'm currently unable to find it.

And now, just hours ago, he wrote me some cryptic message about an excerpt of All About Lulu, his new book, and mentioned that his book is now available for pre-order or something.

And I swear, he is ALWAYS on MySpace! Test me on this -- send him a message and see how quickly he replies to you. It's eery!





* By "walked up to me" I mean he happened to look over at me from where he was leaning on the bar.

** By "made me" I mean I begged him to let me sit at his table.

How Bad Writing Contributes to the Downfall of Civilization

1. Bad writing tells people what is going on, as opposed to letting readers think for themselves.*

2. Dictative language trains people to avoid thinking.

3. People that don't think become comfortable not thinking.

4. People that become comfortable not thinking begin to fear language that makes them think.

5. Thus, civilization is handed over to dumbshits.




*Example: "Sophia felt afraid" is the author dictating what you are "supposed to" accept: that Sophia is afraid. A good writer lets you decide for yourself. I think Sophia is ready to reclaim lost ground.

A photo blog contest!

On my fridge are many spontaneously written short poems. One of them is by me. You decide which words are mine (some images have more than one piece), and possibly earn the satisfaction of being right. Tempted? You can't help it. Comment below with your guess. Huzzah!











(For Fantastic H, who, when she sees this, will know precisely which one is mine.)

Bonus Points: Which one was written by A?

Dogboy - Now with pictures!

AdventuresOfDogboy.com is a community site run by me, with the help of a few significant, awesome people.

Recently, one of these awesome people decided to create images to go with some of the Dogboy blogs. The first one went up last week and it's here: Dogboy Eats Yogurt.

The second one went up today. It's here: Dogboy Watches TV.

The artist's name is Charlie Potter, and you can check out his work at CharliePotter.com (especially good is his 3D work).

And remember: if you have a Dogboy story, submit it to me and maybe it will wind up on the site soon! Dogboy is here for YOU. Yes, YOU! Dogboy LOVES you!

Penis Swab: The Poem

Penis swab.

Pen
is
swab.

swab?

Penis.

Penis swab penis swab
penis swab.

Here's fifty bucks.

Why some of you really do have bad luck....

It's a statistical improbability that you have bad "luck", that bad things will inevitably happen to you just because.

However, since there are so many people on Earth, it's also a statistical probability that many of those people will actually experience something akin to having an unfair share of bad luck.

Let's say that each year in your life contains one (on average) highly impacting event. This event could wind up being a positive or negative thing. Statistically, this means that over the course of 30 years, only 1 person in about a billion will have all 30 events turn out to be negative. It's highly unlikely that this will be you, but...there are over 6 billion people on the planet, so it's likely that at least six people experience such bad luck.

So, six people on the planet are walking around with extremely bad luck, and that doesn't even cover the variants. If you consider 29 negative events out of 30 extremely bad luck (and I do), then you will accept that there are even more people walking around with extremely bad luck. And so forth. In fact, I'd say anyone who experiences bad luck around 75 to 80 per cent of the time can go in the "I have the right to complain" pile.

And I don't know how many people that is, because I don't want to review my combinations and polynomials or whatever this kind of problem would be. But some of them could be you. I'm so sorry.





Incidentally, this article blew my mind. Such a simple solution to a problem I deal with whenever I have time:

How to organize your LEGO bricks for efficient building

Etymology of "Fuck a duck"

A difficult phrase to trace, as its very existence has been routinely edited out of dictionaries since at least the 1940s.

Earliest known recorded reference comes from "Animal Euphemisms of the English Language", a college essay written by Avanti Rishi in 1937.

While in the beginning the phrase was considered a brash equivalent of "what the hell?", now it is used most often as a substitution for any exclamation of disappointment (c.1980).

Champion Wine Cellars feels the need to apologize

But they don't say why.

Roadnotes: New York City 3

The following is based on events that happened on December 29th through the 31st.

After absolutely awesome stays in Manhattan and Queens, one of our party escapes to Pittsburgh while the rest of us move on to Brooklyn. There, we experience many fine things while we are hosts to Fumie and Andrew, including a Japanese restaurant that isn't marked on the outside and a bar that plays indie films.

Mighty Rex meets us for brunch the next day. His eyes are red. He has partied harder than we have, for sure, and it's just hours before New Year's Eve. He convinces us to hit Central Park before we head to Jersey for the airport. He sees us all the way to Penn Street Station, like a walking six-foot-four bookend to our journey.

The airtrain at Jersey is pretty cool, so we take pictures of ourselves crying, which doesn't really make sense but then again it does.

New York City. What? New York City. What? New York City. We are gone.

