You ever notice how the radio in my hometown in Massachusetts only gets about three stations? I have noticed. Lots of people have noticed. I'm heading back for another summer and we listen to the radio A LOT. While we're maintaining, when it's leisure time, in and around the shop and when Uncle Vito calls us to prayer. All of these times are suitable for fm radio. Like I said though there are only three stations. One of the stations is terrible, the other one is garbage. The last station is classic rock. This station plays nothing but hits. The way you can tell they're hits is because they've been on the radio since they were released 30 to 50 years ago. Every day, in every way, you are guaranteed a steady stream of classic rocks that you still remember from yesterday, and which you can predict well past tomorrow.
My good friend Derrick Waldo saw this repetition and made a fun game. He turns on his radio, and when he sings along he replaces "me" with "Steve". Holy crap! Waldo you have beaten new life into dead icons! The Beatles suddenly tell you that she's in love with Steve, but I feel fine. What is that about!? Who is this guy? I want you... to want Steve. I would love for you to love Steve. You must have me confused with someone else. Oh really? Is that so? You don't know Steve but I'm your brother. Take that to the streets. Hell, go ahead and take it to the bank. Don't walk, don't run, fuckin' FLY. Like an eagle. Let your spirit carry Steve.
All of a sudden, Boston is in a whole new light. You must understand this; I've watched you for so long that I feel I've known you, I know it can't be wrong. If we just get together, I want to make you see. I'm dreaming of your sweet love tonight, come on and let it be. Let Steve take you home tonight.
Is this frightening you? Are you afraid? Have you fled from your radio dial? Baby, come back. You can blame it all on Steve. I was wrong, and I just can't live without you. The possibilities are effin' staggering, and most of the time it works. Don't believe me? Go ahead and try, go ahead and take Steve on. (take! on! Steve!) I'llll beeeee goooooone/ innnnnn-uUUUHHH day or twooOOOOOOoooo
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
One Trillion Is Not A Real Number
I heard the other day that Alex Rodriguez came out and admitted to the world that he has chickpea-sized testicles. That takes a lot of courage. Thanks a lot for that, A-Rod. I think what would be nice to see in the news is more cheats and crooks getting paid lots of money. It would be nice to see them never ever perform well in the post-season, too.
My friend Andrew was talking about Superman the other day. He made a pretty good point. He said that Superman can fly, and be bulletproof and shoot lasers and make decisions. Lex Luthor, on the other hand, can't do most of those things. Lex Luthor is Superman's nemesis. He can't even run very fast on account of being a fat-ass. He is just a normal human being who is really greedy and good at business. For some reason he hates Superman, and they fight a lot, and sometimes Lex Luthor almost wins. He almost beats a bulletproof super-good-looking man that can fly and shoot lasers. It's funny because there is no such thing as Superman, but there are literally thousands of Lex Luthors. Thousands of normal, overweight guys who are greedy and good at business.
When I say it's funny, I mean it's funny in the way a good plane crash is funny. But not one of those cartoon planes. I mean a funny, real plane that's trying to land, but someone puts a stupid mime on the runway. And the mime is stuck in a stupid invisible box and he's trying really hard to get out, so he can feed his family.
My friend Andrew was talking about Superman the other day. He made a pretty good point. He said that Superman can fly, and be bulletproof and shoot lasers and make decisions. Lex Luthor, on the other hand, can't do most of those things. Lex Luthor is Superman's nemesis. He can't even run very fast on account of being a fat-ass. He is just a normal human being who is really greedy and good at business. For some reason he hates Superman, and they fight a lot, and sometimes Lex Luthor almost wins. He almost beats a bulletproof super-good-looking man that can fly and shoot lasers. It's funny because there is no such thing as Superman, but there are literally thousands of Lex Luthors. Thousands of normal, overweight guys who are greedy and good at business.
When I say it's funny, I mean it's funny in the way a good plane crash is funny. But not one of those cartoon planes. I mean a funny, real plane that's trying to land, but someone puts a stupid mime on the runway. And the mime is stuck in a stupid invisible box and he's trying really hard to get out, so he can feed his family.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Goddam Popular Science again
Every goddam month, every goddam cover. Some variation of the question "...is this the future of personal flight?" next to a picture of some kicked-out-of-the-comic book-convention me-tard wearing a photoshopped jetpack/jetcopter/rocket-zeppelin piece of HOOEY. The future of personal flight? Popular Science, you have been asking this same question for DECADES. Read your own goddam magazine. The future is now, and no one is personally able to fly (also, in the future future, jetpacks still won't work for shit. And useful technology still won't be popular).
On the cover of the February 2009 edition is Yves Rossy, a man destined to not usher in the future of personal flight. He is shown wearing his homemade, eight foot wide, 130 pound personal flying wing. He has spent enough "to buy a very nice sports car every year" for the past decade of research and development. I am pretty goddam sure that he doesn't read Popular Science.
Inside the article you can read about his flying machine. Depending on whether you believe the photo caption on page 40, or the article text just beneath it (the future of personal flight is poorly cross-referenced), it carries either 3.5 or 7 gallons of fuel. With full tanks, it can carry a single human asshole 22 miles(!), giving it a fuel economy somewhere between a Ford Excursion with flat tires and a Hess station that is on fire. America is reading this article and thinking, "Finally, someone who understands my problems!".
There is, however, one caveat; you need to start your trip from a goddam PLANE. Seriously. This month's installment of personal flight is only possible if you start "flying" out of a Cessna at 6,600 feet. That's like calling a sidecar the future of personal motorcycling. And then putting it on the cover. And then pretending it's science. Every. Goddam. Month.
On the cover of the February 2009 edition is Yves Rossy, a man destined to not usher in the future of personal flight. He is shown wearing his homemade, eight foot wide, 130 pound personal flying wing. He has spent enough "to buy a very nice sports car every year" for the past decade of research and development. I am pretty goddam sure that he doesn't read Popular Science.
Inside the article you can read about his flying machine. Depending on whether you believe the photo caption on page 40, or the article text just beneath it (the future of personal flight is poorly cross-referenced), it carries either 3.5 or 7 gallons of fuel. With full tanks, it can carry a single human asshole 22 miles(!), giving it a fuel economy somewhere between a Ford Excursion with flat tires and a Hess station that is on fire. America is reading this article and thinking, "Finally, someone who understands my problems!".
There is, however, one caveat; you need to start your trip from a goddam PLANE. Seriously. This month's installment of personal flight is only possible if you start "flying" out of a Cessna at 6,600 feet. That's like calling a sidecar the future of personal motorcycling. And then putting it on the cover. And then pretending it's science. Every. Goddam. Month.
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