Man o' Man

Well, the Booze Storm has passed. Hunter Thompson is still dead, Ben Olson is going home, Danielle is back and I'm On The Wagon for the foreseeable future. Last week was a terrible, drunken debacle that I fear has forever tarnished my good name in Sandpoint. From now on it's coffee (black), Dr. Pepper (cold) and Hard Work.

Hallelujah!

ps. It's nice to have Danielle home -- from here on out, my posts will not be devastatingly depressing or unnecessarily bitter (unnecessarily).

Shazaam!

Oops.

I recently discovered a new item of interesting junk mail in that septic sludge pond I call "My Hotmail Account." http://www.youcanbeacop.com/. That pretty much sums it up -- this company sends out somewhere close to 1 billion random offers to "Become a Cop" because "Homeland Security is Everyone's Job."

The list of reasons why this is ridiculous could go on forever. However, in the interest of brevity, I will write the first few that immediately popped into my head.

1.) It's ridiculous on principle. Throughout my life the Police have been helpful about 25 percent of the time. I obey the laws and am generally respectful of civil society, yet the remaining 75 percent of my experience with authorities tends to add a tinge of loathing to my general ambivalence. Even as far back as high school, when I was responsible for organizing school dances, I found the students who volunteered to be "Security" were generally the most vile, vicious, self-hating and perverse people ever allowed in public. In my experience, only 25 percent of all police officers are not like this.
2.) Despite my overall disdain for The Authorities, I recognize that Maintaining the Peace is an important job. It's obvious how vital our domestic security is these days, so it makes sense to scatter-shoot solicitations for joining the Justice Industry. I'm sure we'll get the highest quality conflict resolution and criminal investigation by advertising on the Internet. Every geek in America who dreams of buying sex with torn up speeding tickets is signing up right now.
3.) Point #2 is further reinforced by the fact that they sent one of these to me. Though, as I said, I'm basically a law-abiding fellow, I'm not sure that some of my statements and past affiliations would qualify me for Protecting the American Dream.

So there you go. I've been officially tapped for recruitment to our nation's Legion of Protectors. Rest assured that I will not shirk my responsibilities; though remember, if I ever give you a speeding ticket -- I can be bought...

Apologies

Yes, so sorry it's been some days since I updated. I left my tribute to Hunter Thompson up for a little long -- though not by half as long as the Six Months of Official Mourning that seemed to follow Ronald Reagan's death (eclipsing the far more significant passing of Ray Charles). But, I suppose three days or so is sufficient.

Sadly, in this span of time I have little to report. Danielle is still gone, though her return home is imminent -- Saturday is the day I must have the house clean. A monumental task at this point, as I've had a constant stream of Bohemian company for two days.

I suppose that's news. Hot on the heels of the excellent visit by Bill Punkoney and his very special lady (see Mike Peck for more details) both John Reuter and Ben Olson stormed into Sandpoint. Needless to say, Ben and I underwent a debauched wake for the good Doctor Monday night, that has seemingly lasted until today. The past nights Reuter, Ben, Chris, Linnae Nelson (another ACI Boheme), Collin and I have been devastating this town's night-life, often requiring us to remain conscious until the wee hours of the morning.

It has been rough, but I see sleep and peace in my future, beginning Saturday.

Vol. 2 Issue 8 is currently uploading to our printer and it is chocked full of, I think, very good material. One my most fortunate finds this week was a writer in Spokane who puts the acerbic wit of even the most poisonous pens to shame.

It'll be late, but it got there (much thanks to Baumgarten -- and Reuter too, grudgingly).

So now I'm going to take a shower, clean the house and possibly take a nap. Good Lord, how long will it last.

Hunter Thompson

I feel like I've failed somehow, in not finding out until today that Hunter S. Thompson is dead.

I heard about it only two hours ago on NPR -- driving to Sandpoint from Bayview. The report came after a memorial for Malcolm X and news that George Bush is demanding European affection. Once I got my cell phone turned back on, I had seven messages -- three about a birthday party I also missed, and four about Thompson.

Seems like I'm hedging around saying anything about him, opting rather to mumble on about what I was doing and where. So I'll cut it out and write about the man -- he was, after all, my only living hero.

His last book wasn't very good. He was wrong about the presidential election and the first, last and only time I ever saw him in the flesh he vomited on himself. In a lot of ways, my fairly recent trip to Los Angeles -- to see him sign Hey Rube -- left me with the impression that he wasn't really trying anymore. I can't say that I blame him.

An old friend of his was interviewed on NPR -- some journalist who shared the 1960s with him. In trying to explain Thompson's use of narcotics and alcohol he said something like, "He was a product of his time. He came of age in the 1960s and 1970s -- he liked drugs and he liked to drink and he liked fast motorcycles."

