A Call to Action

"Ultraviolet will be studied with great interest in the future - not for its quality or its artistic merit, but rather to discover how a turd like this was made."
-- Kevin Carr, 7M PICTURES

Last night, I went to an Oscar party. I know, I couldn’t quite believe it myself, but I really didn’t have a legitimate excuse not to attend, and there was supposed to be sushi. So, grabbed a bottle of wine, a bottle of sake, and a bottle of scotch and made my way to Penny’s house to watch a group of overpaid, under-talented hacks swish around in $180,000 dresses and tuxedos and give each other accolades as if the services they offer to the world really matter one tiny little bit. It was disguisting, and I grew more nauseous with each montage. Being as there was a montage about every three minutes, it wasn’t long before I had to leave the room. But I was torn.



I had the choice of staying the room with John Stewart desparately trying to make a career out of deadpan humor, or go into the kitchen and listen to pretentious wine girl. (Sorry Arland, I thought she was nice, and I respect the fact that it’s difficult to disconnect oneself from what you do, but she came off as a pretentious wine ass.) Do I go back to the living room and watch another montage, and then listen to John Stewart make another joke about another montage, or do I go into the kitchen and listen to ostentatious wine lady talk about wine that smells like airplane glue?

I went to the backyard.

"Wimmer [director of Ultraviolet] is so brazen that he doesn't even bother to pretend that there's an original concept here: all his ideas are borrowed from other movies that borrowed from other movies that borrowed from The Matrix, and he doesn't care who knows it."
-- MaryAnn Johanson, FLICK FILOSOPHER

There was a time when I really enjoyed the Oscars, although I really couldn’t tell you why. The pomp of the awards has always been a standard, but for some reason, there was a time when it did not affect me so much. I still remember the last Oscars ceremony I watched on purpose, in its entirety. The year was 1994, and there was no question in my mind that Shawshank Redemption would walk away with the best picture prize and Morgan Freeman would win best actor for his role in the film. But when the Hollywood Hogwash ™ that was Forrest Gump was handed those coveted trophies, I was heartbroken.

"The bad guys [in Ultraviolet] stride through spotless corridors in buildings where weirdly calm disembodied female voices say things like "Switching to emergency backup lighting system." If only I could have found the button for the emergency back-up better movie system."
-- Nell Minow, MOVIE MOM AT YAHOO! MOVIES

Well into the ceremonies, having successfully avoided them for several hours, the sushi finally arrived. Arland and I realized that there was probably not enough to feed all of us, so Arland has the bright idea of going down the street to the sports bar and getting some nachos. If you’ve never had the nachos from The Scoreboard, you have not tasted nachos. Needless to say, the plan was a go.

We trekked down the street the couple of blocks to the bar, all the while complaining about the tripe that’s been spewing from Tinseltown for the last ten years, and me promulgating my own theory that Hollywood has officially run out of ideas.



The anxiety of it all was just beginning to wash away, like the mud off Andy Dufresne’s body when he finally escapes Shawshank, and then we entered the bar. Seventeen televisions, three of which were over 47 inches, staring me down with images of this crowd of self-important miscreants clapping for the winner for Best Picture, Crash.

My friend Arland went into a bit of a fit, being as Crash was the only one of the nominated movies he’d actually seen, a film which he described as, “craaaaaaaaaaap-uh.” The guy sitting at the bar next to turned and said, “I never saw that movie. I didn’t think it looked very good. I thought it was, like, an action movie like that movie with the bus.”

“Speed?” I asked.

“Yeah, dass right. Man that was an awesome movie.” He replied.

It was then that I told Arland that I was looking forward to the news reports on Monday morning, the same reports we’ve seen every Monday morning following the Oscars since 1998, that once again, the rating are down. I always found it so amusing that each year, the Oscars got longer, and fewer people watched them.

This year was only a slight exception: They weren’t much longer, but fewer people than ever tuned in.

"The violence [in Ultraviolet] is presented in such a childish fashion, that it has all the impact of a Pokemon battle."
-- Joshua Tyler, CINEMABLEND.COM

Okay, so it’s time to get real.

Kyle Smith wrote an article for the Wall Street Journal entitled, “The Real History of the Olympics, and Why They Should Come to an End." In the article, Smith makes the point that the modern Olympic games were originally and specifically intended to prevent armed conflict in the world, allowing nations to meet their best against the best of their rivals. This, of course, is complete bullshit, as the Olympics has done nothing to limit armed conflict, and in fact has only provided another forum for national rivalries to be agitated.



Smith states that the Olympic games are, at best, zero-sum, filled with scandal, intimidation and poor sportsmanship from front to back. To make matters worse, the television ratings for Olympic events has dropped each and every year for the last sixteen. His solution: cancel the games. They do more to promote national rivalries than quell them, and nobody watches them anyway. And seriously, does anyone really think curling is an Olympic sport?

I would like to take this idea even further, a task with which I feel entirely comfortable because Kyle Smith, the author of the above-mentioned article, is actually a movie critic for the New York Post. The ceremonies are rife with corruption, nepotism, negativity, childish rivalry and misguided political and social activism. No one watches anymore, and no one cares. In order to promote a more harmonious movie-going public, I implore you, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, please cancel the Oscars.

"[Ultraviolet is] an unholy combination of comic book and video game,...so awful that you'd swear it had been directed by Uwe Boll."
-- Frank Swietek, ONE GUY'S OPINION

Also, in a related action, if you would like to sign the petition to ask Uwe Boll to never direct another film ever again, please do so here.

Shocking Human Behavior: Incident #34,855,548,425,967

Pittsburgh, PA
Friday, February 24, 2006

A clerk at a GetGo station made a horrifying discovery last night after a man walked into the minimart and asked her to heat something wrapped in a paper towel in the store's microwave.

When the item in the microwave gave off an unusual odor, the clerk opened the over door, unwrapped the paper and found what appeared to be a severed human penis, according to KDKA-TV.

The clerk immediately called police, but the man who handed the item to the clerk fled from the store on Fifth Avenue, KDKA reported.

McKeesport police declined comment last night.

Several questions lay heavy on my mind:

1. What....the....fuck.

2. What kind of irresponsible news organization would print such a gruesome story without a shred of substantiation? (I refer you to the word “appeared.” For all we know, this thing could be a pickled pig’s foot, or worse, Dennis Kucinich.)



3. What...the...holy flippin’ fuck.

4. Do people routinely waltz into convenience stores with random things wrapped in paper towels and request that they be microwaved?

5. Are these mysterious items often placed in a microwave by the store staff without even a cursory examination? If so, why don’t we see more stories about squirrels being microwaved?

6. If it truly was a severed penis, wouldn’t there have been blood on the paper towel? (this, of course, lends credence to the pickled pig’s foot/ Dennis Kucinich theory)

7. Okay...seriously...what the fuck?

What I find even more shocking is that I’m even shocked anymore.

Do It Yourself, and Be Ridiculed

I work in a really small office, only four other people, and because of the nature of what we do, two or three of us could be out at any given time. We’re all friends, and our familiarity routinely leads to us wasting time chatting about movies, current events and breakfast cereals.

There’s only one girl in the office, she’s our Administrative Professional (read: secretary) and her name is Jessica. Jessica was telling us about her new boyfriend the other day. His name is Perry. Perry is twenty-four years old, is a graduate of the Computer Science Department of Wesleyan, and currently is the manager of a bike shop here in Portland.

Also, he roasts his own coffee.

“He does what?” you probably just asked.

He roasts his own coffee. He orders raw, green coffee from suppliers in South America and Asia, and roasts these beans at home in his electric table-top roaster. He keeps recipes, additives and roast times in a notebook and apparently takes great pride in this hobby.

I imagine my response to this statement was the same as yours would have been. “Is this guy some kind of an asshole?” I asked, genuinely interested. “You know, I’ve never really liked you,” Jessica responded.



I found myself in a bit of a pickle, and I would hoping one of my seven readers could help out. I know full well that roasting your own coffee is weird, but I can’t put my finger directly on why.

