Corn Chips And Pie

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #69-60

2010-02-19T12:12:00.003-05:00

#69: Feldspar

Common, but uncommonly great, if you know what I mean.

#68: Power Locks

Very convenient.

#67: The Interdental Fricative

Without it, lisping wouldn't be nearly as funny.

#66: The Fake Punt

With a fake field goal, you're swapping a shot at 3 points for a shot at 7. With a fake punt, it looks like you're giving the ball away... but NO! And, unless it's a fumblerooski play, the punter usually has to do something to which he is unaccustomed: 1) throw the ball, 2) run the ball, 3) take a massive fucking hit. The fake punt gives rise to something even better:

#65: The Moment When Defenders Realize There's A Fake Punt
I love this moment. I could watch it on instant replay over and over again. "Ok, hit my blocker, drop back for the return... WHA?" If I had a "coach's clicker" (what ever happened to that?), I would wear the thing out.

#64: The Greater Kudu

Don't look for the lesser kudu further down on this list, for obvious reasons.

#63: Coffee Shops Posting That Onion Article By The Counter

You know, the one with the headline "Sources: Barista Not Actually Flirting With You". Lots of cafes go this route. Although it might seem like a big fuck-you to the customer, it makes purchasing coffee a far less pressure-filled transaction. Now you can wear anything when you go for your morning joe. This morning, for some reason, I had rubbed chutney over my body and then rolled around in Puffed Kashi. Ordinarily I would get dressed before stepping outside to grab coffee, but this time I didn't even put on my plastic batting helmet.

#62: Winter Olympics-Based James Bond Chase Scenes

It's kind of hard to go wrong here.

#61: Protein Folding

From what I understand, it's very important.

#60: A.O. Scott

I saw him in a Tribeca cafe last month. He looked doughy. If I had grabbed him by the lapels and spoken to him (spittle flying out of my mouth, misting his glasses), it would have been to compliment him on his review of "Away We Go," which was kind of perfect. God, Sam Mendes is horrible.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama
90: Foam
89: Dinosaur tributes
88: The way Jason Statham would pronounce "hydrocortisone"
87: Fruit
86: Light
85: Vernon Davis
84: 9969 Braille
83: Brick
82: The balk rule
81: Ink
80: This answer to the question "Is it possible to have wooden legs and real feet?"
79: Determinism
78: Quantum Mechanics
77: Will Clark
76: Man Vs. Wild
75: Jockeys
74: Glass
73: The Oval Logos Of The Late 1990s
72: Edamame
71: Baby Wipe Warmer Cleaner Holder Rags
70: Bouncing
69: Feldspar
68: Power Locks
67: The Interdental Fricative
66: The Fake Punt
65: The Moment When Defenders Realize There's A Fake Punt
64: The Greater Kudu
63: Coffee Shops Posting That Onion Article By The Counter
62: Winter Olympics-Based James Bond Chase Scenes
61: Protein Folding
60: A.O. Scott

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #79-70

2010-02-18T17:50:00.004-05:00

#79: Determinism

Takes the worry out of those awful circumstances when you're brushing your teeth but also have to urinate. Should you

a) finish brushing your teeth, then urinate?
b) stop brushing your teeth, urinate, then resume brushing your teeth?
c) urinate while brushing your teeth?

Ultimately, it does not matter, and you are causally (though perhaps not morally) blameless no matter what you think you decide to do. Initial conditions + the laws of physics = whatever, you know!

#78: Quantum mechanics

Like most of post-1900 physical theory, sufficiently opaque to provide aid & comfort to anyone seeking to rescue some cherished fantasy from implausibility (see free will, above).

#77: Will Clark

A racist hunter who had a massive belly by the end of his career, this sweet-swingin' phenom hit a home run off Nolan Ryan in his very first major-league at-bat.

#76: Man Vs. Wild

This show is awesome. Relentless hard man and self-promoter Bear Grylls performs increasingly stagy survival-type bullshit on the Discovery Channel. The show has finally abandoned all pretense that Bear is ever actually at risk or teaching us anything about survival. On the episode I saw most recently, Bear taught the audience that the best way to survive being stranded in the Sahara is to find either 1) a well, or 2) a section of coastline that has a shipwreck filled with octopi. The show seems aimed at people who have never spent any time outside while not complaining. Watch Bear climb down a moderately steep grade! "You've got to be careful around these sharp rocks. They could result in a twisted ankle.... or worse."

#75: Jockeys

They are adorable. Hey, you know what I also like? The word "space" when applied to a designed interior, and the word "piece" when applied to an item of design. "This is a great space for that piece." "I like this piece in your space." "What a great space! Ooh, nice piece."

#74: Glass

Of all the miraculous things in this miraculous, miraculous universe, glass must surely be the seventy-fourth most miraculous.

#73: The Oval Logos Of The Late 1990s

Remember when? Remember when you could get a free Nordic Track by going to www.freenordictrack.com? Remember when venture capitalists threw money at FreeNordicTrack because there were some really creative people working there, and-- although it was not yet clear what the business model would be-- FreeNordicTrack was revolutionizing the way that people got free Nordic Tracks? I remember those days. And I'm not quite sure, but I think that the logo for FreeNordicTrack was inside of a dynamic-looking oval, with an arrow shooting tangentially out of the oval and upward (never downward!) into space.

Ovals! Nothing looked as web-savvy as the oval. Nothing said "we are members of the digerati" like an oval.

#72: Edamame

Soybeans cost about 3 cents per ton. Edamame costs about $5 per pound. Yet again, the pigs have it easy, while we get screwed.