I would agree in so far as he said Thompson was a product of his time; but he wasn't just that, he was a spokesman for his time, for our time. His greatest line (he said this himself) dealt with Our Time -- more specifically, that "Our Time" was over.

"We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back," Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas isn't about drug-addled idiocy, it isn't about excess for excess' sake. Hunter Thompson saw this country so honestly and spoke about it so truthfully, that everything he ever wrote was directed solely at defining and protecting the American spirit and carried with it all the meanness and vulgarity of that American spirit.

He was, metaphysically, a 40-foot Gila Monster. He was big and wild and dangerous much of the time; but, for just as much of the time he was a crusader and a warrior poet. He fought injustice and cruelty and vicious hypocrisy in the most American way possible -- by breaking the law, acting cruelly and with a note of self-aware hypocrisy. He was Our Man whether we liked him or not, he represented Us -- with all his pettiness and self-indulgence he was still oddly innocent. As such, he was a direct physical manifestation or our own vices and small evils.

"...But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country - but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that," (FLLV).

He was the rebel anti-hero. He broke laws and swore. He smoked and drank and insulted people in positions of authority. He roared around the country poking his cigarette into everyone's face, slapping them on the back and stumbling away with a beer in his hand and three in his pockets. He could be absolutely cruel and at the next turn express the deepest humanitarian sympathies. He loved guns but hated war mongers. He admired freaks but hated monsters. He loved the Underdog, but hated weaklings. He was, finally and in a very real sense, An American.

Or at least one particular type of American -- possibly the type that came West in 1830s from smoking tombs like New York and Pennsylvania.

His work was Big and Powerful. He capitalized words that shouldn't receive capitals. He stood for real freedom and lived his life with the expectation that he'd be dead by 26. He was funny and he "flirted with doom," as the Washington Post said. For Hunter Thompson, the world was perpetually on the brink of some apocalypse -- temporal or otherwise. He was the doomsayer shouting warnings, offering solutions and ultimately -- finding that no one would listen -- collapsing into denunciations.

It makes sense that he should be dead for this time. I won't say he was outdated, because a gadfly never outlives himself unless he stops buzzing. I will say, however, that maybe he found the air in this Foul Year of Our Lord 2005 too polluted. Maybe he found it too constricted and phony. Maybe the apocalypse was finally coming and he realized nothing he could do would help.

Maybe he was a drug-addled 67-year-old degenerate who finally realized his life was meaningless and took the coward's way out. I don't know and neither does anyone else. The fact remains that despite his storied and oft-criticized lifestyle (which is, finally, irrelevant) his work was what mattered.

In a time when Americans seem to be mutating toward bloated simpletons two-steps from a Sieg Heil, when FOX News spews vitriolic neo-Fascist propaganda into millions of uptight sterilized suburban living rooms, when a president plays end-game with world security to prove a point about his own brand of milk-sop WASP-power Christianity is it any wonder that Thompson would find the air too rarified? Too filled with poisonous clap-trap?

He attacked institutions and ideas and demagogues with the savagery of an Inquisitor, and all the while, I think, it can be detected at the very bottom of his work a soft weeping that we all can't be Decent. Maybe he had finally wept too much.

I think this is how he felt. It's apparent in Hey Rube.

"WE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT WORD IN POLITICS.... SWINE OF THE WEEK.... A MILE WIDE AND AN INCH DEEP.... YEAR OF THE DOOMED ELECTION.... END OF THE AMERICAN CENTURY...."

That was the header for Part One, Chapter One of Hey Rube. That section was written in 2000.

It's a collection of short articles he wrote from 2000 - 2003 for ESPN. In total, they're less about sport and more about Thompson's view of the world as it slowly slips toward its currently wretched state. Indeed, the full title of the book is: Hey Rube: Blood Sport, The Bush Doctrine, and The Downward Spiral of Dumbness.

It probably isn't fair to say George Bush killed Hunter Thompson. It's not even fair to say the state of the world killed Hunter Thompson. He killed himself for whatever reason moved him -- that was how he was.

He didn't plan to live to 67 and I think he got lost somewhere in the years after his 26th birthday -- years he'd never planned for and didn't expect.

His suicide, for me, signifies the final "Death of Fun," to borrow one of his phrases. His observations were always harsh and often cruel; but, they were always honest and always dangerously funny. He was a latter-day puck living in a world of homicidal car salesman. He hated cheap pimps and that's what we've got today -- a nation of televangelists, car salesmen and other dime-a-dozen hustlers. With his passing we've lost the last honest voice in American print and I don't know that we'll ever find another.

God help us.

Oh, Khruschev

Okay, it's no secret that I've been a little down lately. Money troubles, Danielle being gone for upwards of three weeks, etc. etc.