I’ve made beer before, and frankly, when someone tells me they make beer, I feel an instant fraternity with that person. I also make jam, I pickle vegetables, my wife makes soap and candles, why is coffee so weird?

Here’s the conclusion I came to: When I make beer, or jam, or whatever, I usually pick or grow as many of the ingredients as I can, or in the case of beer-making, I obtain the ingredients from a nearby brew shop. Coffee beans can only be grown in a few, select regions of the world, and you can’t exactly buy green coffee beans from the 7-11. It has to be something about the amount of effort this guy has to put into it that makes this weird.

I mean, it would be weird if I made my own cheese, right? I’m sure it would be cheaper in the long run, because I really love cheese, but would it be worth the stigma of being “that cheese guy?” Would it be worth building a tiny cheese factory in my backyard. Would I milk my own cows? The fact of the matter is that cheese, like coffee, is extraordinarily popular throughout the whole world. Coffee, either the beverage or the beans, can be obtained virtually anywhere, especially here in Portland. 7-11, Plaid Pantry, Starbucks, Stumptown, and every grocery store, restaurant, and street side booth in the industrialized world serves coffee in one form or another. Not even cheese is that universally available.

Am I wrong? Is it not weird to roast your own coffee? Would it be weird to make your own cheese?

When Jesscia told us about Perry’s strange hobbies, I made a comparison that I realize now was not entirely fair. I told her roasting your own coffee was like fermenting your own mead, it’s just plain weird. I understand that was not entirely appropriate, because someone who drinks mead is weird, let alone someone who drinks so much he might see an economic benefit to fermenting his own. Roasting your own coffee, in my opinion, is like making your own tortilla chips. Sure, they probably taste better, and if you ate a shit load of tortilla chips, then it would probably be cheaper in the long run. But tortilla chips, in all different varieties of flavor, shape and thickness, can be purchased a minimal cost all over town. Regardless of the taste and economic advantages, it’s just weird. Just go buy a damned bag of chips!

So, what do you guys think?

Karate is Stupid

As I'm sure most of you know, Canada's Constitution does no include an equivalent to our First Amendment right to free speech. As a result, the government routinely silences the media for the "common good," but more often than not, in true Canadian fashion, they'll simply politely ask the news outlets not to report some big story for one reason or another. The most famous incident was several years ago when a serial rapist/ murderer was prowling the rural highways of western Canada. The government simply asked the news outlets not to tell anyone about it, for fear of causing a nationwide panic.

Of course, for us in America, that's just par for the course on Tuesday's edition of "Good Morning America."

I hate censorship in all its forms, and like most truly egregious crimes, true censorship can only really be perpetrated by a government body. But why, oh why doesn't the Canadian government start censoring stuff like this, just so I don't have to waste precious moments of my day reading, then whining about it:

Karate experts hired to control marauding parrots in New Zealand

Organizers of a vintage car rally in New Zealand have hired karate experts to protect vehicles from marauding native parrots, a news report said Friday.

About 40 members of a karate club have been enlisted to protect some 140 classic cars due to visit an alpine village near Mount Cook on New Zealand's South Island on Sunday, the New Zealand Press Association reported.

The karate experts will protect the cars from Keas, sharp-beaked native parrots which have been known to damage vehicles in their search for shiny items, NZPA said.

Denis Callesen, manager of the nearby Hermitage Hotel, said bird lovers needn't be concerned the karate experts would use martial arts moves on the parrots, which are a protected species. Their job would simply be to scare the birds away, he said.

Local wildlife ranger Ray Bellringer said the karate masters are unlikely to deter the Keas.

"They will fly around and laugh," he said.

The question is begged: If bird-lovers needn't worry about any karate moves being used on the birds, (a phrase which conjures some supremely amusing mental imagery... like Jet Li kicking a duck in the face), why the hell did they hire a bunch of "karate experts" to do the job? And if they can't use their supremely gay karate moves, what exactly are they supposed to do to scare away the birds?

I'm picturing 40 beefy guys with white karate outfits on, blacks belt tied around their waists and rising sun bandanas around their heads, going "keeyah!" over and over again while chasing a flock of sharp-beaked birds around, swinging those colorful foam noodle things that are so fun in the pool.

Karate guys are so gay.

So Close, Yet So Far Away

We’ve all imagined it. We’ve all wondered what would happen if it ever came true.

The dapper man in the shiny suit steps up to the podium, crowds of people holding signs with his name written in stark, patriotic letters with subtext like “The Choice for a Better America!” The crowd cheers, he waves them a thankful hello. The noise quiets, he turns his mouth to the hive of microphones poised near his face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” He says, “I want to promise you that as soon as I take that seat in Congress, I will immediately forget each and every one of you. I will wipe clean my memory of kissing that small child. I will intentionally forget everything I said about lowering taxes, “investing in our children” and keeping jobs in America. I will pander and bow to whatever special interests can write the largest check, I will increase the tax burden on you and your families to pay for programs no one really thinks will actually work. The media will easily pressure me into never making a firm stand on any single issue. I will authorize more spending on public education than has ever been seen in history, while the quality of that education goes down the tubes. Hell, my kids go to private school, what do I care!?”

The crowd erupts in thunderous applause.

“Furthermore,” he will continue, “I’m gonna fuck every intern that walks through he door of my office, when I’m not balling those hookers, of course.” His wife, sitting only feet away smiles and waves to the audience. He will look directly into the nearest camera, give that practiced dramatic pause and say, “Hookers that you’re gonna pay for.”



The crowd goes wild, streamers fall from the ceiling, and the national anthem begins to blare on the loudspeakers, while he places his right hand against his heart, and left hand in his pants.

What if they told us what they really stood for? What if they just came right out and said what they were really gonna do, once they got there?

We were close. We were just so very close.

Jonathan Sharkey, also known as “The Impaler” has thrown his hat, or maybe his cape, into the ring of Minnesota politics. The reason this is noteworthy is that Mr. Sharkey will be the first gubernatorial candidate in Minnesota history that, in addition to being an avid hunter, is also a vampire. The more distressing fact is that this is not the first time this has happened in the U.S., thank you very much California and Florida.

Mr. Sharkey kicked off his campaign on Friday, January 13th (of course) and will be running on the platform of “Pure Evil.” According to Mr. Sharkey, “Unlike the other candidates, I’m not going to hide my evil side.”




It’s refreshing, isn’t it?

Mr. Sharkey’s goals include legislation that will allow the public impaling of terrorists, drug dealers, rapists and other criminals, as well as an increase in veteran’s benefits. While Mr. Sharkey worships the Dark Lord Satan, Devourer of Souls, Destroyer of Light and Spoiler of Milk, he states that he has nothing against Christians. “I don’t mind Christians at all,” he explains, “But God the Father is my mortal enemy.”

When I first read this article I was ecstatic. Finally a politician I can get behind, not because I share the peculiar views of the Vampires, Witches and Pagans Party, but because he actually says what he means. He’s a freak of nature, and I probably wouldn’t be able to stand ten minutes in his company, at least he’s honest.

Or so I thought.



Mr. Sharkey is currently in custody on charges of stalking and escape. At some point during the media hullabaloo about his idiotic Vampire Governor campaign, he made the comment that he used to a professional wrestler that went by the name Rocky Flash. A grossly underpaid Sheriff’s Department dispatcher recognized the name as an alias for a man wanted in Indiana, and he was promptly arrested.

I really don’t care about the stalking and escape charges, but I could never vote for a professional wrestler.

On the Subject of Me

"I was a caesarean birth because my mother always liked that hairstyle."

Some of you know me. Some of you have never met me. Some of you who haven’t met me would like to. Many of you who have met me would like to tell those folks that would like to meet me that they shouldn’t bother. Some of you drink. Some of you don’t care. Some of you don’t drink, or care. Some of you drink, but care.

In any case, I thought with the New Year in full swing, I would take the opportunity to get a few things off my chest. Even those of you that know me (or just pretend to, in order to soak up a few fleeting moments of my perpetual spotlight) will not know some of the things I am about to reveal. I’m not proud of these facts, not am I particularly ashamed. I just thought full disclosure would be a good way to start 2006.