#71: Baby Wipe Warmer Cleaner Holder Rags

I know it seems totally ridiculous-- another example of consumerism gone mad-- but I swear these things have totally saved my life! These rags are tailor-made for cleaning the holders of baby wipe warmer cleaners. You'd be surprised how often baby wipe warmer cleaner holders get smudged. And of course our baby wipe warmer cleaner holders get a ton of use, because they hold all our baby wipe warmer cleaner! Will you excuse me for a minute? I'm going to go violently kill myself!

#70: Bouncing

Although it has been well-chronicled in lay science books, and it's a common factoid trotted out at cocktail parties, it bears repeating here: there is literally no reason why the phenomenon of bouncing exists. Physicists have run the numbers (because that's what physicists do: they run numbers), and both the Newtonian model and the quantum mechanical model work equally well with and without bouncing. Bouncing is an entirely frivolous bit of bunting on the universe. A signature flourish, if you will, by God. Indeed, many scientists have seen the existence of bouncing as evidence that the universe was created by a single Creator who gave his only son to redeem the sinful human race, and who allows instantaneous sanctification through the perfection of "holiness" in opposition to traditional Methodist thought but not quite in line with modern Pentecostal theology.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama
90: Foam
89: Dinosaur tributes
88: The way Jason Statham would pronounce "hydrocortisone"
87: Fruit
86: Light
85: Vernon Davis
84: 9969 Braille
83: Brick
82: The balk rule
81: Ink
80: This answer to the question "Is it possible to have wooden legs and real feet?"
79: Determinism
78: Quantum Mechanics
77: Will Clark
76: Man Vs. Wild
75: Jockeys
74: Glass
73: The Oval Logos Of The Late 1990s
72: Edamame
71: Baby Wipe Warmer Cleaner Holder Rags
70: Bouncing

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #87 - #80

2009-09-21T01:31:00.004-04:00

#87: Fruit

It's delicious and it doesn't hurt anybody. Except for that one time.

#86: Light

Helps you see stuff, etc.

#85: Vernon Davis

He's still kind of a tease, but he's a solid waiver wire pickup if your TE has a bye.

#84: 9969 Braille

It's an asteroid with an exceptionally slow rotation period. 'Nuff said.

#83: Brick

This unconventional film noir-- set in the halls of a modern-day high school-- marks a promising debut for writer-director Rian Johnson. Rated R. 1 hr. 50 min. 2005.

#82: The balk rule

It's to prevent the pitcher from deceiving the opposing team. It just needs to be expanded to include pickoff throws, signals from the catcher, hiding the grip with the glove, slide-steps, quiet conversations with the pitching coach, false mustaches, lies of omission, infidelity, and prostheses.

#81: Ink

The story of the liquid that changed the world. From the bestselling author of "The Gaussian Function: The Remarkable Story Of A Normal Curve" and "Greyhound Station Cock: A Memoir."

#80: This answer to the question "Is it possible to have wooden legs and real feet?"

From user never_sing_melody at Yahoo! Answers: "?? i doubt it. how would any blood vessels or nerve endings travel through wood to get to your feet?"

Doubt suffuses this answer. But that's a good thing: the first step to wisdom is knowing that we don't know.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama
90: Foam
89: Dinosaur tributes
88: The way Jason Statham would pronounce "hydrocortisone"
87: Fruit
86: Light
85: Vernon Davis
84: 9969 Braille
83: Brick
82: The balk rule
81: Ink
80: This answer to the question "Is it possible to have wooden legs and real feet?"

Back from the DL

2009-08-20T23:28:00.002-04:00

When I last posted, back in January, it was a completely different world. We were gripped by "Paul Blart: Mall Cop" Fever, sweating in bed and crapping ourselves. Rod Blagojevich was still in office, clutching his "football" nervously. Tucker Carlson was still alive. "Off the Wall" had just hit #1 in the Prussian Empire, propelled by a savvy guerilla marketing campaign in Vilnius. A team of Shaolin monks was preparing to play an Inca squad in Super Bowl -CDXCIII.

If I don't finish the Greatest Things Of All Time countdown soon, you and I both might-- might-- lose interest. So we're going into the speed round

BREAKING NEWS

2009-02-05T12:34:00.002-05:00

The Mystery of the Maple Syrup Smell (see here and here for Pulitzer-worthy original reporting) has been solved: fenugreek seed processing.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #88

2009-01-26T19:09:00.002-05:00

#88: The way Jason Statham would pronounce "hydrocortisone"

As in, "Looks like you could use a spot of hydrocortisone, mate." Were he to ever speak this phrase in a movie. Which he has not done. Sorry-- done which he has not.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama
90: Foam
89: Dinosaur tributes
88: The way Jason Statham would pronounce "hydrocortisone"

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #89

2008-12-17T12:20:00.002-05:00

#89: Dinosaur tributes

Friend MM alerted me to this odd little subculture on YouTube. As he put it, "If we act now, we could be among the very first to make fun of these people. Now is not the time for timidity!" And so we press forward boldly, heedless of the perils that threaten from every side.

As a lover of dinosaurs since the tender age of 5, I realize that, in a counterfactual realm in which I swallowed several lead fishing weights during childhood development, I could have become a prolific auteur of dinosaur tribute videos set to Gwar. Actually, wait a second. There is nothing stopping me from doing so now. Prepare to be rocked by a tribute to Compsognathus; music by Viking Love.

Here's a quote from the annotation to a video tribute to Spinosaurus:

"There is absolutely no point in arguing about Spinosaurus vs. T. rex. Especially on this video. I'll just remove your comment without hesitation. I'm bloody sick of people fighting about this. It's an endless cycle, and you can't win it. Nobody is going to change other peoples' minds."