Discussion: Green

Flagrant happiness is the reason why green.


Discuss.

Roadnotes: New York City 1

The following is based on events that happened on December 26th through the 29th.

Mighty Rex meets us at Penn Street Station, then takes us on a Subway tour to la casa de erin. We have drinks and snacks there (Erin, throughout our stay, materializes a continuous supply of crackers, breads, cheeses, and wine, as if by magic), then we head to some fine vegetarian dining at Caravan of Dreams. SO good.

The next morning, Mighty Rex guides me to the A train so we can pick up the last member of our traveling party (because, Mighty Rex is nice, in case you didn't know).

Over the next few days, we have many fantastic experiences involving tea, karaoke, broken Internet, bagels, good directions given by New Yorkers all over the place, late night dining, Van Gogh, Monet, contemporary photography, the Kerouac scroll, and interesting architecture.

We also meet up with a ton of people, including )@~3773, Shawna Mouser, and Sherry.

Roadnotes: Cleveland 2

The following is based on events that happened on December 24th through the 26th.

It's a good little Xmas. I don't have my gifts for others because I had to order parts from Germany and they didn't arrive in time, but no one cares. I come in second in the annual RISK game. And then it's off to the Amtrak station, where I'm convinced once again that vegetarians just don't travel, this time by attempting to eat the worst veggie burger ever made.

It's a 12 hour train ride. I sleep a little and work a little.

Next stop: New York City, Penn Street Station.

Roadnotes: Cleveland 1

The following is based on events that happened on December 23rd.

To get to Cleveland, I have to go through Houston. That apparently makes a ton of sense to those who sell airline tickets and no one else.

However, on the way, I learn a secret. If the airplane bathroom is locked and the sign displaying OCCUPIED, you can open the little plaque thing that often says LAVATORY and move a knob to slide the OCCUPIED sign over to VACANT, and thus, unlock the door.

And seriously, do vegetarians just not travel or something? Because, airports have a decidedly unvegetarian-friendly menu at times, and so do airplanes. I suppose I should be glad to get any food at all, but my choices were turkey or ham.

No matter. On my first leg of the journey, I wind up on the same plane as Jonathan Evison. We had recently read together at a KNOCK release party (he's an incredibly funny writer, by the way). After the flight, I bugged him and his wife about grabbing some food, and he knew about this quaint airport diner that turned out to be not that good (it was recommended to him--not his choice). But, we tried it. We got called "y'all" and had some great shakes. The burgers (mine was a veggie) were not all that great and the special sauce...not all that special. However, I got to bug Mr. Evison about Soft Skull Press (his new book, All About Lulu, is scheduled to come out soon on the Soft Skull label and they are one of my favorite publishers). He had nothing but good things to say.

Fresh off the plane in Cleveland, I get treated to a wind-tunnel barrage of cold. Oh yeah, so that's what cold is. Living in Seattle makes me forgetful.

Now you don’t have to read the last Harry Potter book, part 12

35

Harry is suddenly in some sort of other-world. He has a conversation with Dumbledore, where Dumbledore sort of explains that Harry is dead, or not, depending on Harry's choice. Dumbledore seems to be saying that since Voldemort and Harry are bound as one, Harry can go back to life, now, without the part of Voldemort's soul that he used to be carrying. This doesn't make a ton of sense, but whatever.

36

Harry comes back to life, then plays dead as Voldemort has Harry's body carried back to Hogwarts. When they get to the school, there is a brief demonstration of Voldemort's power just before all heck breaks loose. The centaurs and house elves get involved and Neville destroys the "last" Horcrux by slicing up Voldemort's serpent friend (even though Dumbledore described Harry as the last Horcrux in Chapter 35). Then, a battle takes place in which the Death Eaters are routed and somehow Harry and Voldemort end up facing off with everyone watching. Then Harry explains that Draco is the "real" master of the Elder Wand and since Harry defeated Draco during the last few chapters, Harry is the real master now. I'm completely unclear on a bunch of things, here. How did Draco become master of the Elder Wand? How did Neville get a hold of the sword of Gryffindor? (Last I knew, it was in a goblin's hands.) And I'm still thinking it doesn't really make any sense that Harry came back to life and all. But, whatever.

Epilogue

We are presented with proof that Harry and Ginny finally got it on, because now it is 19 years later and they have three kids. Ron and Hermione managed it, too, as they are there, sending their kid off to Hogwarts, also. Neville is apparently a teacher at Hogwarts, but we are given no information on what the others are doing for a living besides raising kids, which would have actually been interesting. As it is, the epilogue is entirely redundant.