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7/3/2008 from Stiles
First in the lineup of random things about which I'll be carrying on for no 'real' reason, a group of researchers has determined that the use of hallucinogenic mushrooms containing psilocybin can be...
wait for it...
'Mystical.'
Thanks. I can now rest easily, knowing that somewhere at any given moment, a team of researchers is exerting serious brainpower towards the goal of determining something any college student, hobo or member of Incubus could tell you just for the asking. With that monumental task now behind them, may I suggest a study to determine whether or not babies possess the requisite intellect for self-defense, or perhaps to discover if there's a correlation between ketchup bottle size and marital stress? And on a bit of a side note, just how much fun was it for them to find test subjects for this series of experiments? 'Pardon me, ma'am, but would you be willing to take illegal hallucinogens and submit to observation while listening to some groovy music? We've got a copy of Waking Life and a bigscreen...'
And while we're on the topic of seemingly ridiculous wastes of funding, Germany has decided to tackle the problematic buildup of hazardous carbon dioxide gas.
"Hold on a second! That sounds well-intentioned and responsible! That's not a waste at all," you're probably yelling at your computer right now. You know I can't hear you, right? And that you're really just being an impatient asshole, who's berating an inanimate object? Are you done? Do you feel better? Got it all out of your system? May I go on now? I swear, Some people... Ahem.
Are they doing this by taking the gas and converting it into something innocuous, or even useful?
By making cleaner-burning engines and using more efficient energy refinement processes?
By planting trees, which consume carbon dioxide and produce oxygen?
Nope. They plan to bury it. (See, doesn't that sound like a waste of money, after all? Hmmph.) In what they hope to be the first of many underground facilities, they're preparing to store sixty thousand tons of carbon dioxide. Now, don't put too much thought into it, but doesn't it seem like all the machinery and people and electricity and gas and whatnot used to create such a storage facility would, itself, produce quite an excess of carbon dioxide? Or is the point to create jobs with a self-justifying project wherein they bottle all the greenhouse gases produced during the creation of the pump and storage, pump it underground, add a bit extra, then move on to another site and repeat the process, all to a marginal net effect on the environment? After reading the official project site, however, it appears as though they aren't building an entire facility so much as just a big straw, which will reach down into an empty natural reservoir and pump it full of gas. Since carbon dioxide isn't naturally found in sixty thousand ton reservoirs underground, doesn't it seem like just cramming it in there, in addition to sounding like something W. would suggest while squinting and giving a half-assed thumbs up, might have some adverse effects? But then, I'm not an environmentalist, engineer, doctor, or even German, so I'm hardly qualified to criticize, and I won't be on that side of the world when the ground starts violently expelling gas (I will probably be near Odor while he does so, however, so any real benefit is arguable).
Finally, speaking of doctors, (See what I did there? Eh...? Ah, whatever; go to Hell.) a new cause of cancer has been discovered; cancer diagnosis. No, that's not a typo; one process of diagnosing cancer has been recently discovered to cause cancer. To the list of known carcinogens, we can now securely add 'Doctors.'
Come to think of it, maybe some smart-assed reference to causing the very problem you seek to remedy would have made a better segue than the whole 'doctor' thing... I did sort of crowbar that in there. Oh, well, no going back at this point. Basically, the moral, if there is one (aside from 'Stiles rambles like a son of a bitch'), is that... well, um.. Yeah, actually that's pretty much it. Enjoy your holiday weekend, and be at least relatively safe.
6/29/2008 from Niko
6/25/2008 from lebow
6/19/2008 from Stiles
Yes, these people are performing a song about lolcats to the tune of Come Together by the Beatles. No, I don't really know why I'm posting it.
6/18/2008 from Stiles
As some of you may know, B was on his honeymoon this past week. As many of you may not know, Brian is the adhesive which maintains the uneasy balance of Valentino's sanity. He is the duct tape to our universe, the Thorazine drip to our collective psychosis. If we're all sitting drunkenly against a fence having a picture taken, and one of us raises his hand, he's the one that gives that person an admonishing look. In his absence, all systems tend towards chaos. Which is to say, we lose our shit.
The way back from the airport, he was brimming with excitement to tell me all about his trip, so I just let him talk, peppering in the occasional generic words of admiration or encouragement whenever he seemed to be running out of steam. I knew it was only a matter of time before he realized something was amiss, however, and as we made our way up the winding drive to the Valentino estate, the stench of sulfur began to permeate the Infiniti's interior. I must have noticed it before he did, because he continued his monologue on rum or beaches, or whatever he'd been prattling on about for the past twenty minutes. To be honest, I'd been watching sort of a Reader's Digest condensed version of The Big Lebowski in my head for the majority of the journey.