An endless cycle without resolution. The only way out is in.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama
90: Foam
89: Dinosaur tributes

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #90

2008-12-04T13:44:00.002-05:00

#90: Foam

There was a vigorous internal debate about this entry; that's why it took so long. Corn Chips & Pie staff members-- a team of rivals-- were bitterly divided, turning this seemingly inoffensive substance into ground zero for the culture wars. There were harsh words, resignations, even low-grade violence (slap fights). Not even time may heal these wounds. The figurative ones, I mean. Allow me to recap the various arguments:

Pro: Ocean foam (or, if you prefer, "turgid, roiling sea-cream") is lovely.
Pro: The line "...to the oceans, white with foooooaaaaam" is the high point of "God Bless America."
Pro: Foam is a comfortable substance upon which to sleep.
Pro/Con: The very fabric of space-time may be a type of foam.
Pro: Foam "#1" fingers allow sports fans to convey a sentiment otherwise inexpressible, freeing the hitherto unrealized notion from the nebulous aether outside the gates of human communicability.
Pro: Prior to the invention of foam by Jesus Christ, people shaved with menstrual blood.
Pro: Some people enjoy foam on their twee little coffee drinks.

I really don't see what the fuss was all about. Foam!

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama
90: Foam

Good article

2008-11-12T14:53:00.001-05:00

Andrew Sullivan on Sarah Palin.
Here.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #91

2008-11-05T13:23:00.003-05:00

#91: Barack Hussein Obama
He would be higher on this list, but I'm waiting to see if he's an Islamo-Marxist who screws white women and kills their babies. If so, #1.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy
91: Barack Hussein Obama

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #92

2008-09-24T17:10:00.002-04:00

#92: The Scrappy White Guy
Having long since passed into the realm of cliché, one might justifiably wonder about its eligibility for the List. Fear not, pilgrim. American cities will always prefer the white guy with the .290 / .358 / .425 line to the black guy who is Barry Bonds. Todd Heap still occupies billboards in Baltimore, despite a recent level of performance that could not unjustifiably be described as "LeMasterian". Ryan "The Riot" jerseys outsell those of Aramis Ramirez. Probably.

Hey, who isn't a little "spooked" by the primal rhythms of your Terrell Owenses, your Doug Glanvilles?

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit
92: The scrappy white guy

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #93

2008-09-24T14:00:00.002-04:00

#93: Seeing Through Melville's Bullshit
From Variety comes welcome news: the folks who brought you "National Treasure" and "Wanted" are planning to "re-imagine" Moby-Dick. Quote:

Ahab will be depicted more as a charismatic leader than a brooding obsessive. "Our vision isn’t your grandfather’s ‘Moby Dick,’ " Cooper said. "This is an opportunity to take a timeless classic and capitalize on the advances in visual effects to tell what at its core is an action-adventure revenge story."

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony
93: Seeing through Melville's bullshit

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #94

2008-09-15T14:26:00.002-04:00

#94: Antimony

A late surge of online votes from Japan pushed this ahead of the breakfast sandwich. We really need to review our voting procedures; this kind of phenomenon violates the spirit of The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time list. I mean, yes pentavalent antimony used to be the first-line treatment for leishmaniasis, yes it has utility in the semiconductor industry, but-- let's face it-- it does not fracture evenly, and it is a poor conductor of electricity and heat. I mean, it makes bismuth look good, for Christ's sake. Antimony: the Kosuke Fukudome of elements.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich
94: Antimony

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #95

2008-09-08T02:14:00.003-04:00

We're back online here at Corn Chips & Pie with the countdown of the 100 Greatest Things Of All Time. The honeymoon was lovely; thanks for asking.

#95: The breakfast sandwich

I've asked my reclusive neighbor, who also happens to be a published author beloved by children of all ages 21-29 (male), to write a few words about one particular breakfast sandwich. Here goes:

Wilmer Ochocinco was a Dominican immigrant and Washington Heights corner store employee with a taste in paranoia that borrowed heavily from, indeed was being crushed under an unsupportable debt to, childhood memories of Spanish-language translations of In Search Of, with a peculiar focus on the Rosenheim Events of the late 1960s. Ochocinco spent most of his time waiting for a shadowy dispensation neither feared nor even secretly desired, when you got right down to it, which left his nerves in a state that less seasoned hands might dismiss as benign boredom, but whose silences and empty spaces could be inhabited by spores with baroque potential and sinister intent, if intent could even be read in those mindless, antic, and ultimately relentless algorithms borne on the winds of daily life, eager to settle into just such an empty little vessel as offered by his ennui. So he kept vigilant and active, making eggs and frying bacon with more than the customary degree of vigor.

On the morning in question, a rather doughy, if not in fact porcine, customer was sniffing around the deli counter but had as yet failed to place an order. Ochocinco, a true pro, continued his prep work alongside the other deli-counter cooks with apparent inattention but quietly flexed his leg muscles, waiting to leap toward the grill in cheery solicitousness. Then he felt it: an undeniable chill passing through his right arm. There was the far-off sound of wind chimes. An egg cracked… the egg seemed to fry itself, a piece of thermodynamic mischief entirely unaided by any visible sources of combustion, in what the few observers who would willingly discuss the phenomenon would come to describe as an act made in the spirit of self-improvement prevailing during the decade.

A slice of Boar’s Head Vermont Cheddar cheese joined the fun by leaping unbidden upon the auto-fried ovum, and two bagel halves spilled out of the toaster oven, a pleasing golden brown. Ochocinco had no memory of toasting this bagel.