Please, look upon these admissions with a kind and forgiving heart, that is all that I ask.

1. I’ve never seen “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

It would seem that in order to reach the ripe old age of 25 having never seen “It’s a Wonderful Life” all the way through, you’d have to be purposely avoiding it. I assure you this is not the case. In fact, I keep meaning to watch it, on account of Jimmy Stewart being one of my favorite actors.

Of course, Luke was 23 before he saw “Jaws,” or “Rocky.” Now that’s just sad.



2. I used to think the first day of the week was called Sunday because it never rained.

On this one you’ll have to cut me some slack, I was pretty young. Also, growing up in Louisiana, we get a lot of sunny days. I just made a logical leap. Unfortunately, I made quite a fool out of myself in Sunday school when I made reference to this “fact” and its obvious connection to god’s holy day.

It was then that they told me that at seventeen years old, I no longer had a place in Sunday school.

3. I’ve always wanted to collect something.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those people that collected one type of thing. Decorative spoons, Civil War memorabilia, shrunken heads, anything really, just to have that singular reputation would be so liberating. To hear people say, “Oh, Scott? Yeah, he’s that guy with all those hippopotamus figurines, remember?”

I’ve tried numerous times over the years to become a collector of one thing or another, but have always lost interest in whatever it was I had. Inevitably, I end up with two pewter dragons, three animal bone horns, one prop from the set of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” six decorative thimbles from Niagara Falls, and no interest in any of them.

All I have now is a collection of Gideon Bibles I've pilfered from hotel rooms across the country, and frankly, even I think that's wierd.

4. My dad was a wannabe sheep rustler.

Some of you may know that I grew up on a farm-type thing in rural Louisiana. Well, we had this pen (as in a fenced-in area with a gate) but frankly I don’t remember why, because it was always empty. Sometimes, as we were leaving the house, we would see a single sheep hanging out in the pen, perhaps because my lazy-ass brother never mowed in there. My dad would command one of us to run as fast as we could to try and shut the gate and trap the sheep, but he always ran away before we could.

I have no idea where this sheep came from, or even why my dad wanted it. I even asked my dad about this a few years ago, and he feigned ignorance of the whole ordeal. Apparently, he's a liar as well as a thief.

5. I used to think there was a chance I might be Jesus.

Okay, now just bear with me on this one.

I attended Catholic school all my life, and was raised in a strict, lapsed-Catholic household. As a young boy, I was introduced to the story of Jesus, and took particular interest in the stories of Jesus’ younger years. According to the Bible (or at least how I interpreted it,) Jesus didn’t know he was the son of god until he was 30, after which he began his ministry and went around telling everyone how great it would be if everyone was nice to each other (and we all know how well that turned out).

Given the non-stop Catholic-style pulpit pounding about the inevitable return of Jesus, I logically thought that maybe one of us in the room might be him and just not know it. Maybe, I thought, he could even be me, or I could be him, or whatever.

This seemed especially feasible since, as far as I was concerned, the borders of the world were West Jennings and East Lafayette, and "Jerusalem" was as fictional a place as Castle Grayskull.

6. I really like Prince.

Granted, I was a little disillusioned when I discovered that Prince was not really a prince at all, but just some guy from Minnesota, but this did not reduce my enjoyment of that nancy-boy’s frilly, limp-wristed, falsetto, pillow-biting, but ultimately enjoyable tunes one bit. Except for the “Bat-Dance,” that was just fucking gay.



I hope these admissions and revelations have provided useful insight into the puzzle that is me, the President, CEO, CFO and Head Custodial Engineer here at the OTR Institute. I further hope that my own disclosures might compel some of you to share your own troubled pasts in this public forum.

I would also like to know if anyone else thought they might have been Jesus when they were young, because if so, that would make me feel a lot better.

There's a Christmas Party in my Pants

Christmas is upon us. It’s been approaching for some time, but we’ve all tried to wish it away, plug our fingers in our ears and hum “The Monster Mash” to keep ourselves from having to deal with it, but it didn’t work. Christmas has been stalking us for months, in the form of “The Little Drummer Boy” as sung by Jewel on the local iPod shuffle station,and it’s been tracking our scent with it’s festive nose with signs that read “Chrismuss Trees 4 Sale” on 82nd Ave.

And now, it’s found us.

Christmas is upon us, indeed.

And after it’s ripped apart our flesh, swallowed our brains and chewed on our entrails, it’ll calmly stroll away, leaving bloody footprints, leaving our mangled corpse to the hungry carrion birds, content for another year.

Okay, I still haven’t got all my shopping done, I’m a little tense. Frankly, I wish I could just bypass this whole Christmas thing and get right to New Year’s Eve. Now there’s a real holiday. Why can’t there be more booze-related holidays? Trying to limit my serious bingeing to New Year’s Eve, July 4th, President’s Day, Martin Luther King Day, Flag Day, Boxing Day, and Isaac Aasimov’s birthday just gets harder each year.

But I digress.

The OTR Institute is here to help all those unfortunate whelps that may find themselves in the same perdicament as I with our first annual OTR Institute Gift Buying Guide. This guide will allow you to give the unique gifts that people always talk about when you’re not around. The kind of gifts that ensure it will find it’s way to the back of the closet in the bathroom, and virtually guarantee that you won’t even be invited next year, so you won’t have to worry about buying another gift! Think of the money you’ll save!

So without further ado:

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The OTR Institute 2005 Christmas Gift Guide for the Unique of Mind and Limited of Imagination:

The Electric Marshmallow Toaster ($19.99)



There are numerous products available on the internet (several of which appear on the 2005 OTR Gift Guide) that engender a response like that of our rock n’ roll “chaos theory” professor Dr. Malcolm in Jurassic Park. “You were all too busy trying to find if you could, you never stopped to think about whether or not your should.”

The Electric Marshmallow Toaster from Wiching Fish is a perfect example of this mentality. It would seem the creators of this fine product saw the four foot long hickory stick, used effectively to this end since the invention of the marshmallow, was seen as too cumbersome and graceless, causing them to opt for a more technologically superior solution.

Favorite quote from product description: “As seen in Wired magazine!”

The Peter Potty ($39.99)



Frankly, children scare me. The responsibility, their helplessness, their dependence on you as an adult, all of this terrifies me. Not as much, however, as their fluids. And perhaps, the only thing more fearsome than their actual fluids, are the bizarre plastic things people construct to store them: that’s right I’m talking about the potty.

The potty is a thing of the past, ladies and gentlemen, I introduce The Peter Potty!

The Peter Potty is a urinal for your young boy. Now he can go just like daddy, all over the floor!!

Favorite line from the product description: “…as parents fight against super-absorbent diapers…”

Urban Asshole Notification Cards ($7.50 for a box of 10)



Imagine that you’re walking down the sidewalk in a large, metropolitan area. You pass the exit from a parking lot, and get your ass bumped by a fuck-wad in a brand new Audi TT roadster that wasn’t even paying attention.

My pal Meghan would simply spit on the hood. If you, however, are not inclined to spit, or perhaps the dry, winter air has robbed you of that wonderful revenge juice, you would casually reach into your pocket to withdraw a piece of colorful paper, make a few scribbles with your trusty pen, and hand the driver of that car one of these.

“Congratulations, You’re an Asshole…. Let’s Discuss Why.”

Favorite line from the product description: “Assholes rarely know why they are the way they are…”

The Poops-A-Daisy ($18.95)



Do you ever read those disturbing new stories about some family’s loving cocker spaniel turning on the youngest kid for a reason no one can identify. Now we know why.

The “poopsadaisy” is like a fanny pack for your dog’s neck. What goes in the fanny pack? You guessed it, POOP!

You try and tell me that you wouldn’t snap and bite someone’s face off if they made you walk around with a bag full of your own shit tied around your neck.