Well, I wandered into the office this morning and started cruising around various news websites and found this. Hopefully we all still remember the day former Soviet Premiere Nikita Khruschev shreaked "We will bury you!" at the United Nations in 1960. To punctuate the address, he famously reached down, removed his shoe and started pounding it on the table.




Here's a picture of one his shoes. It was donated to the John Hay Library at Brown University by his son Sergei Khruschev -- a member of the Watson Institute for International Studies. Though this isn't the shoe (Nikita was wearing sandals) it's still funny to see one of his shoes.


There's no real point to all this. I just like the idea that people are bringing shoes back into politics.

There's something really impressive about the act of throwing a shoe at someone. I suppose it could be construed as holding some kind of Biblical significance -- all that foot-washing stuff and whatnot. Seems almost like the ultimate insult. "I don't like you so I'm going to throw my stinking shoe at you -- something that captures all the sweat and heinous body odor of one my dirtiest apendages. An article of clothing designed exclusively to have constant contact with all the most disgusting crap that human beings strew around the world." It is, in fact, the most democratic piece of apparel.

It also seems significant in so far as a shoe is something you really need. If you're pissed off at someone and aren't really committed to it, I suppose you could throw something expendable -- like a paperweight or a dirt clod, for example.

But your shoe. And only one.

What are you going to do for the rest of the day? Walk around with one shoe? You're almost obligated to throw the other one just to even things out. It also establishes a real relationship with your victim; I mean, you're going to have to go back and get the shoe you threw, right? Isn't the throwee going to be pretty pissed? Do you take off the other shoe and wield it as a weapon to get the other one back? What if the other person takes their shoe off and retaliates?

I don't know. The action just seems laden with philosophical and psychological importance. And for some reason it has this weird connection to politics. Is there something particular to politics and the special type of ire it brings about that causes people to think, "Jesus, I'm going to throw my f*cking shoe at you!" Why not bend them over your knee and whoop 'em with your belt?

Ah yes, clothing as a weapon. Think on that.

So uh... yeah. That's that.

ps. Just saw this and didn't want to make another separate post. Yeah, that's what we need. Everyone knows we need to do more to protect American business from the people it takes advantage of. (Sigh). Now where's my shoe?

...The seagulls they will be a'smiling. And the rocks on the sand will proudly stand, the hour when the ship comes in.

Good song, but no, the ship has not yet come in.

Hanging out waiting for my unimpeachable distribution sidekick, thought I'd "update."

Got the issue done last night, picked it up this afternoon. It was beautifully sunny and a smooth ride both ways.

Pretty much just spent all day passing out good old Vol. 2 Issue 7. I haven't heard any commentary yet, but I'm waiting for some big old nasty letters regarding an editorial we published on the historical meaning of the word "sodomy." It's not that the article is particularly graphic, or even that political -- it's actually a very interesting academic-style piece on the Biblical origins of the term "Sodomite." My fear is that people have such a visceral reaction to the word itself they'll be irrationally offended no matter what. Ah, such are the risks in the traffic of ideas.

Hmm. Not much else really. I was informed today that I look "jaundiced." Not sure what to think about that, so I'll let sleeping dogs lie. I feel pretty good. Weird.

Oh, on the blogging front, I've been finding that way more people have been reading this thing than I had expected (read: people I don't know and who live around here) so I'm going to have to perform a little self-censorship. Hope you don't mind, but I have an agreement with the editorial staff not to do anything that may blemish our fine reputation. If you are a person who has been offended by any material on this site -- pleae direct your ire and distaste toward me personally, and not the publication, it is much larger than my paltry personality. Another pit fall in the business of idea-trafficking I suppose. (Sigh).

On a lighter note, I think I can speak for the whole of Sandpoint (if not the northern Idaho Panhandle) when I say I look forward to the imminent arrival of two of southern Idaho's finest citizens -- Bill Punkoney and Sarah Goodsell. This event is set to occur tomorrow night and it will be good times. As such, I now take this public opportunity to challenge Mr. Punkoney -- no soft-sell when it comes to digital world domination -- to an epic battle of Rise of Nations.
Though I must make it clear from the start that Mike Peck will be on my team.

Okay. That is all I could possibly write at the moment. My man is here, so I'll say....
[shazam.]

Rat sh*t, dumb a*s, sonofab*tch, stupid motherf*ckin' horse puckey!

Yeah, sorry to pop in again and risk anyone not noticing my fairly erudite post below, but I found this on another blog (excellent I might add -- I could swear I know this guy but he tells me I don't). Look at this and look at the subject line. Need I say more.

Ugh.

ps. Thought I should probably tone down the language a bit -- this is a family show after all.

Oh my, my

Ah yes. Nearly 9 p.m. and we're almost done with Vol. 2 Issue 7.

