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2003sep01. Talk Different: An Alternative to Idle Conversation.

2003sep01. Mail.

You people have too much time on your hands! Nuts to you!

Yeah, I shouldn’t have time to do what I want. When people use this phrase, I get out my little ink pad and pound their foreheads with my large “SHEEP” stamp

2003sep02. “Look, let’s go through this again. If you want my business – if you want to find a house for me – you’re going to have to put a noose around your head and step inside this coffin, so it’s like you’re dead twice or some shit. I don’t think I’m asking for the moon, here.”

2003sep03. Adbusters sneaker. You amuse me, you little turncoat magazine. These two comments by Adbusters honcho Kalle Lasn just don’t add up:

“We’re negotiating with some people in China, we’re looking at Indonesia, and we’re looking at doing it right here in North America,” Mr. Lasn said, adding that “the sweatshop rhetoric has gone a little bit too far.”

“We’re going to make sure this is not a sweatshop,” Mr. Lasn said. “I think a lot of this ‘let’s do it locally’ is just a lot of trade union, old left talk.”

So you’re going to produce shoes “right here” in North America, but not locally? What? It’s subversive. It’s brash. It’s radical self-expression. It’s bullshit. [via new jack almanac]

2003sep03. More wishy-washy action from Adbusters:

This: For the past 10 years, Phil Knight’s been laughing at us. And he’s been playing games with us. And we have uncooled him hardly at all. He’s still flying high.


This: Today, Phil Knight’s Nike is a fading empire, badly hurt by years of “brand damage” as activists and culture jammers fought back against mindfuck marketing and dirty sweatshop labor.

Hey Lasn, now every time someone reads a Nike-critical article in Adbusters, what single thought is going to be most pervasive? Remember, they’re fighting “mindfuck marketing.”

2003sep07. Surreal Peanut.

2003sep07. Translated Mexican candy names.


2003sep08. Inflight Magazine [2] [3] is a pseudo-inflight magazine that contains a history of hijackings up to the year 2000 (with a wholly unneeded detour to examine both hacker-related “hijacking” and the pieing of various corpo-politico scum), along with a fake safety card and “barf bag.” I’m still churning my way through the commentary, but the hijacking accounts feature one surreal episode after another:

The look on his face was a strange combination of amazement, amusement, and exasperation. “You know what?” he exclaimed. “I think this guy is asking for a credit card!” I leaned back in my chair and rolled my eyes skyward. “A credit card! You mean he wants us to pay for fuel so we can hijack ourselves?”

The hijackers peered suspiciously out of the windows. Was there something perhaps a little overdone about this enthusiastic welcome? The doors of the airplane remained closed. An official approached with a megaphone. “This is Pyongyang and we welcome you,” he called out engagingly. “Come down!” Well, perhaps it really was Pyongyang after all. One of the hijackers went to the main entrance door and was about to open it when another yelled at him to stop. Wait – something was wrong! He had seen a car of American make parked near the terminal building. And just then another hijacker turned on his transistor radio and heard English voices and jazz music. [ ... ] “This is not Pyongyang,” one hijacker shouted back through a cockpit window. “This is Seoul. If this is Pyongyang, show us proof!”

Aboard another hijacked National Airlines plane headed to Cuba, air pirate Tony Bryant brandishing his .38, takes a passenger poll: rich or poor? Then robs them accordingly. One stewardess graciously offers her wallet but he refuses. Black passengers are also robbery-exempt.

2003sep08. I was just going through some really old mail messages – back in the frontier days of weblogging (“Weblog #23” – I still have the patch) and thinking to myself “wow, I used to get a lot of strange mail back then.” But now that there are, what, five million weblogs – everyone’s too busy writing for The Net to be nuts. Then I got this, literally 47 seconds ago.

important: if satana gone by jesus in to desert 2000 years ago and jesus dead under him and his devils on the cross this significat only one think: GOD don t created the hell for him!the hell is been created by satanaself for killer of our souls.souls which are without sex as devils and no for drugs as fisical: so devil only heppyness to murdered who going to PARADISE on the our pianet ... ... .so in the hel beetween torments are only satanist people!saved your souls please!

AOL: Allowing people who are touched to touch us.

