This Concerns You All. Yes, Even You.

Please visit danielwcarlson.com.

While on a hunting trip in South Texas, protecting local families from the dangers of roaming deer and doing his best to pointlessly slaughter wildlife that had heretofore done him no harm, Vice President Dick "Go F*** Yourself, Senator Leahy" Cheney shot and injured a fellow hunter.

Cheney's victim, millionaire attorney and old person Harry Whittington, was "peppered" on his right side with Cheney's shotgun pellets, many of which are actually granules made from the powdered bones of unwed mothers that Cheney sprinkles over his Total every morning, and as such probably didn't just cut Whittington's skin but actually made him feel as if the very fires of hell were tickling his groin. The owner of the property, Katharine Armstrong, said that Whittington is a regular visitor to the property, though this is the first time she's seen him hunting with the vice president.

For myself, I can't say whether the shooting was indeed an accident or if Cheney was trying to get rid of Whittington in a surprisingly literary manner, but still a pretty cold-hearted one, even for Cheney. He probably should have just waited for Whittington's mother to die and then taken him fishing. Works every time.

Yes. Of Course. Yes.

Which Wes ANDERSON character are you? by life_as_a_decoy
Your name
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In your free time	you like to writeyou like to smokeyou like to drawyou like to get revenge
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You are
Quiz created with MemeGen!

R.I.P., Arrested Development. It was good while it lasted, and it ended on a high note. I laughed for 2 hours straight last night, and was driven by one particular joke to laugh until I about cried.

Like Harrison Ford, I'm getting arthritic:

Clickety-click.

Lucas is on HBO right now, and as I sit humbly before the television and offer thanks it for its myriad and often bizarre but nonetheless always engaging offerings, I can't help but wonder:

Where are you, Kerri Green? The Goonies and Lucas, then bam, nothing. You auburn-haired temptress of the mid-'80s, where'd you go? If you live in L.A., we should go to Peet's or something.

Just throwing that out there.

I got home from work after midnight, and turned on the TV to unwind for a few minutes. I had left it on HBO, and as the screen warmed up I saw that a movie was just starting: Consenting Adults, from 1992, starring Kevin Kline, Kevin Spacey, and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, and directed by Alan J. Pakula, who has fallen from the mighty heights of All the President's Men and The Parallax View to stuff like The Pelican Brief and The Devil's Own.

Anyway, I had no idea of the film's plot, but decided to watch for a few minutes to see if it lived up to its late-night HBO slot and pseudo-sensual title, or at least had some violence or Casio scoring or something I love about '90s movies. I admit, I'm a sucker for the glossy junk movies of mainstream American cinema from the early to mid-'90s. How can I resist it? From lazy-eyed Forest Whitaker working a really bad Southern drawl to the predictable but inexplicable presence of Mastrantonio, who was in pretty much everything from 1989-1995, it's just too good/bad/good to pass up.

It took a hard left turn about half an hour in, though, as Spacey tried to convince Kline to swap wives, only to take advantage of Kline's insane lusts to set him up for murder. Turns out Spacey hired a lookalike for his wife to sleep with Kline, and then Spacey killed the lookalike and pinned it on Kline. Spacey then moves in on Mastrantonio, and Kline tries to fix things. He tracks down Spacey's non-dead wife, and in one of the film's dumber plot turns, they actually talk for a while before Spacey leaves her alone to get Louisville Sluggered to death by Spacey, who's been tracking them both.

Yada yada yada, Kline corners Spacey and Mastrantonio at Spacey's house and kills him. I had really hoped Mastrantonio would be in on the set-up, and that Kline would wind up dead at the house or dying in prison, but Pakula, a little too trusting of Mastrantonio's character, had a happier ending in mind.

Which brings me to this:

Am I the only one who thinks of Scott Bakula when I hear the name Alan Pakula? It's like I can't help but do it. When I see "Pakula," I don't think of movies, I think of Sam Beckett stuck in time. Weird.

I Was Playing It So Loud The Whole Neighborhood Could Hear

I've decided to start a band. Probably just straightforward indie pop but with hints of steel guitar. Currently accepting applications for the following positions:

Lead guitar
Rhythm guitar
Bass
Drums
Keyboards
Pedal steel

I will stick with vocals and the triangle. Possible names include Horace Greeley & the Chubby Chasers, or Prince Mongo & the Krystal Chiks. Needless to say, those are up for debate.

Because, well, sometimes the Internet gives back to you in unexpected and wonderful ways.

This is Steve:



[Click it to play, people.]

Um, hooray for Oscar Wilde, I guess. Or something.

Clickety-click.

Thanks, NFL, For Thinking Of The Kids

I'd like to take just a brief moment to extend warmest wishes and deepest thanks to the NFL, who censored several lyrics from the Rolling Stones' halftime show at Sunday's Super Bowl XL.