I spent the past three hours in a city council meeting that yielded about 400 words. I've drawn all the drawings, sent all the e-mails and smoked all the cigarettes (or pipe bowls -- tobacco I swear). Now it's time to drink a Budweiser (it was hiding behind some old salsa in the office refrigerator) and watch Chris finish up the last of the articles.

So, that also leaves me with some time to update the old blog. I was severely chastized by Mike Peck this afternoon for not writing anything for one whole day. I sincerely apologize. Unfortunately, I have come to realize that I don't really have much to talk about. I know I know, for many of you that comes as a shock, but just about all I do these days is think about newspapers -- selling ads, getting stories, editing stories, drawing pictures, etc. etc.

My pithy repartee on the State of Man has been degraded of late, as knowledge of spreadsheets and Quickbooks slowly fills up my brain pan. Woe indeed. Gone are the days of my indolent musings -- my quick denunciations and bombastic assertions expounded up and out into a grand apotheosis of pure meta-bullshit. No, sadly, no more can I find the strength to enter lengthy, drunken arguments on the comparisons between National Socialism and Anne Coulter's hair style. (That was kind of creepy, I just searched for "Anne Coulter" and that was the second image I found).

I can probably trace it to when I got a cell phone. I don't know.

Anyway, in the spirit of mirth and the decadent word-smithery, I present you with this. Oh but if my facial hair was pubic and my head bald.

Shazam!

The grindstone

Yes. Back at the grindstone.

As I was driving in to work this morning, I happened to catch a wee snippet on NPR regarding George Bush's attempt at getting some frivolous lawsuit legislation through Congress. I listened with mild interest as anytime that man's name is mentioned it usually ruins my day.

Well, through my half-listening I caught something about limiting lawsuits and something about asbestos. We've been kind of covering the W.R. Grace Libby, Montana asbestos disaster for roughly a month so I perked up. Turns out, this mad man is trying to limit the ability of victims to levy lawsuits.

Three words: "What the FUCK?"

For those not familiar with the current asbestos debacle, in Libby, Mont. (about 100 miles from Sandpoint) there was a building materials plant owned by W.R. Grace. This company was in operation for several decades, constructing all kinds of wall-construction materials for exportation throughout the country. Many of the homes in Sandpoint contain products manufactured by W.R. Grace. Well, some years later when all the employees started getting cancer and dying horrible deaths, an enterprising journalist blew the lid off the whole thing and discovered that the company had been exposing workers and consumers alike to incredibly dangerous levels of asbestos contamination -- and knew about it all the time. The case went to court and recently seven indictments were handed down. That means seven of the businessmen directly responsible for the exposures are actually going to see some sort of punishment. This would seem to be a victory for "justice."

Oh no. Not in "BushLand." He said some nonesense about how the American legal system needs to benefit the "people" not the "trial lawyers." From what I caught, he's trying to establish some kind of trust fund from which to draw settlements rather than allow plaintiffs to bankrupt corrupt companies. Just another attempt at protecting big business while sacrificing everyone else to the altar of "cost-effectiveness." Jesus Christ, when will this bullshit end? I can't believe that any Republican who claims to believe in individual rights and small government can still support this mad man. What can there possibly be in a call for the limitation of law suits that respects the individual's right to self defense? What can there possibly be about this proposed legislation that supports "limited government?"

I hate lawsuits. I hate the fact that land developers (especially in this area) merely have to say the word "legal action" and everyone will lay down under their bulldozers. I think there's a titanic amount of corruption in the legal system. In fact, I'd go so far as to say the reason law suits exist in American jurisprudence is because this country has become so fucked up in its priorities the only way an average citizen can settle a grievance is by communicating in the only language we can still speak -- MONEY.

That said, however, I recognize that law suits are the only weapon still available to average people. Seems to me like we should be outlawing frivolous law suits from fucking DEVELOPERS and other power-mad troglodytes. Every damn day this country slips further down the shitter. If I hear one more damn conservative tell me they hate the democrats because they're trying to "disarm the people" with gun control, I'm going to point a bony, nicotine-stained finger at George W. Bush and ask them to tell me if his proposed limitation of law suits is any less a "disarming." I'm personally much more frightened of the W.R. Graces of the world than I am of burglars and the fucking British from whom the Second Amendment was supposed to protect us.

The horror... the horror.

ps. For a transcript of that moron's bumbling attempt at speech go here. You'll have to scroll pretty damn near to the bottom to get out from under the insane pile of jibberish he spouted at the beginning -- but the rest is pretty entertaining. "Those poor big industrial chemical companies." "Oh, but if we do get sick, we can take advantage of the wonderfully affordable health care system provided to our average working citizens by the glorious leader and his plustocratic buddies."

pps. Uh-ho.