Favorite line from the product description: “The Poopsadaisy’sTM patented two-pocket design will safely hold the dog's 'business'”

The MP3 Breast Implant (Price Currently Unavailable)



Admittedly, this one is still in the works, but the idea of a breast implant that plays my favorite tunes is simply too alluring. You gotta wonder if the storage capacity will be associated with the cup size…

Favorite line from the product description: “…pleasing alternative to the iPod selector wheel…”

The Dream Helmet ($29.95)



Have you ever wanted to be entirely sure that everyone on the plane you’re with thinks you’re an asshole, retard, or worse? Well, then have I got the product for you!

When a pillow or a strategically placed blanket just won’t cut it, and you’ve got thirty dollars just burning it’s way out of your pocket, you need The Dream Helmet!

The Dream Helmet is a specially designed moron-indicator and sleep aid guaranteed to provide you with the best sleep you’ve ever had on an airplane. And if you play your cards right, you may get free pudding and some flight wings form the helpful crew!

Favorite line from the product description: “The Dreamhelmet... is worth its weight in psychotropic drugs”

Poop Freeze ($8.95)



What is it about pet owners that seem to attract the most bizarre and disguisting produtcts?

You ever reached down to pick up a fresh pile of dog poop, only to have it squish in your hands like so much jello pudding?

Introducing Poop-Freeze! This patented and secret blend of aerosol, CFC’s, liquid nitrogen, herbs and spices allows you to freeze that poop, making it safe and pleasant to handle, no gloves required!

Favorite line from the product description: “a specially formulated aerosol freeze spray that, upon contact, forms a frosty film on dog poop”

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I hope this first annual OTR Institute Gift Guide had been helpful and informative. I wish you all the merriest of all possible Christmases, and the happiest of all possible New Years.

Also, if you're looking for gifts for that special prostitute in your life, may I recommend www.whorepresents.com.

And if anyone is still banging their heads about what to get for me this year, in thanks for a supendous year of editorial blitzkrieg here at the OTR Institiute, I’ve still got many empty spots on my Christmas List.

But please, no more ties.

We're Talking Baseball...

I have a friend named Tommy Stive Gomez. No, that’s not a typo, his middle name is really Stive. Believe me, he’s not Scandanavian. Why his middle name is Stive is a story for another time.

My pal Tommy has a problem: He hates being sick. He doesn’t just hate it, he haaaaates it. He loathes it with a passion. He hates it, not just because being sick makes you achy, sniffly, and feel like shit, he hates it the most because some random outside force, namely the organism that is infecting his body, is dictating how he’s supposed to behave. Go to bed, his body says. Have some soup and chill, his achy muscles and stuffy nose beg of him. Tommy will hear none of it.

Now, Tommy is your average guy, he likes to drink a cold brew with some pals, occasionally raise some hell, but he’s just like the rest of us, he has his limit, but not when he’s sick.

When Tommy gets sick, he gets resentful. He hates the fact that he’s not supposed to go out and get drunk, and stay up all night and smoke opium out of a rusty spray paint can, so that’s exactly what he does. He drinks, he smokes, he has unprotected sex with parking meters. He does it all, just for the purpose of showing that microscopic, non-sentient organism he can.

It may not even be what he WANTS to do, but since his body is trying to tell him not to, and he’s knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should bow to the will of his disease and get some sleep, he’s gone get tore up.

Sometimes I feel that’s how the City of Portland handles its budget meetings. They know they shouldn’t, hell the almost can’t, but they’re gonna just cuz they’s not supposed to.

In case you guys haven’t heard, the City of Portland, “The Rose City,” the ever-so-ironically-called “City that Works,” is trying to woo the disenfranchised Florida Marlins to its moist shores. While words cannot describe how bad an idea this is, I’ll certainly try my best.

I’m not a big fan of sports in general, and four years of living within earshot of Fenway Stadium, baseball ranks pretty low on my list. (I once asked a guy in a NY Yankees jersey why he was peeing in the azaleas in front of my apartment complex, and he turned his half-opened eyes to me, pointed to his stream of kidney juice and said, “This is what I think of Boston!”)

Despite my own personal reservations, the City of Portland, a city I’ve grown to love and hate with equal fervor, simply cannot afford to build a fucking baseball stadium, end of story. And since everyone likes lists so damned much, I’ve compiled a list of reasons why:

1. The $15 million aerial tram that OHSU convinced the city to build three years ago, has become a $40 million dollar tram before ground has even been broken.

2. The City of Portland, in all their wisdom, has seen fit to pay for the campaigns of all Portland City Commissioners. A cost, I might add, imposed upon the city taxpayers without so much as a single vote from the public. Ironcially, it’s called "Voter Owned Elections."

3. Portland Public Schools is spending million of dollars to build a new school at the Columbia housing projects, EVEN THOUGH private parties offered to build the school FOR FREE!



4. Instead of paying the same property tax rate I pay, the owner of a $700,000 downtown condo in the swankiest area of town, The Pearl District, only has to pay about $200. You want to tell me Bush gives tax cuts to the rich?

5. In Portland’s decadent commitment to be as much like a cheeky European, limp-wristed, vertical-stripe wearing, no bathing, nancy-pants couture city as possible, they’ve ripped up downtown, and installed a comically ineffecient light-rail system that moves less than %1 of Portland commuters for about $100 million per mile of track.

6. In reference to item #5, the city is also trying to structure downtown to be more “pedestrian friendly,” which is another term for “car un-friendly.” This action, which has burdened already struggling businesses with enormous taxes, has further decreased the amount of people that go downtown to do ANYTHING, leading to fewer businesses downtown, more vacant office space than Portland has seen since the 70’s, and less income for the city.

7. For fuck’s sake, Multnomah County has yet to even open the BRAND NEW JAIL they just built, even though the other jails in the area are so full, convicts are being “matrixed out” at a rate not seen in history.

8. Bending over and grabbing the ankles for the wacked out environmental-nut-job mouth-breathers that stalk the streets of this city, Portland decided to pay TWO TIMES the amount a normal roof would cost, to cover the Portland and Multnomah County Building with a special, granola-based, soy-derived, hippy roof.

9. Portland is still paying for the renovation of PGE Park! A park that no one ever fucking goes to!

11. Portland has COUNTY FUNDED ACUPUNCTURE CLINICS!!!!

10. Whoever wants this fucking stadium, you get the money together and build it your goddamned selves.

OTR Institute Sociological Survey #2

Which do you think is creepier?



A) The hair
B) The teeth
C) The eyebrows
D) The earrings
C) The fact that this person is a municipal employee
D) The way his eyes follow you as you move around your
computer monitor

Read the story here...

Come All Ye Faithful

“It is happening again…” – The Giant.

I knew it was only a matter of time. We all knew, really. With the amazing ability of the human mind to convince itself of any foregone reality, it will continue to happen until we get Budweiser to stop using poison dart frog juice in their wort mixture.

Ladies and gentleman, if you needed, here it is. Proof of the existence of God. Well, maybe not of God,, perhaps just of the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth, that guy that claimed to be his son.

Jesus of Nazareth, a.k.a. Jesus Christ, The Messiah, The King of the Jews, The Lamb of God, The One True Light, has made his presence known. He has pierced the veil between our worlds, and delivered a message of hope to his flock, in these troubled times.

And where else in the world would The Great, Merciful and Benevolent Lord Jesus, who sits at the Right hand of God, in all his splendor and glory and forgiveness, and fruit bats and breakfast cereals, make his presence know, but in Texas. And where else in Texas would he choose to convey his message, seeing all the corruption in the churches, and synagogues, and temples, and old folks homes and public schools and pizza parlors and trailer parks, but on the tailgate of a 1992 Ford Ranger pickup. Forest green, of course.

Jesus Christ, the savior of mankind, he that was born to die for the sins of man, he who has redeemed us and allowed us to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, has, in all his wisdom, made his face known to the faithful, and they rejoice.



Of course, they don’t seem perturbed by the fact that no one knows for sure what Jesus looked like. None of the 150+ “pilgrims” seems particularly concerned by the fact that this image really only vaguely resembles the western cultures’ iconic image of Jesus, the one we routinely see on hologram key chains and collectible plates.