"...but that's not what they look like, according to webMD, so I think it's just a ras-" Suddenly, he froze mid sentence, features already hardening against the discoveries he knew to be forthcoming. He sniffed the air a few times, brow furrowed as conclusions were no doubt being drawn. "Damn." He finally drawled, stretching the word to its very limits before letting go. "What... did you guys do while I was gone?"
"Ehh... probably best not to ask. Plausible deniability, and all that, you know?" As the house came into view, I could hear his grip tightening on the door handle. The only part of the estate seemingly unaffected was the roof, with the notable exception of what appeared to be a mannequin, liberally duct taped to a mop and bursting at a forty-five degree angle from the broken slats of the center attic vent like the figurehead of a pirate ship. One third-story window had exploded outwards, parts of the window frame dangling on either side like mandibles, adding to the impression that the attached room had given up in the middle of a valiant effort to regurgitate its carpet, which hung, discolored, frayed and limp, nearly reaching the eaves of the window below. Two of the windows were completely caulked over from the outside, and another was painted solid orange. A large section of the lawn was now scorched and black in a checked pattern of three foot squares, several of which were occupied by opposing armies of plastic flamingos and ceramic gnomes. Ten feet or so to the left was a baby grand piano adorned with scrawled neon blue spray paint that appeared to say 'more cello' at a downward angle, half the letters having run together and bled down the side.
I brought the car to a gentle stop roughly twenty feet short of the front door, and leaned over to catch a glimpse of his feet, adorned with a pair of flip flops. "You have tennis shoes with you, right?"
He turned his head towards me, keeping his gaze fixed on the house for a moment before meeting my eyes, and nodding slowly. "...yes..." He paused a little longer before continuing, "...why?"
I tried on my best nonchalant expression. "Oh, it's no big deal, but you'll want to be putting them on now. There was a minor incident this morning involving some chemicals that may or may not have been caustic, but as long as you don't stay in one place too long, everything should be fine. Watch out for broken glass, too." His expression teetered on the rain-slick precipice between "I told you that was poisonous" and "Oh God, where's the bathroom," and while he attempted to maintain a calm outward appearance, I could tell that he was a stiff breeze away from apoplexy. Best, then, to avoid the dining room until some contractors could be brought in, I decided.
As we made our way up the now-Technicolor driveway, kicking aside a cornucopia of bottles, cans, boxes, wrappers, Steak-Ums, Hot Pockets and pizza rolls, I came to an abrupt halt, putting my hand on his shoulder and making sure I had his undivided attention. "I almost forgot; if you see an oddly-dressed chicken in the house, don't be a hero. Walk away and call animal control. We think it's gone, but after what happened to Paul... We're being cautiously optimistic."
He tried to speak then, but the words came out as more of an aborted cough or frog mating call. Shaking his head and clearing his throat, he gave it another go. "What happened to Paul?!"
"Meh, it's not nearly as bad as he'll make it sound, the big baby." I made a dismissive gesture. "Just... if you walk up behind him, make sure he knows you're there before you get too close. He's been a bit... jumpy the last day or so." He looked at me for a moment, apparently trying to judge whether or not I was kidding. Or admiring the symmetry of my facial features. Either way, it was making me uncomfortable, which wasn't helping with the hangover shakes one bit, so I started walking again.
The front door was already cracked, so I gave it a nudge with my foot, and quickly stepped aside so Brian could go first. "After you." I said, with a wave of the arm that might have been a bit too grandiose, as it threatened to upset the fragile balance I was maintaining between standing upright and dying suddenly. He hesitated, then took a few tentative steps over the threshold. After a moment of deep breathing, I followed.
"If a thrift store and a methadone clinic had a bastard child, this house is what it's soiled diapers would look like," he rasped. "Maybe we should sit down and have a drink before I see any more of the house." I nodded, reaching for my pocket knife. He gave me an inquisitive look somewhat akin to a small dog unsure if he's about to be praised or punted, but headed for the kitchen without saying a word.
Then he must have seen Odor, snoring loudly and nearly mummified, secured firmly to the refrigerator by about a case of duct tape, because the tension shattered and he fell to his knees, laughing hysterically. "Man, that's the last time I leave you assholes alone without adult supervision." He wiped the tears from his eyes as his laughter finally subsided. "Now, hand me my camera."