Jesus, lazy days...

So the last thing of note that I've done in the past two days was going to see the "Inbred Goat Ropers" at "The (A Really Friendly) Outlaw Bar" in Ponderay, Idaho Friday night/Saturday morning.

I rounded up my brother Jake, Paul Gunter, Jake Luikens and Travis French -- local fellows of spotless repute -- and we journeyed to see some goat ropin' around 8:45 p.m. Friday night.

Now, I have some history with this band. Chris DeCleur met them a few weeks ago at Eichardt's Pub -- didn't hear them play, but I guess they hit it off or something because he really wanted to get an article about them. So he arranged for a meeting with them two Tuesday's ago (deadline night). I'd heard these people lived in a remote location, but I didn't know exactly where that was. Chris doesn't know where most of the outlying areas around here are, and he doesn't know conditions. So when they said "come to our house Tuesday night around 7 p.m. We live about 6 miles up Gold Creek Road, then about 2 miles up Gold Creek Ridge Road" he thought "Oh, 8 miles or so." I've been up these roads and those are some long miles filled with mud on dirty goat tracks.

Needless to say, we tried valiantly several times to climb the mud-bogged hell that are the Cabinet Mountain Foothills. I made a command decision that I was not rodding Danielle's car through 2 foot-deep mud (sorry Danielle, if you're reading this) and we went back, defeated.

We sidled up to the pool table at the Outlaw (a large rambling steep-roofed house on Highway 200 north of Sandpoint) and ordered up some beers. Pretty typical pool -- except the stringent rules "No Masse, No Jumpshots, No Exceptions." Took us a little while to figure out what "Masse" was -- I thought it was a ban on the French language, which would have been par for the course at the "Outlaw," no matter how "friendly." Turns out it's when you aim your pool cue way up in the air to get vicious back-spin on your cue ball.

Example:


So yes. Played some pool, then the band started. They are very good. Matt, Dave and Jenny -- all in their mid-thirties -- play with a weird hillbilly funk-rock-country-punk thing. I characterized it as "Slim Harpo meets Buddy Holly meets the Presidents of the United States of America." When I said that to them they shrugged and said, "Sure." So it's fair to say that's what they are.

Suffice to say, we drank a load of beer, saw a load of people and didn't get out of there until about 3 a.m.

Yesterday I slept for a long time and woke up in a really bad mood because I don't like George Bush. I must have been listening to the BBC or something. I don't know. But to salve my spirit I watched Charlie Chaplin's 1940 classic "The Great Dictator."



It made me feel much better. If you have not seen this film you should. It is great. Then I watched "The Road Warrior."




"Apocalypse... POW!" indeed.
Later I visited my mother with Jake and Heidi (Gunter). We watched "Hero" with Jet Li. I will not post a picture of that because I'm not interested in doing so. It's my blog and I'll do what I want. Bah.

Today I watched the 1984 masterpiece"Warriors of the Wind." An amazing film about a doomed post-apocalyptic world filled with warring city states and a toxic wasteland that threatens to engulf the last vestiges of human civilization. The only hope lies with the Valley of the Wind's spunky young Princess Zarana -- a girl endowed with the skill to communicate with the deadly insects that inhabit the Toxic Jungle. Indeed.
.


I don't know what's up with this cover, because near as I can tell only two of the characters depicted on it actually appear in the film. Oh well, that's what you get when the cover for your Japanese animated flick is done in Los Angeles.

Yeah, so that's about what I've been doing the past few days. Watching movies about dictators and apocalyptic destruction. Hoo-rah.

Anyway, that's it. Got to get ready for next week's production mayhem. Shalom.

Hot Damn -- My New Hero

Wow. This artist is amazing. Robbie Conal: http://www.robbieconal.com/

I did not receive permission to re-publish this, but since this guy is a guerilla poster artist I figured he wouldn't mind. Plus I can say honestly that my posting his work here is motivated by a desire for people to buy his work -- this one is something like $30 but they're sold out (damn!).

Yes yes. Check it out -- he's got tons of really whoop ass stuff on his site. I signed up for his e-mail newsletter (hoorah!). Right on, back to work.

Dude it's early.

Hot damn. I got up early this morning. It was really sunny again, so that might have been part of it. That and I've been going to bed at about 10 p.m. when I have the opportunity.

So... news... Chris went to McCall yesterday so I'm holding down the fort until Sunday. It's kind of lonely around here lately; Danielle in Oregon, Chris in McCall... yeah, yeah, "There's a tear in my beer."

Sold a monthly contract to a local design shop. Woo-hoo. That's an extra $100 per month. I'll be meeting with another business person later this afternoon about some more ads. Glengary Glenross look out -- ABC, Always Be Closing... (I feel like such a jackass sometimes with all this business stuff).