But the truly unfortunate thing is that no one seems concerned that this really isn’t the image of Jesus Christ. They are so blinded by their faith, they are willing to ignore the undeniable truth, staring them in the face like a mud stain on the back of a truck.

That’s a picture of Destro.



Destro, high in the pantheon of G. I. Joe villains, in all his wisdom and glory, has finally chosen to make his presence known. By revealing his face on the back of this truck in Texas, he is reassuring us, in this troubled time that we need not fear. We needn’t fear Islamo-fascism, nor Communist China, we need not even fear invasion from outer space.

We must only fear the iron-fisted rule of Cobra.

These are, indeed, the end times. Soon we will witness the other signs of the apocalypse: Cobra Commander’s serpentine hiss will be heard over the loudspeaker at a very important Manchester United football game, Tomax and Xamot will be spotted shopping for matching Skechers at the Filene’s Basement in Cleveland, and finally The Baroness herself will run for Water and Sewer Commisioner of San Miquel County, New Mexico under the Green Party ticket.

Didn't you always assume the end of all life, freedom and happiness in the world would somehow involve the Green Party?

Repent, ye infidels. Abandon your puny hopes of salvation from that pathetic group of do-gooders, G. I. Joe. Not even they, with their wicked-cool gadgets and unquenchable desire to “do the right thing” and “knowing is half the battle” can save you now!

In the name of the Emperor, the Commander and our Serpentor Lord, Amen.

The Unbearable Coldness of Onion Rings

I love humanity, but I hate people. It seems no matter how incredibly disappointed I become in the actions of some of the humans on this planet, some other depressing story hits the news wires and I sink just a little lower. That group of guys that beat their neighbor’s daughter’s pet pygmy goat to death with sticks to sell the meat for cocaine, the Muslims that successfully won a lawsuit to ban Winnie the Pooh piglet dolls from their workplace, just about ANY news story involving Ingrid Newkirk. And list just goes on. A few more stories like those and I’ll be officially applying to be a member of whatever species Jackie Stallone is.



But funny factoids, everybody loves them. Especially, it seems, if they’re not true. Like the urban legend that the day of the Superbowl features the highest number of domestic abuse complaints, or that the day after Thanksgiving is the biggest shopping day of the year.

Well, here’s a little factoid for you people, and you can take this one to the bank.

What day of the year features the highest number of calls to 911 Emergency Dispatch?

The day after Christmas.

Why the day after Christmas, you ask? Well, grab that mouthpiece and start squeezing that stress pillow because I’m about to tell you.

Everyone wants to test out their new cell phones, and apparently, that’s the only number they can skim off the top of their pointy little heads.



The abuse of the most important emergency service in this country has gotten a bit out of control. Just do a preliminary search online and you’ll find endless stories about people calling 911 because the guy that cleaned their carpets at the car wash left muddy footprints on the back seat, or some guy was yelling at his dog. I even found a story about a man that called 911 and asked them to connect him to Switzerland. I also found a story about a woman that called 911 and asked for the police to go by her ex-boyfriend’s house and see if there were any cars in his driveway other than his own.

I know these people don’t read this blog. Frankly, I’m certain these people can’t even read. But for the love of all that is true and right and reproducible in a controlled laboratory environment, you people have got to stop! It gets worse every year, which is no surprise, because more and more people get cellphones each year. Is this really the only number you can think of? Holy fucking shit!

As if the New Orleans Saints weren’t enough, a woman in Thibodeaux, LA decided to further shame the state of Louisiana by calling 911 in response to the life-threatening emergency of being served cold onion rings.

So spread the word everybody. When you get served cold onion rings, get cut off on the highway, stub your toe on the edge of your dresser on a cold morning, find a pile of cat puke on your bathroom floor, or notice the guy at Burger King handling the lettuce without gloves, try to keep your hand away from the cell phone. If you get cornered by Jackie Stallone, though, you call that number.

I always really hate it when bloggers blog about not having enough time to blog. It seems so self-centered and egotistical, as if the world is waiting with bated breath for your mind-numbing analysis of the most recent Spyro the Dragon video game or latest presidential speech.

What I hate even more, however, is when bloggers blog in apology for not blogging, imagining their handful of readers gnashing their teeth and pulling their hair for lack of their quasi-weekly retort on this week’s episode of “Lost.”

As they say, you always become what you hate.

My life has been a mess lately. I’m very busy doing spy-type things all over the state, and frankly my duties involve visiting the houses of far too many nefarious individuals shaking and sweating as they recount their obvious lies of injuries and loss. The funny part is when I ask them if I can take a photo of their injuries, and they lift up their shirts, point to a virgin patch of skin and remark, "Healed up real nice, didn't it?"

My lovely wife and I have also been busy in preparation of the final arrival of Luke of Useless and Pointless Knowledge and his beautiful wife Lindsey. Their lumpy, oversized, squishy, basketball shaped kitty will be tucked under their arms when they arrive. I can only hope his presence hasn’t increased their gas costs too far over the projections.



In any case, I’m working on several great pieces that feature the boundless humor, scathing insight and gratuitous laughs at other people’s expense that all five of my readers have come to love. Especially you, Mom.

Tomorrow, however, I have to drive to Bend to photograph the floor underneath some woman’s refrigerator. If you’re luck, maybe I’ll post those photos.

"Oh, I Have Slipped the Surly Bonds of Earth..."

"...Put out my hand, and touched the face of god."

Last week, I drove to Madras, OR to perform an inspection of the scene of a traffic accident.. The collision occurred on highway 26 between Warm Springs and Madras, in the treacherous and unnerving twists and turns of the highway as it climbs out of the Willamette Valley, headed towards the High Desert of Central Oregon.

The highway features no shoulder on either side, opting for a direct drop of about 3,000 feet on one side and the impressive presence of a sheer rock face on the other, only about three feet from the edge of the road. The highway twists and turns and grades up and down, until I found myself at the location of the collision, mile marker 110.

Immediately off on my right side, I found a very convenient turn off where I could park and have plenty of room to do my investigation. I was measuring this, photographing that and generally trying to figure out what the heck happened (and debating whether to pee in that empty Mountain Dew bottle) when I turned around and saw this.



Now you just try and tell my I don’t live in god’s own country.

For a boy from the flatlands of Louisiana, it still amazes me that the Earth is capable of such things.

From my house, If I head west, in 2 ½ hours, I’ll be on the beach. If I head southeast, in one hour I’ll be in the mountains. If I go a little further, I’ll be in the desert.

I would like to officially tender an open invitation to anyone interested in seeing this beauty first-hand. You get your ass up here, and I’ll take you to Highway 26 Westbound at mile marker 110 and let you gaze upon the wonder of Mount Hood, as seen from the south side.

I would also be willing to do it in exchange for some skiing lessons.

Doesn't "Shame Flute" Sound Like a Gay Metal Band?

Until about the 16th century, before the age of large, modern prisons, public humiliation was often used by local communities to punish minor crimes and sinful acts. Imprisonment, while it certainly existed, was usually reserved as a form of coercion rather than chastisement.

The tools of public humiliation show the limitless expanse of human imagination, especially when combined with the conviction of divine province and having way too much time on your hands, which priests and busybodies invariably do.

Various “masks of shame” can be seen in museums across Eastern Europe, each depicting the wearer's transgressions: pig masks for slovenly and unkempt men, dragon masks with long ears and flicking tongues for gossiping women, even “dunce masks” for dim-witted children. Giant rosaries, weighing as much as 20 pounds, were forced upon the necks of people that did not meet the requirement of compulsory church attendance, and fools and braggarts had sit upon the “donkey of shame,” a rocking mule made of iron, in the village square while the other villagers hurled insults and probably rotten vegetables.



Public humiliation was not only a form of punishment, but also a manner of entertainment. Two women who habitually quarreled were strapped into a “quarrel violin” together in the center of town and only allowed release when they’d settled their differences. Needless to say, these exchanges provided endless entertainment to the other villagers.