We live in a dangerous time, and it's not going too far to trim a lyric here or there to ensure a family-safe viewing environment. I applaud the NFL's decision. Their bravery turned what would have been a grotesque display of elderly men into merely a lamentable one that was safe for family audiences.

Other family-oriented moments from the broadcast included Jessica Simpson pouting her lips and feeding pizza to a 12-year-old boy and numerous beer commercials extolling the camaraderie alcohol gives to people, especially the added benefit of including children in the drinking. [Check out the ads here.]

Thanks again, guys. I'm sure your actions are motivated by the interests of the nation's families, and are in no way influenced by giant, faceless corporations. Kudos.

Transcript Of A Conversation With Two Coworkers, Sparked By A Reference To James Frey

First Coworker (reading from a press release): "The Man Who Conned Oprah."
Me: Well, that's what she gets for picking bad books and contributing to the dumbing-down of America.
Second Coworker: She's not dumbing down America.
Me: She's certainly not smarting up America. She's dragging it all down. (Pause) Oprah is the talk-show equivalent of Toby Keith.

I ripped off this photo from The Sis, because it's just too good/insane/awe-inspiring not to share.

The mind reels at the slogans they didn't put up:

"Find a partner, form a single-file line, and prepare for an eternity of torment."

"In the event of the apocalypse, crouch under your desks and cover your heads … as if hiding will help."

"Swimming means the buddy system, people. That includes swimming in lakes of hellfire."

A video that's worth sharing.

[If it doesn't load, try going here first.]

Today's winner for Headline That Scares Me Beyond Explanation:

"Why I Still Breastfeed My Eight-Year-Old Girl."

I mean ...
...
...
...
... what?

EXT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE — HOLLYWOOD — DAY

Another beautiful day in sunny Southern California. The blue sky is tinged with gray smog on the horizon.

INT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE — HOLLYWOOD — DAY

The newsroom buzzes with typical late-afternoon activity. A twentysomething hipster with corduroy pants and a fauxhawk, JASON, walks down a row of desks carrying a file folder. He stops at the last desk.

Sitting there is a pasty, tired-looking young man, also mid-twenties: DAN. Dan balances a ham sandwich on his knee and browses the Internet.

JASON
So, what’d you think of the game?

DAN
I liked it.

JASON
What do you mean, you liked it?

DAN
I mean I liked the game. It was good.

JASON
So you’re a Steelers fan?

DAN
No, not really.

JASON
No?

DAN
Couldn’t name a single player, much less positions, stats, etc.

JASON
So why’d you like the game?

DAN
I don’t know, it was a good game.

JASON
Yeah, you said that, except how can you think it’s good if you didn’t even care who won?

DAN
I don’t know. It was just good, is all.

JASON
(beat)
Did you watch the game?

DAN
(instantly)
No.

JASON
Not at all?

DAN
No.

JASON
Highlights? Recaps? SportsCenter?

DAN
No, no, and only in front of men I’ve just met so they’ll think I’m normal.

JASON
So nothing?

DAN
Well, Yahoo had the final score and footage of the commercial with Jessica Simpson, so I feel I got the full effect of the game without having to actually, you know, sit through it.

JASON
Huh.

DAN
Yeah.

JASON
Well …

DAN
Yeah.

Jason stares at the folder in his hands for a moment.

JASON
Well, I should get this over to …

DAN
Yeah.

JASON
But I’ll see you later.

DAN
Yeah.

Jason walks away.

[END.]

Recent iTunes Purchases

"She Will Have Her Way," Neil Finn
"Bad Reputation," Freedy Johnston
"Sloop John B," The Beach Boys
"Veronica," Elvis Costello

Just thought you should know.

I already wrote about this the other day, and some might say it's hypocritical to caution against the spread of these parodies and then turn around and endorse one. And I agree. It is, among other things, pretty hypocritical.

But I dare you not to laugh.

This white guy doesn't know what he's talking about:

Clickety-click.

[UPDATE 2/7: Check out the comments. I'm a racist again.]

I've already written in other places about the festering boil on the face of cinema that is End of the Spear, a Christian-made and Christian-aimed story about missionaries in 1950s Ecuador. But a new meta-wrinkle has developed: Apparently fine with the clumsily handled content, some conservatives are protesting the fact that Chad Allen, the film's lead, is openly gay.

Hands down, my favorite reaction comes from one Kevin T. Bauder, who wrote on his blog (which seems to be more poorly designed than average, even for a senior citizen) that "it would probably be wrong to firebomb" the houses of the film's producers. "But what they have done is no mistake," he continued. "It is a calculated strategy." Congratulations, Mr. Bauder. You win the award for Most Likely To Replace Pat Robertson For Sheer Bats**t Insane Statements. Your prize is to be mocked by the rest of society until you die.