Hmm... not much else to say. I visited one of my favorite watering holes last night (Downtown Crossing) and heard some pretty good music. Rocky Raccoon. On a grand piano. Oh yes. That's fairly well exhausted the list of comings-and-goings in my meagre life. So, to boost my ego, I will leave you with a transcription of my score on a test taken through a link on Arzhang's blog.

Q. "What kind of biological molecule are you?"
A. "You are mRNA. You're brilliant, full of important, interesting information and you're a great friend to the people you care about. You may have sides to you that no one understands. But while you understand more than most people, you're only half-there most of the time."

Oh yes. How did the computer know that? Amazing.

If you're as bored as I was before taking that quiz, you may access it here: The Quiz

Shazaam (again).

Damnation I'm a bad conversationalist

Wow it's sunny. Really sunny. It's like early-May-style sunny. And warm too (as it would be). Very odd. I stepped out for a smoke a few minutes ago and was struck by it -- mostly because I was really hot (temperature wise) with my long underwear on.

In other news, I've been smoking my pipe recently (not enough money to afford rolling papers or proper cigarettes) and noticed I wasn't getting much draw. I pulled the mouthpiece off and lo and behold it was gummed to the friggin' gills with mushy death goop. I had a weird twitch when I thought "Jesus H., that's what's in my lungs?"

It gave me a moment of pause. But of course I went on to smoke. Goes to show you... something. Don't exactly know what. That I'm an idiot I suppose.

Nonetheless, it's sunny.

Here's a funny, random picture of a naked Russian lady being talked to by what appears to be a Puritan minister and a member of the NKVD. Any interpretations would be welcome as I have no idea where it came from, who did it or why it was on my computer. Enjoy.

Thank the Gods

Well, another issue down. Just finished the last key stroke of the last story for Vol. 2 Issue 6. Much less stressful than last week for sure -- when my blogging took on the style of a drowning man flailing in desperation for one shoddy piece of water-logged wood. Not this time my friends. Oh no. I am DONE. Until tomorrow. Time to get a beer with my old dad. (Holy mother, there's a really terrible song on my computer right now -- Deee-Lite, "Apple Juice Kissing." Thank God the days of drunkenly downloading music from the Internet have now been blessedly outlawed).

Shazaam!

ps. God it's embarrassing that in every picture of me I'm wearing the same clothes. Wait! I'm wearing exactly those clothes right now!

Portrait of the Bastard as a Young Man

Copyright 2005 Mike Peck Photography, All Rights Reserved

Yes yes. Here you go Sims. My Newly Stolen Aviators -- at work, 9:14 p.m. You'll notice a fine selection of our covers. You'll be happy to know that the one of Che Guevara was only issue #3. It took us three weeks to get Che on the cover. I drew it myself as a matter of fact. Oh, but we're not Socialists. Okay. Hot diggity damn. Back to work. ("There's a hole in the world tonight... there's a cloud of fear and sorrow... there's a hole in the world tonight, don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow..." Wise words from The Eagles. Courtesy of Mike Peck's iPod).

Testing.

I'm testing out my upload jive (with trusty ol' Tech Peck by my side of course). Figured the best way to test any new technique is by bashing on G.W. Here goes.

Very Nice

Ah yes, a balmy February afternoon. The birds are chirping and the barbecues are spreading their sultry perfume through the air.

This kind of weather is a sure sign that the apocalypse is on its way.

End of the World not withstanding, I'm just sitting here waiting for people to call me back for a story on a proposed city ordinance regulating tourist homes in Sandpoint. Not much else going on -- surprising for a Tuesday, typically "Cardiac-Arrest Day."

That's because our technology is finally not defeating us. Good news for all you who give a rat's ass, but our File Transfer Protocol site ("FTP" to those in the know, but I'm not going to fool anyone into thinking I'm one of those people) works now, which means we can upload the paper via Internet to our Spokane printer rather than drive it in early Wednesday. That means we may actually not have to stay up all night tonight. Score. For those who don't give a rat's ass, sorry to waste your time.

Yes yes, things are going well. Got some stories in and edited, advertising is picking up. Hmm... not quite enough bitching in this post.

Ah, Danielle is still gone and it still sucks.

That's ab - Ahh! Mother of Jesus I just had some kind of massive Internet Explorer pop-up attack. God I hate Microsoft. Anyway, that's about it. La-tee-da.

Good God! I just suffered another IE pop-up barrage. It reminds me of that scene in the classic, and unassailably cool, Empire Strikes Back (Episode V for those in the know, and I am indeed one of those people) in which Han Solo is valiantly navigating an asteroid field. All the while C-3PO is bitching his head off about the odds of surviving a direct collision. Ah yes; but, alas, I am not out-maneuvering any arch-nemesis (aside from the work that I should be doing) and I have no obnoxious robot bitching in my ear. If only.