“A-and a slice of ham, please!” added the customer, rapidly acclimatizing to the day’s miracles and moving quickly on to the day’s salted protein demands. And so it was done, but not by human hand. Not by living human hand. Ochocinco and the boys, faces flushed and nerves pleasantly jangled by the presence of this spectral helpmeet, began to sing:

Oh, we’re – the –
Cooks at your bodega,
Breakfast is served!
Whippin’ up an egg, a
Slice of cheese,
If you please!
Throw on some ham
And toast that buttered roll
Poltergeists welcome,
But please don’t steal my soul!

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
95: The breakfast sandwich

personal note

2008-08-13T02:15:00.003-04:00

I got married on Saturday to The Special Lady. She is wonderful, and I am very happy.

The countdown of the 100 Greatest Things Of All Time continues after the honeymoon.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #96

2008-08-05T19:55:00.004-04:00

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time! As decided by your votes, my wisdom, and a random walk ranking algorithm as per Freschi (2007)! But really decided by the cold empirical facts of greatness as made manifest since time began! Go!

# 96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA
I think it was my friend and fellow sushi chef Dug who told me about this barn/house/shack, sometime in the mid-1990s. A friend of his had shot a film inside it, or something. It was just off a country road that led out of the town of San Gregorio. I usually remember it as Pescadero.

One fine spring San Francisco morning my girlfriend and I drove down the coast and managed to find the shack despite somewhat vague directions. It just sat there beckoning young city folk, ignoring the sneers of the nearby artichoke fields. Young people are welcome and you can just mind your own damn business, is what it said.

It kind of made you work for it, that was the appealing thing. It was hidden behind a thick fog of blackberry bushes and other thorny vines, and plus it was on someone's property. The state of neglect, which I'll get to, might make you think that the owner cared little about such matters as trespassing, but a little experience had hinted at a positive correlation between disrepair and shotgun-brandishing.

So we kind of had to sneak in, parking well down the road and then wriggling through blackberry bushes. In truth, this was not much of a tourist destination. Nobody had been here for a long time. Spider webs crisscrossed the open doorway. Sunlight shot through the broken roof like security lasers in movies. There were flowers growing on the floor. There were vines and prehistoric empty jars. Lots of dust motes waiting for decades to be cleared for takeoff. Apples sat on the floor, having fallen from an overhanging tree and jounced around, eventually finding a nice patch of sunlight to rest in. It was dark and cool but the effect was bright and green.

What really made it was the nearly pristine Model A sitting right there in the middle of the shack. I am no old car expert but I think that's what it was. There were no signs of the Late Twentieth Century or of recent trespass by hooligans: no condoms, no graffiti, no disused jetpacks or postmodern novels.

There were other rooms, too. The kitchen had ancient appliances and peeling old wallpaper: behind the wallpaper were pages from 1883 issues of the San Francisco Examiner. There were classified ads for all kinds of old-timey things that would make hipsters' moustaches stand on end. Somewhere in the kitchen there were probably articles by Ambrose Bierce and Mark Twain clamoring for sunshine.

Shacks like it probably exist all over this great nation, but no other shack was there for us in 1996 when we needed it.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams
96: A shack near San Gregorio, CA

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #97

2008-08-04T12:37:00.002-04:00

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time! As decided by your votes, my wisdom, and the power of prayer! But really decided by the cold empirical facts of greatness as made manifest since time began! Yaaaay! Literally everything is eligible! Stay tuned!

#97: Pharrell Williams
I saw him at the airport the other day and asked Cormac McCarthy to write a short description of our interaction in the first person.

I looked to my right and saw a man wearing a flat-brimmed yellow baseball cap. He appeared rich. His presence drew the postures of his entourage inward, forming a nexus of celebrity attention that was fuel for some kind of subtle radiation. It blew outward beyond the baggage claim area and through the reinforced concrete and rebar of the airport walls. Its strength did not ebb but remained soft and strong like an undertow. It went out through the parking garage and the rental car dropoff area and out into the wide open godless stretches of low warehouses and traffic islands and pavement covering the soil whose opiate embrace kept the brittle bones of our past in repose.
Excuse me but are you Pharrell Williams, I said.
Yes I am.
You dont know it but you and I are not so different.
Pharrell Williams fiddled with his cell phone and looked wary. What do you mean, he said.
Well I guess I'm taller.
He looked at me and indeed he saw the truth of this observation, as I was taller. He looked back at his cell phone and started to send a text message. After some time he thought to himself: So I guess we're kind of different after all.

97th best!

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun
97: Pharrell Williams

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #98

2008-08-01T00:37:00.003-04:00

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time! As decided by your votes, my wisdom, and the power of prayer! But really decided by the cold empirical facts of greatness as made manifest since time began! Yaaaay! Literally everything is eligible! Stay tuned!