2003sep09. CRAM

2003sep13. After visiting Nogales (Mexico) we were in Nogales (Arizona) looking at The Wall. Around fourteen feet high, with six or so strands of barbed wire facing the other way. “It doesn’t seem like that would be that hard to climb over,” I said. Ten seconds later, a Border Patrol truck came zooming up and stopped between us and the wall. My girlfriend spotted the jumper, thirty feet to our left, booking through the parking lot and passing a couple of surprised tourists. The Border Patrol agent jumped out of the vehicle and tried to pursue on foot. I was looking at all the bystanders, to see if their body postures were giving the jumper’s location away, but everyone was watching the agent. The agent pulled his Maglite (this is at 5pm – head cracking? tinted car windows?) and shuffled back toward Immigration in some sort of reverse-psychology tactic. We scrambled out of there, not wanting to become detained witnesses. Rolling by fifteen minutes later, we saw the two tourists being questioned by at least five Border Patrol agents. We congratulated ourselves on our foresight and proceeded Northward to see three-inch grasshoppers in Tumacacori that weren’t there anymore.

2003sep16. Advertising in Mexico.

2003sep21. Old penny arcade photos.

2003sep23. Ran into a tarantula in Sedona. We were three feet away from it, and it just kept ambling across the trail ... so I got out the camera and took some low-to-the-ground action shots. It tolerated this for awhile, then it came to a dead stop and raised up two of its legs and that just creeped me the hell out, like it was gathering strength to shoot a laser beam through my skull. “You’ve had your fun, little boy, now run along.” We moved forty feet away and it held the Solid Defense pose ... it’s quite possibly still hunched up like that, ready in case I drive back there one day. Waiting.

2003sep24. National Teeth Falling Out Day.

2003sep25. I’m an alumnus

2003sep26. There’s a magical mound of dirt in the driveway. The driveway is a dirt road, and there’s a mound of dirt in the middle of it, it could probably just fill a two-liter bottle. I thought maybe a truck dumped it out when they encountered our brand-new Railroad Ties That Keep You From Casing Our Joint Barricade feature, so I shovelled it out of the way and dug a little hole.

The next day the mound of dirt was there, again. “Huh.” That’s too much dirt for insects to move overnight. I dug down a little bit to see if I could find a hole ... nothing. So I took the dirt and shovelled it out of the way and made a bigger hole.

The next day it rained. The day after that, the mound was back. My girlfriend reminded me that toads burrow, but the dirt is (or was, before the rain) scrabbly tough, almost impossible to dig through. And toads usually do their business where there are other landscaping features and softer dirt. For right now, I’m going with the toad theory. I thought I would go back to the mound and pour some water over it, a little drink for the toad, but then I thought I might accidentally drown it. So I jammed some Baby Ruths in the mound and hoped for the best.

2003sep26. Exhibit, Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.

2003sep26. A visit to the Petrified Forest National Park brings with it endless opportunities to be reminded not to take petrified rocks from the area. It’s in the pamphlet, it’s the singular theme of a piece of paper handed out with the pamphlet, reminders are printed in the newsletter, reminders on every single sign, separate signs posted in different spots ... my favorite bit was the emergency phones made available for, among other things, “reporting wood thefts.” “OH MY GOD, THEY'RE GETTING AWAY!!!” Some of these petrified thieves eventually break down and return the rocks to the “forest,” usually accompanied by a note. [all errors original to note]

June 22, 1990

To whom it may concern

Enclosed here is a piece of petrified wood that my husband took last August 7,1988 in your park. We kept this in the globe compartment of our van since then.

Since we got this piece of wood, we encountered lots of bad luck. First incident that happend was I got accident in this van last November 1988. Then on December of 1989, we sold our shop. One week only before the escrow closed, one of our worker had an accident. We paid all his hospital bills and work compensation. Since we didn’t had insurance. Last May 1990, my sister came over from Australia to attend the wedding of our sister. On the wedding day, she fell down in a flatform. I am responsible for her since she’s a tourist only. I brought her to the doctor. I spent few hundred dollars. These are some few things. The worst case was I got laid-off this June 1990 after 14 years in the company.

I don’t know if all of these are coincidence only. My husband does not believe on superstitions. Anyway it will not harm us if I'll return this piece of wood. I’m sorry and I apologize.

Liza Minelli

They whited-out the name pretty good, but I figured it out.