I think may favorite part of this whole thing is thinking back to 2001-2003, when Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy took over theaters, and Christians latched onto the story as (what else) a religious allegory. I guess no one bothered to tell them about Ian McKellen.

Dear Mr. President,

So.

I know it's been a while since I've written, and even longer since we hung out (thanks for that "fishing" trip in Wyoming, by the way, it was awesome), so I know this letter must come as something of a surprise. The last time I wrote to you, I admit, I was upset. I give, and I give, and I give, and this is what happens. I need something in return, you know? Relationships work both ways. I told myself after my last letter that I wouldn't contact you again — well, maybe a call on your birthday, but that's just the menschy thing to do no matter what — but I just couldn't help myself.

I watched your State of the Union address the other night, and was about as underwhelmed as you'd expect. What, you want points for saying "America is addicted to oil"? Welcome to 1970. You don't get a nod for honesty or credibility just for stating a fact that everyone knows. We're aware of the problem; now tell me what we're going to do about it.

And sure, I could go on about your ridiculously over-positive predictions of our future, like how we can reduce our dependence on Middle Eastern oil by 75% in 20 years, and how you failed to acknowledge the inevitable belt-tightening and compromises that significant economic changes will require. But I break our mutual silence to highlight a much more disturbing portion of your speech:

Human-animal hybrids.

Yes, to anyone reading this who may have missed the president's aimless speech a few days ago, that's a direct quote: "human-animal hybrids." The phrase is buried in your one paragraph about medical ethics (thanks for using three sentences out of an hour-plus speech on the topic; I'm sure you covered the big stuff), and I have to admit, it's even got me confused, and I'm a pretty smart guy.

Human-animal hybrids? Human-animal hybrids? Seriously? Human-animal hybrids? I don't even know where to begin.

I guess I should just come right out and say it: Thank you for finally mentioning the most important topic in medicine today. When I started at my current job last fall, I wouldn't sign up for any kind of benefits package until I was assured by several members of the human resources department that our health care provider didn't participate in human-animal hybrid experimentation. I believe that it's a grievous sin and a signpost of our nation's moral decay. Thank you, sir, for coming out against these abominations of nature.

In conclusion, sir, thanks again for pointing our country in the right direction, and using your annual forum to address the nation about our most pressing concerns.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

P.S. Have you thought about keeping the human-animal hybrid technology under wraps and using it for military purposes? Personally, I can think of no better way to spread the righteous fire of freedom and democracy and apple pie and porn and baseball and automatic transmissions to the unwashed Iraqi masses than on the wings of flying monkey-men. Let me know what you think. —DC

Transcript Of A Conversation About The Oscar Nominations, Specifically Re: The Omission of Walk the Line And The Inclusion of Crash

Coworker: Walk the Line is better than Crash.
Me: Getting punched in the face every day by a hobo is better than Crash.

Please Don't Talk To Me Right Now. Not Here.

I have the good fortune to work with some fairly laid-back people, and though some of them can come unglued pretty quickly in stressful situations, for the most part it's smooth sailing. Unfortunately, this attitude of general pleasantness carries over with some of the men whenever they go the bathroom, which is down the hall. I, it should be pointed out, don't like to talk that much, or at all, when I'm in the bathroom, even when I'm washing my hands, but especially, especially, when I'm actually emptying my bladder. (I haven't yet had the misfortune of someone trying to talk to me while we're sitting in adjacent stalls, since this is an office and not a dorm bathroom, but I'm not ruling the sick possibility out just yet.)

As I walked into the bathroom one day I knew I was being closely followed, and as I sidled up to the stall, sure enough, my boss took the urinal next to me. Then he starts going, and he starts talking to me, as well, and all I can think about is (1) how much I don't like making small talk while my pants are unzipped, (2) how I really have a hard time going around other people, especially when they're trying to engage me in conversation, (3) how now I'm not going, since I'm gun-shy and trying to talk and having a difficult time squeezing out drop one, (4) now that I can't go, I wonder if my boss can tell I'm not going, and if he's wondering why I can't go, so now maybe he's just continuing our meager conversation on a superficial level while most of his thoughts are actively trained on just why I seem to be standing in front of a urinal doing exactly nothing, (5) what does it say about me that I allow myself to function daily with this level of neurosis, (6) [fill in the blank with some general doubt about my personality].

But he finished, and I managed to go, and that was that. I even managed to act like talking in the bathroom was something I enjoyed, or at least felt comfortable with. But as I washed my hands at the sink farthest from my boss, I realized that next time I had to go, I'd check the crowd first. The men's room one floor down is almost always empty.