#98: The sun
It provides hope each morning and encourages amateur photographers each evening. It sustains life on our planet, and is the reason that all of us (except some shitty little bacteria hanging out near thermal vents) are here today. Not bad, right? The only thing keeping the sun from ranking higher on this list: it hasn't really shown me very much recently. No innovation. It's kind of a celestial Stereolab, cranking out the same thing over and over, content in stasis. Some critics might say "stagnation." Enjoyable, yes, but only 98th best.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: So Far
100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
99: Weird dream that a Merychippus had one time
98: The sun

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #99

2008-07-30T00:43:00.003-04:00

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time: #100

2008-07-28T13:50:00.002-04:00

Here at CC&P we're counting down the 100 Greatest Things Of All Time, using your votes, my noxious prejudices, a random walk ranking algorithm as per Freschi (2007), and the cold empirical facts of greatness as made manifest since time began. What's eligible? I'll tell you, you fat fuck. Everything. Everything aggregated or elemental, corporeal or conceptual, which one might modify with an adjective: in short, any noun. So let's begin:

#100: The 1989 Honda Civic LX sedan (manual transmission)
Who better to merge fuel efficiency with comfort than the wizards at Honda? This 4-door humdinger of a sedan, though not spectacularly novel in any single way, nonetheless perfected disparate mechanical and design challenges to create the perfect package. 92 horses, 1.5-liter 16-valve engine, double-wishbone suspension, and power windows. 98.4-inch wheelbase: a stretch limo? No-- the 1989 Honda Civic LX, haterz!

"The apogee of the economy car," proclaimed the renowned sculptor and unlikely automobile critic Ann Hamilton in a special article for Car & Driver magazine. Hamilton was not alone in her devotion to the 1989 Civic LX. Lenny Dykstra drove his Civic from New York to Philadelphia following the trade that brought him to the Phillies, later recalling the dreamlike drive down 295: "To be honest with you, I didn't think I could do it. I really didn't. I loved the Mets; I really loved them, you know? And the Phillies seemed a little, I don't know, kind of frighteningly masculine. So I thought I'd quit playing for a little while, maybe get into origami or something, I don't know. I had a faggoty little cousin who was really into making paper cranes. It sounded peaceful. But somehow-- I don't know how-- I got myself into that car sometime around 10am and drove down to Veterans for a night game. I always felt real good in that car. Safe. And guess what? It was a real ruminative drive. The engine purred at a resonant frequency with my thoughts, allowing me to see the trade in a wider perspective. I thought, fuck it. I'll play. And I did, and you can read the rest in the history books. I loved that god-damn car." It should be noted that Dykstra was driving a Mercedes when he drunkenly crashed into a tree two years later.

Plus, my Civic has 260,000 miles on it and is going strong.

The 100 Greatest Things Of All Time

2008-07-28T00:39:00.003-04:00

I'd like to take a moment to thank all of the enthusiastic readers who sent in their votes. Your participation and engagement keeps Corn Chips & Pie a vibrant community resource. I know a lot of readers get a kick out of our annual "100 Greatest Things Of All Time" feature, and-- to tell you the truth-- it's a lot of fun for us too!

I notice that our email is still being flooded with votes from regions as far-flung as McMurdo Sound and Cupertino, so I should just reiterate that the final vote tally was recorded last night. But don't lose heart-- save your votes for next year!

It's your support and your generous donations that allow us to bring premium Corn Chips & Pie content to you, for absolutely free, year-round. We want you to continue to enjoy this public web-log in perpetuity, or at least until the blacks take over the internet. So please, please consider a modest donation. You may contact our ombudsman for details on how to donate.

For $100 (that's only 100 divided by 12 dollars per month!), you'll receive as generous recompense for your largesse an authentic whipsaw emblazoned with the CC&P logo (designed by Chip Kidd). For $1000 (that's only 1000 divided by 52 dollars per week!) we'll send you the goat's bladder canteen carried by Dr. William Brydon on his tragic retreat from Kabul to Jalalabad in 1842 . For $10,000, which is a whole lot of money, to be honest with you, we'll send you three items from the Top 100 Greatest Things Of All Time. Our choice.

The countdown starts tomorrow with #100. Let's get ready to have some fun! But let's also be ready to learn.

Semioticians: They're Just Like Us!

2008-07-24T09:44:00.004-04:00

Interviewer: Are there any shows that you particularly love?

Eco: The police series. Starsky and Hutch, for instance.

Interviewer: That show doesn't exist anymore. It's from the seventies.

Eco: I know, but I was told that the complete series was just released on DVD, so I am thinking of acquiring it.

It's time for a new post

2008-06-13T10:59:00.002-04:00

I hadn't been to Dublin since 1996. Things had changed.

Twelve years ago, walking across a bridge that spanned the Liffey, I looked down and saw a seal happily munching on a salmon. At the time, I knew this was quite an unusual sight. I was happy to see it.

This time, every time I crossed over the Liffey, I would glance into the river and fail to see a seal eating a salmon. This would cause a brief, highly irrational flicker of disappointment.

I know you believe that this is merely a throwaway vignette with no larger significance, but no. No. I am about to spin this flax into some seriously spun flax. There is a deep lesson here: avoid anything interesting as if it were a strain of hemorrhagic smallpox. Buffer yourself from all pain.

High food prices = bad

2008-04-23T21:29:00.003-04:00

Of course you don't need reminding-- not from this blog, anyway (but apparently this blog needs reminding*)-- but now's a good time to donate money to the World Food Programme.** If you like squinting at the horizon, you can invest in rural infrastructure by building a road or founding an institution like a small farmers' grain cooperative. Just kidding. Food aid will do for now.

*I heard my old boss, Per Pinstrup-Andersen, on NPR today with his weird Danish accent, making good Danish sense. Yesterday I talked to a friend who's teaching a course on the world food economy in Minnesota, and who related a story about getting a bit agitated in front of her students re: the food crisis.
**By the way, hats off to whomever coined "silent tsunami" over at the WFP. Marketing genius.

conversation transcript

2008-04-07T20:14:00.001-04:00

Friend: Has anybody ever fucked a bear?
Me: No.
Friend: Dead bear?
Me: Yes!