2003sep26. Mail.

re: the story about the petrified wood. I swear I read something a long time ago about a volcano in Hawaii where people were returning lava rocks by mail for similar reasons, ie. bad things happening to them since they stole from the volcano goddess. I seem to remember that the post office was swamped with all these rocks, and it was somebody’s job to drive them from the post office back to the volcano. No word on whether things improved for people who returned the rocks ...

That’s what I could do! I could do that job. Rock delivery person. In Hawai'i. I’ve been meaning to put up some pages on a “back stage” tour of the California Academy of Sciences which I will probably call “Back Stage Tour California Academy of Sciences 2003 2000.” The dear, dear person leading us around showed us a similarly-swiped object:

Hello There! (5/19/03)

my name is scooter. About six or seven years ago I wandered out of the museum in search of adventures, fame, and/or fortunes. I’ve been sadly disillusioned by the world outside and almost died of homesickness. Some nice folks in North Beach offered to mail to the museums doorstep; now it’s up to you to make sure I get back to my home in the African Watering Hole at the end of the hall.

You can practically smell the guilt. Must of have been hippies on some freaky-deaky love hoo-doo psych-out glam fest drug trip. I hope the Curse of Scooter is in full glorious vent.

2003sep26. Nuh nuh nuh NUH NUH!!!! It’s time for another exciting episode of the thrilling adventures of the dastardly feats of the chilling scenarios of the jaw-tingling spine-dropping madness of the weasel-poppin’ glad-handing hang-gliding shape-shifting clock-punching cube-gleaming SUV-freefalling Hi Karate-sniffing stevedore-touching basket-yelping mindless-typing good times of KLEPTOCAT!!!!! [loud unexplained honking noises, like the “A-OOGA” horn but not so in-your-face obnoxious, maybe like a hand-held bike horn but bigger, oh, put the A-OOGA horn back in] [also: Newspaper article w/photo]

2003sep26. Exploding Dog: I computered it

2003sep28. There are four mounds in the driveway now. All signs point to an infestation of some sort of rodenty-rodent-like rodent. The hole (one is finally visible) is bigger than a lizard hole, yet smaller than the hole I’ve dug for myself for winter. In other news, we were driving across a small wash yesterday night and there was an owl perched on the bridge railling. We had already seen one at the Desert Museum, but this one wasn’t, for example, chained to a guy talking all about the owl, poor thing. Bridge owl watched us drive by, then we turned around and parked next to it. It just stared at us and the car, until, of course, I took out the camera, then a flurry and it’s gone. Smart owl. We kept driving down the road, to see if we could find the skydiver we had decided to chase earlier. We caught up with him, he was heading straight for the car – he had one of those fans on his back -- dangling his feet a little above the desert crops (green, non-sand). I took out the camera and he goosed the engine to go over us and the telephone wires. Smart fan guy.

2003sep28. More Petrified Apologies.

7 – 16 – 84

To whom it may concern:

While I was in your marvelous petrified forest a week ago, I gathered (against my conscience) five or six small chips of petrified wood.
Upon reaching your museum and reading some of your “conscience mail,” I returned to the car and returned the chips to the park ... except one little chip. I thought that having one small chip would surely not affect the park in any way.
But after leaving the park my mind cleared a bit more and I realized that one small chip – one out of the millions in the park – did make a difference. If everyone bent to their temptations – everyone would take a little, and invariably we would have less of a park to enjoy.

Please, then, for yourself and future visitors to this forest, go back to your RVs and cars and return the petrified wood that you think no one will notice because someone already noticed ... yourself.

Liza Minelli again

Why is it when thieves go cold-footed they suddenly think they’re supposed to reform everyone else? “I’ve been there man, stealin’ the wood ... you don’t know what it’s like.

2003sep29. If you’ve been following the Diebold voting machine scam, you may be amused by the following excerpt in the book Writing the Modern Magazine Article from an article in the October 1967 issue of Playboy:

“Sometimes computers are used for prestige purposes, sometimes as a means of avoiding human responsibility,” says computer consultant John Diebold. Diebold, at 41, is a millionaire and an internationally sought-after expert on “automation” (a term he coined in the early 1950s). “Scientists and executives have discovered that it’s impressive to walk into a meeting with a ream of computer print-out under your arm. The print-out may be utter nonsense, but it looks good, looks exact, gives you that secure, infallible feeling. Later, if the decision you were supposed to make or the theory you were propounding turns out to be wrong, you simply blame the computer or the man who program[m]ed it for you.”