So, I just managed to write a fairly expansive post on absolutely nothing at all. I really am a journalist. Hot dog.

The Fun Continues

So, apparently I thought this "socialist" newspaper thing was just going to be another case of a few people muttering to themselves and nothing would come of it. (See: "The Ultra-Scary Face of Commie-Pinko Evil (ooooh)" below). "Not so fast optimist."

I got into the office this morning at 9 a.m. and promptly got a call of support from someone who up to this point has not been involved in any of this -- just this guy I happen to know. It kind of freaked me out a bit that A.) This guy called me in reference to my editorial (because that's always a little unsettling) and B.) That he felt there was enough trash talking around town to warrant a "call of support."

What it comes down to is that I can't believe there would be that kind of reaction to an editorial, an opinion, that basically said the U.S. should respect international organizations because we're part of a community. Sure I blamed George W. Bush. Sure I blamed "neo-conservatives." But the British Broadcasting Service did too. CNN made reference to the fact that only Republicans are pushing for Annan's resignation. In many ways, my editorial was old news. Everyone in the world has already said most of what I said, and often in a more incendiary manner.

God's sake, even Sen. Coleman's hometown paper, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, which I'm almost positive is not a "socialist" paper, was bashing on the resignation push -- calling it "sordid." Wow. I was hoping that people would simply disagree and write letters to the editor -- that is, after all, the purpose of a newspaper: to foment discussion and disseminate ideas. I guess people only want to read about car crashes, sextuplets and bake sales.

Happy Monday.

Weird

So just a quick note -- over the course of this "Mad Cap Mardi Gras" thing where people just wander into the office and putt around I've seen some weird shit. But the weirdest just happened. This group of three guys came in, all dressed in "Mad Cap" style, but one guy was being led around like he was blind. Naturally, you can believe nothing you see in terms of appearance on days like this, so I dismissed the whole thing as some guy's attempt at having a "trippy" experience -- getting loaded and trying to putt miniature golf "blind."

Well, it was pretty damn convincing. As the guys putted their way to the hole, we started talking and it turns out the "blind" guy is an international UFO expert. Yeah. He even had a t.v. show for 12 years, this all according to one of the guys in the group -- a respected Sandpoint businessman whom I have no reason to doubt (drunk or not).

That's not the weirdest part. Turns out the "blind" guy actually was blind. Amazing. A blind UFO expert. I always thought that a big (emphasis on "big") part of the whole UFO thing was sightings. How this has come to be is yet to be discovered. Hopefully I will learn how a blind man rose to the top ranks of UFOlogy. Indeed.

Ouch

Ouch indeed.

Well, I attended my brother's "Val-o-Ween" party last night. I think I left a large part of my moral sanctity there (and a vast quantity of brain cells). Don't feel so hot this morning. To make matters more conducive to head-aching, we're hosting a miniature golf hole for the Sandpoint "Mad Cap Mardi Gras" celebration. Essentially, drunken sots wander around town starting at 8 a.m. and putt into mini-golf holes arranged by area businesses. So as I'm typing this right now, five middle-aged people are trying to put (drunkenly) into our hole (made of newspapers, naturally). It's entertaining to watch to be sure, but I'm a wee touch tired. Hoo-rah. Well, I should entertain the guests.

ps. I somehow made off with a sweet pair of aviators last night. Score!

The Arcade Fire Kicks Ass

You heard me, The Arcade Fire kicks ass. I have been listening to them non-stop (via Chris's computer) for about five days straight and it only gets better. Go here: www.arcadefire.com.

I think there may be some Mp3s available via their website, but I don't know (nor do I care because I have their CD -- see Sims, I did good). Listen to them. Especially track #6 of their album "Funeral," it is my favourite (English spelling intended for no reason). Indeed. Hoo-rah.

The terrifying face of the Communist Insurgency of Sandpoint, Idaho (viewer discretion is advised).

The Ultra-Scary Face of Commie-Pinko Evil (ooooh)

Yeah, so I wrote this editorial about how the Neo-Conservative A-Hole Population is destroying the world (aka trying to oust Kofi Annan) and everyone is all freaked out. I heard all these people in a vicious bout of nascent head-wagging "I didn't know this was a Socialist peper," "I was thinking of advertising but now... I just don't know."

So, for your viewing pleasure: Behold -- this is the specter of anarchist destruction that threatens Sandpoint, Idaho! Oooh... Look at his unshaven visage. Gaze with terror at his crooked hat and dirty glasses. Gasp as you notice he has a lazy eye with one dilated pupil! (Side-note: why haven't any of you bastards ever told me I have a lazy eye?) Yes, this is the face of Imminent Doom!