2 important milestones

2008-04-06T03:03:00.002-04:00

First appearance of an infectious disease epidemiologist in The Wire: season 3

First appearance of Mr. Boh's smiling visage glowing eerily above Baltimore: season 4

Motoring in the north

2008-03-28T12:37:00.000-04:00

I don't know if you are aware of this, but it turns out that you can do a lot more with the internet than leaving agitated, punctuation-free comments on celebrity blogs.

A mildly interesting story follows. Read on only if you like old things.

I had some people over one recent night for some good old-fashioned drinking and garlic-eating, and I was cleaning my apartment in the morning. Picking some spent National Bohemian cans off my mantelpiece, I noticed something protruding through the bottom of the mantel, wedged between it & the wall above the fireplace. Upon fishing out the filthy thing, I realized it was an ancient postcard.

The front of the postcard features a pastel-colored photograph of a dull low skyscraper, with the caption "The John B. Starks Building. Louisville, KY." The rear of the card informs the inquisitive reader of the Building's size, location, and date of completion (1918). Apparently the choice of postcard didn't merely reflect an odd appreciation for the omnibus speculative office building: the entire text of the postcard reads "New Year's Greetings from 'The Starks.'"

Indeed, the postmark reads "December 31," but the year is illegible. It is addressed to a certain John S. Gibbs, Jr., at 1026 N. Calvert St. in Baltimore, MD. I live in a carriage-house, and enter from an alley running parallel to N. Calvert; 1026 is the address of the apartment building attached to the rear of my place. So this was John S. Gibbs, Jr.'s carriage house (and, apparently, postcard-storage facility).

30 minutes of Googling followed. To narrow down the date, I identified the stamp on the postcard. Not being a philatelist, this was kind of annoying, but still relatively easy: it's a 1c Washington of the Washington-Franklin series, issued from 1912-1922. So 1918-1922, probs.

Next, Gibbs. His dad was a fancypants finance man; he was a receiver of the derelict Baltimore Iron, Steel, and Tin Plate Company in 1897, and a director of the Union Trust, which had some trouble in 1903 when its railroad ventures in Mexico collapsed. The guy was a canning magnate: founded Gibbs & Co., Inc.

Our boy Junior was an usher at the Carr-Brown wedding in 1902, as covered by the New York Times. He had a lovely socialite wife. From the Baltimore Sun in 1918: "Mrs. John S. GIBBS, Jr., who has been occupying a cottage at Chatham, Cape Cod, since the early summer, where Mr. Gibbs joined her several times, is returning by motor and stopped over at Providence, R. I. On her return she will go over to the Eastern Shore, where she will visit her mother, Mrs. DIXON at her country home for the late season. Mrs. GIBBS, who was the beautiful Miss Anne RANSON, is with Mr. GIBBS motoring in the North. She has recently had her portrait painted by Mr. Alfred Partridge KLOTS, one of the most charming that he has done. It is to be placed in the home of Mr. and Mrs. GIBBS at Roland Park." Stop the presses.

By 1921 he was a director of the Fidelity and Deposit Company of Maryland. By 1946 he was the President of the Board of Trustees of Johns Hopkins Hospital. Hats off, Junior.

He died in 1953. His NYT obituary tells us that he was 77, that he was president of the board of Gibbs & Co. canners, that he died at his "Baltimore County estate, Tyrconnell," and that he was fancy in various ways. One may trace his surviving relatives on the web in a similar fashion.

Finally, the John Starks building: it still stands, on Fourth & Muhammad Ali in Louisville. It was sold in 2006. It is on the National Register of Historic Places, and has its own unspectacular Wikipedia entry.

30 minutes of Googling. I realize this is all fairly boring, but the notion that all this was easily recovered from one dusty postcard? God-damned amazing.

Au Clair de la Lune

2008-03-27T16:35:00.002-04:00

If you haven't seen it nor heard it yet, here is the oldest sound ever recorded. 1860.

Happy World TB Day

2008-03-24T18:44:00.002-04:00

9 million active cases per year. Rising.
Almost 2 million deaths per year.
#1 killer of those with HIV.
5% of cases multi-drug-resistant.
Most currently available drugs about 40 years old.
About 2 billion people-- 1/3 of the planet-- with latent TB.
Etc. Go wiki the hell out of it.

Correction

2008-03-03T21:56:00.002-05:00

I did not survive the Holocaust running drugs in an East Baltimore tower with my mother, who does not have Asperger's. The queue forms on the left for publishers who would like to offer me book deals for my traumatic journey through the hell of attention-whoring.

Memoir

2008-03-03T21:54:00.002-05:00

I survived the Holocaust running drugs in an East Baltimore tower with my mother, who has Asperger's.

In Praise of Cumin

2008-02-25T21:14:00.000-05:00

I praise you, cumin.

Kool-Aid Dreams

2008-02-13T01:01:00.002-05:00

Today's the first day that I actually believed-- momentarily, drunk & stoned & addled by thousands of neurofibrillary tangles-- that Barack Obama will be the next president of the United States.

Nuggets: let's be great in 2008!