My favorite, however, is the “shame flute.” Unlike the other implements of humiliation, the “shame flute” was not used as punishment for sins, but was a shame reserved for bad musicians.



Exactly what qualified someone as a “bad musician,” I haven’t the foggiest, but the item is a flute-shaped object with a set of nasty prongs attached to the top and mean looking loop at the mouthpiece. The “flute” was hung around the offender’s neck and his fingers locked into the prongs, and he was then forced to parade around town enduring the jeers of the villagers.

Suffering and humiliation, much like violence, is part of the human experience, and when it’s absent, people will subconsciously seek it out. From “rubbernecks” that slow down traffic on the highway for the chance at seeing some poor slob getting frisked by a highway patrol officer to the morons that invariably gather outside courthouses to shout insults at has-been celebrities when they get nabbed for distributing child pornography, these people reflect the wanton desires with which we all contend.

What better way to appease these deep-seated desires than in the privacy of your own home? The success of “caught on tape” shows are evidence that watching a grown man get hit in the crotch by a bat-wielding four-year-old provides the same catharsis as throwing rotten turnips at the local gossip hound.

There is no better example of the ingrained human need to see others suffer and be humiliated than the success of reality television. Watching some asshole who hasn’t showered in twelve weeks eat a rat on national television, all for the prospect of a million dollars, gives the viewers what they really want: suffering and humiliation.

The Biggest Loser, America’s Next Top Model, Fear Factor, The Apprentice, The Surreal Life, The Swan and countless others are shows, when you strip away the stupid games, the backbiting and ad spots, that are focused on exposing the flaws and ultimately humiliating the contestants, all for a shot at a great job, expensive plastic surgery, or a whole lot of money.



In Japan, instead of rewarding knowledge, ther game shows punish ignorance with electric shocks and dumping contestants into tanks of live eels. Do you think people watch that show to see who knows the annual rainfall of Kobe? One popular program, a show called Ironman, is truly all about pure physical pain. The contestant that can endure the most, wins. The first round features about one hundred men in an Olympic-size swimming pool, underwater, breathing through straws. The host of the program walks around the pool with a bag of cayenne pepper, tossing shovels full into the water and into the straws of the contestants. If you stand up, you’re disqualified, and it only gets worse from there.

Reality television in America has reached its crescendo and is finally on the wane. For the first time in almost five years, the majority of the programs being touted by the major networks have actually written by human beings and don’t feature anyone eating rats (although I heard Keifer eats a severed toe in a Turkish prison in season 5 of 24).

I never liked reality television, except for Fear Factor (something about a Playboy Bunny in a tank of stinking, gelatinous lampreys makes me feel warm inside), but I could always respect it. The greatest aspect of a capitalist society is that it’s not only profitable, but morally right to give people what they want, and what they want is humiliation.

The reason this part of our primitive brain is so starved is because of the lowered standards and political correctness that surrounds us. We all see it in our public schools. It’s not fair to humiliate Billy with a failing grade because he’s a junior in high school and thinks Napoleon Bonaparte was a really great movie (GAWD!) No, Billy’s not stupid, he’s just “differently-abled!”



You know what, Billy’s a fucking moron! Billy once tried to piss in some guys’ gas tank and got his dick caught in the vapor trap!

In a recent poll, high school students across the country agreed that if the standards and expectations put to them by their teachers and parents would increase, so would their productivity.

Liz Beattie, a former teacher, went before the British Teacher’s Association suggesting to have the word “failure” removed from the school system, in favor of the far less demoralizing phrase “deferred success.”

Oh, give me a fucking break.

Of course Howard Dean thinks it’s a good idea, that fucking ponce.

Success and failure are part of being a human, just like the violence and the humiliation and the bizarre sexual tendencies towards squirrels. To live on the planet Earth requires that you deal with assholes, that you be responsible for your own actions and that you use your fucking blinker when you change lanes.

You like reality television because you like to see other people suffer, especially really pretty people. You like making fun of Billy because he’s a fucking moron. Don’t deny your own nature, and don’t be ashamed of it, except for that squirrel thing, that’s just weird.

"Those obstinate questionings, Of sense and outward things..."

OTR Institute Sociological Survey #1:

This is a question aimed at anyone that’s slept in the same bed with a member of the opposite sex. Nothing against homosexuals, I’m just fairly certain my little brother doesn’t read this blog anyway.

Question: Who sleeps closer to the door of your bedroom, you or your significant other?

(please specify sex.)

If there is a specific reason for this arrangement (i.e. security, closest to the alarm, he smells, etc.) please enlighten us.


Kindly submit your answer to the "Comments" link below.

The Ultimate Prey: Mankind

It’s always startling when the bizarre ideas of science fiction authors become reality. It’s been said that Arthur C. Clarke predicted modern cellular communications, first in his 1945 concept paper “Extra-Terrestrial Relays,” and again in his 1968 novel 2001: A Space Odyssey. In Runaround, published 1942, Isaac Asimov envisioned the basic tenets under which artificial intelligence would be designed, the “Three Basic Laws of Robotics,” and he’s even credited with coining the term “robotics.” It took years for Robert Heinlein to find a publisher for his first novel Rocket Ship Galileo (1947) because most critics believed that a manned expedition to the Moon was simply too outlandish, even for science fiction.

As a kid, when I first introduced to the works of these great masters, I was always flummoxed when I’d flip back to the first page and see when the book I was cradling in my hands was first published. “The Big Three”, however, were not the only sci-fi authors I read, Larry Niven, Ray Bradbury, Philip K. Dick, Douglas Adams, Kevin Anderson, Timothy Zahn, William Gibson and others also found their way into my hands. My memories are filled with the bizarre scenarios, technology and predictions for the future of mankind of all of these lunatics, each one crazier and seemingly less likely than the other. William Gibson, however, has a track record.

In 1984, Gibson published Neuromancer and made a splash in the science fiction world as being the first book to win the Hugo, Nebula and Philip K. Dick Awards in the same year. Neuromancer became a short-lived best-seller, and copies of his only other published work, a book of short stories titled Burning Chrome (1982) also saw an increase in sales. Burning Chrome featured the only work by Gibson that’s yet made it onto the big screen, it was a beautiful and frightening tale of danger and regret that was urinated upon by the executives of Tri-Star and pounded into a steaming pile of celluloid, Johnny Mnemonic, a film which, after I spit on the floor at it’s mention, I will not reference again.

In the story, Johnny is a “data smuggler” who’s dumped a large portion of his brain (ironically, his memories) to install a wet-ware hard drive, enabling him to safely transport sensitive data undetected. As the story opens, we discover that Johnny has been loaded with more data than he can handle, but the guy that’s got the decryption code is looking to make him dead. Johnny falls in with a dangerously cool bodyguard named Molly that thinks she knows someone that can help Johnny get the information out of his head before the synaptic leakage does permanent damage.

'Navy stuff,' she said, and her grin gleamed in the shadows. 'Navy stuff. I got a friend down here who was in the navy, name's Jones. I think you'd better meet him. He's a junkie, though. So we'll have to take him something.'

'A junkie?'

'A dolphin.'

He was more than a dolphin, but from another dolphin's point of view he might have seemed like something less. I watched him swirling sluggishly in his galvanized tank. Water slopped over the side, wetting my shoes. He was surplus from the last war. A cyborg.

He rose out of the water, showing us the crusted plates along his sides, a kind of visual pun, his grace nearly lost under articulated armor, clumsy and prehistoric. Twin deformities on either side of his skull had been engineered to house sensor units. Silver lesions gleamed on exposed sections of his gray-white hide.

Molly whistled. Jones thrashed his tail, and more water cascaded down the side of the tank.

'What is this place?' I peered at vague shapes in the dark, rusting chain link and things under tarps. Above the tank hung a clumsy wooden framework, crossed and recrossed by rows of dusty Christmas lights.

'Funland. Zoo and carnival rides. "talk with the War Whale." All that. Some whale Jones is...'

Jones reared again and fixed me with a sad and ancient eye.