Sha-BAMba.

Hi-ho, hi-ho...

Well, the storm has passed hallelujah. I have nothing at all to report and that's a good thing. All's well that ends well.

Holy Mother

Good Christ what a horrible past 26 hours this has been.

We were working on the issue yesterday, doing run-of-the-mill stuff. It was getting kind of late, but that's okay -- we're used to staying up late. Then Mike Peck came by and helped us out with a whole bunch of stuff -- most importantly he set us up with an FTP site from which we could upload the paper to Spokane rather than have to drive the 3 hours round-trip. This was good news.

So we proceeded to work, getting everything ready. Somehow we wound up wrapping things up around 3 a.m. this morning, but didn't care too much because "Hey, we have an FTP site now, so we don't have to worry about driving to Spokane." Not so fast you fucking optimist.

Our Internet connection decided to go down at precisely that time -- not to return until, oh, well NOW. So, I just went to bed, because there was nothing I could do. Chris took the laptop to sit out front a coffee shop in town (which has wireless) and try to do it at around 4 a.m. That didn't work.

So he waited until 5:30 a.m. when a local restaurant with wireless opened up. Then he proceeded to try uploading. It was giving times like "3 hours." This would not do. So he wrangled with the beast until somewhere around 7 a.m. It still wouldn't go. I woke up every two hours or so to make phone calls to various people about what was going on. Called Mike at 6 a.m., called Chris at 7 a.m., called Chris again at 9 a.m., etc.

Finally, it seems, Chris had to e-mail the paper to Mike at his work where his connection would push it through quicker. I guess that worked, but now the paper won't be off the press until 4 p.m. this evening.

That means, for all intents and purposes, the paper will be pretty much a day late, as I won't get back from Spokane until about 5:30 p.m.

To make matters worse, I only got paid $500 this month (for the entire month) and my balance is currently at $0 after my rent check barely squeaked by. By my calculations I need at least $646.43 just to pay my remaining bills (not counting food, gas, etc.) Lucky for me I bought a pound of tobacco last month and it's still going strong. So, shitty times all around.

I'm now going to check the oil and get gas for Danielle's car (using the company money, or course) so I can drive to Spokane. Yeah.

GAAAAR!!!

My friend Ben Olson. He called me today to inform me that he's sitting pool side in Phoenix Arizona. It is 84 degrees there and he's drinking mojitos. He called to tell me this solely to piss me off and it worked. So, for your viewing pleasure here is the most unflattering picture of the man I could find. He is a heathen degenerate.

Bah!

That's exactly right. Bah!

It's 9:30 p.m. on Wednesday and I'm STILL IN THE OFFICE. I don't know what went wrong but I've been in this damn room for something like 48 hours straight! (With the exception of five hours sleep last night). Just finished a rambling editorial based on a rant about Kofi Annan, scrambling to fill the issue in this hell-spawned news-dead week.

On a lighter note, Mike Peck stopped in this evening and is enjoying pizza and Dr. Pepper with us. He enabled me to post my self-portrait and has been wandering around the office putting golf balls at me. That and we've been listening to the soulful sounds of "Adi-adi-amus" or whatever the shit it's actually called (Bill, Sims, you know the song).

So yes. I have absolutely nothing new to add to this thing as I haven't really left this spot for two damn days. Starting to get a little salty here.

Sha-bamba!

Work, bachelorhood and the death of a blog conversation (etc.)

Yep. So just working on that damn Stoneridge article. Don't feel like writing about it at the moment so I thought I'd pop onto this thing. Not much to say on that front.

Danielle's gone now for a month and I don't care for it much. Made the old trip to the Sandpoint Train Depot last night and it was pleasantly unpleasant as usual. Cold and full of wierdos. So that's that.

Ah yes, I seem to have killed a conversation on Arzhang's blog (www.afallahi.com). I was reading his post about Kofi Annan and watching all the neo-con boot clickers come down on him for what was, essentially, a very reasoned set of statements and couldn't hold my bile any longer. What I had intended to be a short blurb telling them to "take off, hosers" turned into a six page diatribe covering John Locke, Thomas Hobbes, the Nazis and Emperor Constantine. The conversation was pretty lively there (11 posts) and my twelfth seems to have murdered it. So, apologies Arzhang.

That's about it. I'm going out to meet with some weird-ass band "The In-Bred Goat Ropers" at their bush-wacking retreat about 30 miles north of here in two hours. So wish me luck. Yee-haw.

--The Reluctant Bachelor

Oh yes, and I got another e-mail from the elusive "Lisa Williams." She was just checking to see if I was "Okay." Thanks for asking e-bitch! I AM NOT A CLIENT!