2008-01-07T15:26:00.000-05:00

Power out here. A tow-truck driver in Canada once told me of how he lived "off the grid" for a year, starting on the highly symbolic 20th of April. (4.20!) He kept his beer cold by snaking an extension cord into his neighbor's electrical socket, and similarly powered his computer and desklamp. "It's actually really easy to go without hydro [in English: electricity]; I don't know why more people don't do it."
Dead branches on the tree of possibilities: Paleo-Future.
Lacking power (GIANT STORM! DID YOU HEAR?), and needing to finish an epidemiology paper by tonight, I have spent the past few days in Bay Area cafes with my laptop. Hmm. There do seem to be a number of people on their laptops who are "young, male, decently attractive and successful in a way that doesn't seem correlated to any kind of virtue" on their laptops. Notice the careful phrasing that stakes out a neutral position on the question of my membership in the group; I report, you decide. There are secret signs. There is a highly structured social order, saturated with ritual, that has almost surely been described on This American Life. Most surprisingly: cafes here give out free beef jerky to anyone toting a laptop.
I've overheard un-gilded gems like, "Oh, he's your typical Sufi mystic..." [knowing chuckles].
And a Lycra-clad man attempting to start a conversation with some Germans, using a tone more appropriate for 2-year-old retarded children: "I work with your leaders. The leaders of your country. They do not think about the future. They are very slow in adopting the e-lec-tric caaaarrrr." Here he turns an imaginary steering wheel, thereby creating a word-picture. One German says, "We are not fresh off the boat. We have lived here for 40 years." They subsequently ignore him.
Also: "I want Obama, like, so bad." Memo to Barack: the voters of the SF Bay Area are spreading their electoral legs for you.
Gawker has linked to Corn Chips & Pie. I now face a challenge previously confronted by countless bloggers before me: getting one's girlfriend to give a shit.

TIGER ATTACK UPDATE

2008-01-05T16:31:00.000-05:00

The fact that it is now raining in the San Francisco Bay Area has resulted in a lamentable suppression of tiger attack news. For those of you unlucky enough to be elsewhere-- and thus starving for information-- I can report that each day here has brought a new banner headline, a new stunning revelation, a new angle to this horrorshow horror show. The world will long remember the date of December 25th, or "12/25," as some have now dubbed it. It was Day One of the tiger uprising, ushering in a spirit of justifiable fear and dread. Silent Night, Deadly Night, indeed.

In the experimental spirit of such 20th century writers as Stein, Joyce, Barth, and Larry King, I shall now run down a list of tiger-related "items." I hope these trifles amuse you and help to shepherd you into personal growth in 2008.

At least two news organizations on the East Coast have run stories with the title "Tiger Attack-- Could It Happen Here?" (1) (2)
The San Francisco Chronicle ran a story titled "Talking to Children About the Tiger Attack." Indeed, what do we tell our children? We must teach them to face hard truths. We must teach them that everything-- even things we think are cute, harmless, and friendly-- literally everything can tear you to shreds and devour you. Parents, please put photos of angry tigers mauling deer above your babies' cribs. Fear is a useful emotion; eternal vigilance is the only solution.
You may not be aware that there have been reports suggesting that the kids who were attacked had been "taunting" the tiger, making roaring noises & such. Because of this, I have repeatedly heard people saying things like, "Well, I have no sympathy. What did they expect?" MM has noted that, despite the intrinsic hilarity and meaninglessness of the suffering of strangers, it does seem as if death-by-mauling may be excessive punishment for taunting. Normally it's 15 yards, tops.
In any case, what did they expect? We can never know the answer. Nonetheless, I posit that they expected the tiger to remain in its enclosure, and not to leap out and maul them. This is a naively common expectation in zoos.
Why, you may ask, has the tiger attack so gripped our imaginations? I suggest that one explanation may be that we have a deep, primal need to shit ourselves for no good reason.
Bruce Chatwin once suggested that our fear of the dark, and our fear of the other, derives from our evolutionary struggle against predatory big cats (back when natural selection liked to do weird shit with our psyches, apparently). I dunno. I recently found out that the elder Mr. Chatwin used to dress up in a tiger costume and scare the crap out of 5-year-old Bruce, if that helps solve the puzzle at all.

Right in the ol' Kornheiser

2007-12-18T00:25:00.000-05:00

I've long suspected that life is a zero-sum game. The awful symmetry is usually cloaked by a baroque accounting system that obfuscates via geography, temporality, scale, and old-fashioned smoke & mirrors. But once in a while, you can see a tight little couplet of yin & yang just hanging out, untroubled by its own obviousness.

I really enjoy football, but this enjoyment is perfectly canceled out by how much I fucking hate football commentary. Every Devin Hester juke is negated by an absurd causal narrative involving "momentum" spun by Jaworski. Every Adrian Peterson spin move is negated by smug moralizing from Kornheiser. For every time Urlacher reads the play and splits the offensive line, someone will say "in the National Football League" or "at the end of the day" or "no question." Where are today's Summeralls?* End the reign of the sports talk radio paradigm!

*Summerall would never discuss the "fantasy implications" of Brian Westbrook's flop on the one-yard line. He would spit out his mouthful of brandy and bellow "A heads-up play by Westbrook, tackling himself on the one," and for a minute you'd think it was Dylan Thomas reading "And Death Shall Have No Dominion." Then Summerall would call him "Michael Westbrook," breaking the spell; Dylan Thomas wouldn't make that mistake.