The cool idea here is that this dolphin, Jones, had been equipped with a device that would allow him to pinpoint, intercept, and manipulate the data from the computers on enemy warships, right through the hull. The Navy trained the dolphins, and kept them under control by hooking them on smack.

Is it the strangest thing you’ve ever heard? Then check this out:


Experts who have studied the US navy's cetacean training exercises claim the 36 [dolphins] could be carrying 'toxic dart' guns. Divers and surfers risk attack, they claim, from a species considered to be among the planet's smartest. The US navy admits it has been training dolphins for military purposes, but has refused to confirm that any are missing.

Here I am, a wayward scuba diver, careening through the underwater world I love so much and enjoying the little fishes that rub on my legs like a lonely kitty when her owner gets home. It’s quiet, and serene and I’ve finally been able to put the images of my destroyed home in Gulfport to the back of my brain, and just enjoy my hobby. Oh look, it’s a bottlenose dolphin! These mighty kings of the sea are so majestic, how I relish their hospitality and playfulness! That is, UNTIL THE MOTHERFUCKER SHOOTS ME IN THE NECK WITH A POISON DART!!

There are armed, military trained, and possibly mentally unstable dolphins patrolling the Gulf Coast of the United States. We have a problem here.

But, like any great news reporter, we have to look past the story being told, no matter how huge, and find the story that’s not being told: What other species have our military armed with deadly weapons? Where have their twisted minds, obsessed with killing taken them and their bizarre experiments?



Can we expect to see chimpanzees swinging from tree to tree with Uzis tucked into Army issue belts? Have they recruited grizzly bears for the sole purpose of installing missile launchers on their hairy backs? Can you imagine the devastating power of a swarm of angry bees, each drone and worker carrying a tiny little rifle?

Hamsters with nun-chucks, pigeons with bazookas, cows packing nuclear arsenals in undisclosed stomachs… the possibilities are harrowing.

When next you see someone you don’t recognize walking a badger in your neighborhood, you should think twice. Was that a knife you saw, clutched in that squat creature’s paw? Perhaps you’ll never turn your back on your dog ever again, perhaps you’ll sleep with one eye on your fish tank, perhaps the next time your cat draws blood during a rousing game of “eat my hand,” you’ll wonder if it really was an accident.



You’ll wonder where little Chairman Meow was those few weeks he went missing last year, and why he came home smelling of whiskey and shoe polish. Why did he watch that Army football game so intently last week, when all this time you thought he was a Utah fan?



Where did this little bottle of chloroform come from?

God gave to man dominion over the beasts of the Earth, and it would seem they intend to take it back. Ironically, they have convinced our greatest military forces to give them the skills and weaponry that they will use to destroy us.

The squirrels have already begun the offensive, with guerrilla tactics and night raids on unsuspecting Americans.



The evidence is everywhere, will you take up arms against the neighbor's dog?

The Only Post On the Internet Featuring Sontag, Schroedinger, Socrates and NASCAR

In 1966, Susan Sontag, writer and activist, wrote a profoundly important essay about art in the 20th century. “Against Interpretation” postulated that interpreting the deep-seated meaning and value of a work of art not only diminished its value, but that the act of interpretation utterly negated the act of expression. Her point, not unlike the theory of Schroedinger’s Cat, in that the act of explication, interpretation and analysis destroys the potential of true expression in the same way the act of opening the box, not the poison, results in the death of the cat. To measure is to destroy potential. “The function of criticism,” she wrote, “should be to show how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means.”

Susan Sontag was a nut bag, but she was a smart nut bag. She saw the value of the mystery, the purpose of simple expression, and saw life and art as some would interpret the artistic endeavors of the Impressionists: hurried glances, blurred, remnant images of moving, breathing life. To analyze is to stifle. To interpret is to categorize. It’s enough to simply say what it is, who the fuck are you to say what it means?

Socrates said the unexamined life was not worth living, and there are loads of people that say he was pretty smart (except, perhaps, in his choice of beverages). What he meant was that without constant revision and re-evaluation, one can never know for certain the endeavors one undertakes are worthwhile, important or “right.”

The question remains, however, doesn’t an individual, within the confines of reason and law, personally determine “right?”

I think the logic of Sontag should apply, not just to the evaluation of art and expression, but also to the subject of art itself. If art imitates life, can’t the same quantifying structures be applied to both?

Our society is filled with self-important, egotistical asshats, sitting on their cedar decks, sipping Cape Cods and chomping on pita chips smeared with olive tapenade, saying with no reservation that anyone that hasn’t read Joyce's "Ulysses” does not posses a life worth living. These are the same folks that think Harry Potter books are “annoying” because EVERYONE talks about them, and keep talking about “the children.” These are the very ones that make vague political statements like “can’t wait for ‘08” in polite conversation, assuming that every person in the room MUST agree with them, right?

You must agree, you read “Ulysses,” haven’t you?

“It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The mystery of the world is in the visible, not the invisible.” – Oscar Wilde

On Friday, September 30th, at 6:30 P.M., I will be boarding Delta Airlines flight 297 to Salt Lake City. After a two-hour layover, I will board Delta flight 1231 to Cincinnati. Once there, I will rush down the hall of terminals of domestic flights, hoping to catch flight 5119 to Birmingham, which arrives at 8:00 AM on October 1st. Armed with my Gameboy Advance SP sporting “Zelda: A Link to the Past,” a fresh Dinesh D’Souza novel, and possibly a wayward issue of “Hellblazer,” I will undertake this endeavor for one purpose: NASCAR.



The simplest pleasures in life include beer, pizza, whiskey, a little more beer, probably some boudin and watching a bunch of bombs on wheels careening down the Talladega Super Speedway turning left after left after left, with family and friends. To be in a stadium filled with thousands of screaming gear-heads, eating chilidogs and comparing beer bellies, this is catharsis; this is a life worth living.

No pretension, no assumption, no delusion.

So fuck those assholes. Tell them they should take a page from Susan Sontag’s book, and stop worrying about living “right,” and just get on with living. Then tell them “Ulysses” was a stream-of-consciousness pile of drivel and make them lie and say they got through it all. Then tell them they’d get more pleasure out of “The Prisoner of Azkaban,” because the only reason they don’t like Harry Potter is because they didn’t read them first, and they think they’ll look like chumps reading book two while everyone else is on book six.

"Return to Normalcy," and Other Phrases I Hate.

In fourth grade, my science teacher was Mrs. Gay. (I know, this is endless fodder for a ten-year-old. The really unfortunate thing was that she had an overweight son named Jude that played air-guitar A LOT.) The only thing I remember from that science class, aside from the fact that she pronounced the word “urine,” “YOUR-EEN,” was a pearl of wisdom she shared with us idealistic children. “There is nothing you can think,” she told us one day, the reason why eludes me, “that has not been thought before.”

This was a supremely harrowing and life-changing bit of information. When the truth of that statement socked me hard in the gut, like Joey Ivy had done only a year before, my perception of life and the possibilities of my future took a sudden and cataclysmic turn. I was returned to that moment when I read Fight Club years later, when Tyler was explaining to me that I was not a beautiful and unique snowflake, and I was never going to be famous.

I don’t know what to do at this point. I have so many things to say, but it’s all been said before, by people more involved, more informed and more articulate than I. The news coverage is more and more overbearing, and I find myself less and less interested because they never say anything new. I can only find solace in the fact that all of my family are safe and dry, and many are helping in the recovery. It’s sad to think that New Orleans, a place so close to my heart, will most likely never be the same place I remember, but then, I never spent much time there at all, so perhaps the place I remember never really existed anyway.

I feel no obligation to write anything about the hurricane, the subsequent disasters or the relief operations. I have no desire to congratulate those sacrificing so much to help, or even to expose the opportunistic shit-bags that want to blame this on any one person for the advancement of their own twisted ideologies. Except this once: Fuck you, Phil Busse. If I see you on the street, I’m going to kick you in the neck and put dog poo down your non-branded, non-sweatshop, boot-cut, $80.00 American Apparel corduroy trousers.

Is it time to laugh again? It feels like it’s been so long. Since my “brief departure” to, once again, defer to my betters, things have really taken a turn for the worse, and spirits have been way down, here at the OTR Institute. We, the team and I, fully intend to rectify that solemn situation. There is perhaps no better way than to regale you with the world’s funniest joke:

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy takes out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps: "My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator says: "Calm down, I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a gunshot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says: "OK, now what?"

Okay, so now you’re nice and warmed up, right? What’s next? Shall I point you towards a great story about the testicle-cooking championship in Zagreb, Croatia?

Or shall I mention that there is a 100-square mile “bulge” growing in intensity in southern Oregon. (note: this is most likely unrelated to the child-care facility recently opened by former Portland Mayor and admitted "suffer unto me the little children" enthusiast Neil Goldschmidt.)



No?

Nothing?

I admit, it does seem a little strained.

I tell you what, take one of these, and I’ll call you in the morning.



* “When they slick their hair back, they look nine!”

A phenomenon I encounter so often, as certainly do so many other folks that write and paint and draw and "do" to exorcise those cathartic demons, I find myself humbled to my hands and knees by my betters. Those true writers, wordsmiths and artists that can speak my sentiments far better than my feeble talents will allow.

Reprinted without permission from one of the greatest columnists in the United States, a man that knows and feels more for my homeland than perhaps I am capable, Chris Rose:

Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.

By Chris Rose

I got out.

I'm mystified by the notion that so many people didn't even try, but
that's another story for another time.

We left Saturday, my wife, kids and me. We went first to Picayune,
Miss., thinking that a Category 3 storm would flood New Orleans and knock
out power, but that we'd be dry and relatively comfortable in the piney
woods while the city dried out.

Sunday morning, of course, Katrina was massive red blob on our TV
screens, now a Category 5, so we packed up and left again.

We left my in-laws behind in Picayune. They wouldn't come with us.
Self-sufficient country folk; sometimes you can't tell 'em nothing.

We don't know what happened to them. My wife's dad and her brother and
their families: No word. Only hope.

Like so many people around the country wondering what happened to those
still unaccounted for; we just don't know. That's the hardest part.



If you take the images you've seen on TV and picked up off the radio
and internet, and you try to apply what you know to the people and places
you don't know about, well, the mind starts racing, assumptions are
made and well, it consumes you.

The kids ask you questions. You don't have answers. Sometimes they look
at me and though they don't say it, I can see they're wondering: Daddy,
where are you?

My 6-year-old daughter, she's onto this thing. What is she thinking?

We spent Sunday night in a no-tell motel in a forgotten part of
downtown Vicksburg; a neighborhood teetering between a familiar
antiquated charm and hopeless decay. Truth is, it called to mind my
beloved New Orleans.

Most of the folks in the hotel seem to live there permanently and it
had a hard-luck feel to it. It was the kind of place where your legs
start itching in the bed and you think the worst and you donÂ’t want your
kids to touch the carpet or the tub and we huddled together and I read
them to sleep.

Monday morning, my wife's aunt told us they had a generator in Baton
Rouge. As Katrina marched north and east, we bailed on our sullen little
hotel and drove down along he western ridge of the storm, mostly alone
on the road.

Gas was no problem. We had catfish and pulled pork in a barbeque joint
in Natchez and the folks there - everyone we have met along our
three-day journey has said the same thing: Good luck, folks. We love your
city. Take care of it for us.

Oh, my city. We have spent hours and hours listening to the radio.
Image upon image piling up in your head.



What about school? What about everyone's jobs? Did all our friends get
out? Are there still trees on the streetcar line? What will our economy
be like with no visitors? How many are dead? Do I have a roof? Have the
looters found me yet? When can we go home?

Like I said, it consumes you as you sit helplessly miles from home,
unable to help anyone, unable to do anything.

If I could, what I'd do first is hurt the looters. I'd hurt them bad.

But you have to forget all that. You have to focus on what is at hand,
what you can reach and when you have three little kids lost at sea,
they are what's at hand and what you can reach.

I brought them to a playground in Baton Rouge Tuesday afternoon. They'd
been bottled up for days.

Finally unleashed, they ran, they climbed, they fell down, they fought,
they cried, they made me laugh, they drove me crazy; they did the
things that makes them kids.

It grounds you. You take a breath. You count to ten. Maybe - under the
circumstances - you go to twenty or thirty this time.

And tonight, we'll just read them to sleep again.

We have several books with us because - and this is rich - we brought
on our evacuation all the clothes and things we planned to bring on a
long-weekend trip that we were going to take over Labor Day weekend.

To the beach. To Fort Morgan, right at the mouth of Mobile Bay.

Man.

Instead of that, I put on my sun tan lotion and went out in the yard of
the house where we're staying in Baton Rouge and I raked a massive pile
of leaves and limbs from the yard and swept the driveway.

Doing yard work and hitting the jungle gym on the Day After. Pretending
life goes on. Just trying to stay busy. Just trying not to think. Just
trying not to fail, really.

Gotta keep moving.

See WWL for more photographs.

Katrina: You Bitch

I’m sitting in front of the computer/television/radio/interocitor like the rest of America, waiting for the latest news. I know all this information, to which I’m hopelessly addicted with no chance of recovery, is the very thing that’s causing my feet to stomp and my scalp to itch in nervousness. Despite it all, however, I find myself in awe of humanity in its calmness and its kindness.

With enough warning, most people simply packed up the things they couldn’t replace with mere money and headed north, bound for hotels or the homes of family and friends. They too are glued to all available forms of media, waiting as if the perky weather girl on channel 10 will say, “As you can see here, the home belonging to Mrs. and Mrs. Sonnier in the Irish Channel is just fine.” If anyone panicked, we didn’t hear about it.

Of course there will be idiots, there always are. We’ll have our Falwell-style idiots claiming divine retribution against “The Big Easy” for letting women bare their breasts, men to consume beverages of an intoxicating nature, and for allowing Vinay to roam the streets unencumbered. You’ll also get your standard jihad-screaming loonies claiming a different kind of divine retribution for allowing women to drive cars and smoke cigarettes, listen to rock music and touch chicken feet on some holy Tuesday afternoon, or something stupid like that. The worst of all, because they'll get thrown onto the pile of bad science of global warming, global cooling, and other undecided stuff that gets far too much credibility with far too little evidence, will be the moonbats that see this disaster as evidence of the failure of the President's environmental policy, as if five years of GWB in the white house has caused the Earth to start breaking shit in retribution for so many people voting Republican. Oh, and we can’t forget the assholes: the looters, the crooks and the profiteers. News reports are already hitting the wires of people breaking into Winn-Dixies and department stores around the city.

Did you know the three top-selling items when people are preparing for a hurricane?
1. bottled water
2. beer
3. strawberry pop-tarts



Despite the idiots and assholes, most people, the ones you won’t read about, will simply leave and hope for the best. They are, like me, reading “hurricane blogs” and watching the television at the same time, though in Portland (as I’m sure is the case with the rest of the country) the news coverage is hyperbolic compared the stuff I can read on the local news wires. “New Orleans under 28 feet of water? Find out at 10 o’clock, only on FOX.”

It seems people are more likely to panic at a soccer riot than a genuine disaster, natural or otherwise. When the shit hits the fan, humanity, by and large, puts aside their differences and starts picking up the pieces. After September 11, 2001, while Palestinians danced feverishly in the streets in celebration, Americans lined up to donate blood and write checks to the Red Cross. When the tsunami hit southeast Asia, the United Nations bickered about who was going to pay for it, while U.S. Army helicopters flew in food and water and private American charities, whose contributions to the cause outweighed the donations of every other country on Earth, began preparations to rebuild the devastated villages.

Humanity is amazing in that it can so easily become a force for purposeful and positive change in times of crisis, especially Americans.

Chin up, y’all. Our hopes and manifestations are with you, and I’m just glad to know that my own family and friends are safe. If you have the time and the scrap to spare, donate a few dollars to help those affected by the disaster. Look here for a list of charities and aid organizations already mobilized alongside our National Guard to provide shelter, food, and water to those in need.