Most e-mailed stories of the future on NYT.com

2007-12-10T22:31:00.000-05:00

Jogging Cures Autism, Researchers Find
Seder for Foodies
36 Hours in a Self-Absorbed Haze
“Malice” is Nearly an Anagram of Islam
Feel Special? The Smugness Gene, Identified
Op-Ed Contributor: I Have a Strange Rash
At This Preschool, Nobody Spares the Rod
Starbucks Makes a Tentative Foray into the Yoga Trade
Maureen Dowd: Mildly Provocative Choir-Preaching
First “Metrosexual,” Then “Man-Crush,” Now Simply “Homo”

I have two things to say

2007-11-13T00:33:00.000-05:00

A Baltimore story. Someone I know was walking down the street at night. She saw a man attempting to cut down a tree (planted by the city in an interstitial sidewalk space) with a handsaw. The man was determined. Then (suddenly, out of nowhere, without warning, etc.) a man jumped from a third-story window onto the would-be lumberjack. The jumping man's leg hit the ground with a sickening crack, and his head slammed against a wrought-iron gate. The jumping man allegedly shouted, "Don't cut down my fucking tree." The lumberjack proceeded to beat the shit out of the jumping man (who presumably had little shit left in his system after the jump), and also attempted to beat the shit out of the observer's male companion. This is on good authority.
Jason Elam, the placekicker for the Denver Broncos, has written (with his pastor) a "novel" called Monday Night Jihad, in which ex-football players battle radical Islamist terrorists in the Middle East. One may infer that football metaphors ensue. One may also infer that the hero kicks a ticking time bomb through an impossibly narrow window from 52 yards, saving a buxom but devoutly Christian cheerleader from death-by-shrapnel. Please, please read this link. It is AWESOME. Teaser quote: "If Osama bin Laden himself were to pick up this book and read it, I'd want him to say, 'Yeah, that's why I do what I do.'"

Briefly noted

2007-10-26T00:32:00.001-04:00

Also on the Wes Anderson front:
The attorney for Travis Henry, the Broncos running back who faces suspension over smoking some weed, is named Steve Zissou.

Dignan learns to laminate

2007-10-24T01:03:00.000-04:00

"So he's like, 'Hey, Darjeeling, that's a kind of tea, right? Or, like, a place in India?' And, I'm, like, 'Uh, yeah, dumbass, it's both.'" -- a guy wearing a Sonic Youth baseball cap, standing in line at the Charles Theater in Baltimore, MD, smug as all git-out

So. Wes Anderson, then.

[This is a good article. It articulates a pervasive unease I feel re: Wes Anderson & race. Nothing riles you up more than race, I know, except perhaps liquor stores that won't accept payroll checks after midnight.]

[Here's what may be the prelude to a thoughtful stance. Come on, "cinetrix," you inconstantly third-person narrator, you. Flesh it out, if only for the children.]

We all expected more from Wes Anderson, mainly because of his adroitness at tapping veins of retarded emotion bulging near the surface. We mistook this for depth. It's amazing what a slow Rolling Stones song & borrowed nostalgia can do to the ol' Longing organs. Throw in some Jarmuschish humor & stage it as an elaborate diorama by Dieter Roth or Jean-Pierre Jeunet, and you've got a dedicated following. But that's ok; that's really ok.

A common defense of simple pleasures: they don't pretend to be anything else. But really, why should intent matter at all here? Who gives a fuck if the guy who made my burrito was hoping for a Michelin star? It's a goddamn decent burrito, and it's delicious.

So. I go to Wes Anderson movies for aesthetic rapture. For mild, offbeat laffs. For cheap heartstring-tugging and shallow symbolism. For material fetishization. For Owen Wilson. Not for "ideas," nor for character exploration, nor for the untangling of moral Gordian knots, and least of all for an admirable treatment of race relations. WA is the first half of WASP, and I've learned to live with that reasonably happily.

6.5/10. CC&P says check it out.

Cheap QALY-saver

2007-10-23T01:30:00.000-04:00

Here's to topes. ¡Topes!

Concrete mile

2007-10-22T00:04:00.000-04:00

I wanted to just briefly serenade a particular kind of bitterness: it's the long walk on a hot day through blinding daylight along some pedestrian-unfriendly stretch of urban desert. You've been there: along the back end of a convention center parking lot on an off day; underneath the Bangkok elevated train; past the unfinished development site in Delhi with weeds growing through the boxy modern concrete houses; plodding from one car dealership to the next, 1/4 mile down the marginal commercial road with plenty of streetlights but no sidewalks.

You feel vaguely ill, inexplicably weary, despite little physical exertion today. You wonder how you could have ever jogged, sprinted, played a game. It is really far to the next thing. It is really hot. There are no other pedestrians around and the air smells like exhaust.

Fantasy Football Wrapup

2007-10-18T01:25:00.000-04:00

I caught a few minutes of the Patriots-Cowboys game at a local Baltimore bar. The bar is half-gay, half-straight, 100% depressing. The hilarious yet (for Baltimore) unremarkable 15-minute circus that ensued fits poorly into a blog nugget; nonetheless, I feel compelled to note a few highlights:

The bar was nearly empty. I requested that they change the TV from a rodeo broadcast to the game.
2 beefy straight 40ish guys were too drunk to notice that they'd lost control of their 20ish trashy-hot girlfriends.
One trashy-hot drunk girl insisted on being taught how to sign "S-E-X-Y" in ASL by the gay identical twins sitting in the corner playing erotic touchscreen. "Oh my God you're deaf and that's so sad, but it's also awesome, really!!!!"
Her attention was diverted by a Baltimore Dude (30 but looks 50, no teeth, wiry strong, tattoos, white, shaved head) sobbing into his hands on the counter.
The trashy-hot girl then proceeded to ostentatiously comfort the Baltimore Dude, buying him shot after shot. "It's ok, sweetie, everything's going to be ok, you know that, right? Get drunk with me."
The Baltimore Dude attempted to touch the labia of the trashy-hot girl during one of the 116 hugs they engaged in. She slurred "That's not appropriate," then bought everyone another shot.
One of the 40ish beefy dudes pulled her away after he'd been rejected whilst hitting on a 45ish botoxed horror.
The Baltimore Dude then sobbed for 5 straight minutes. I tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he was ok, which of course he wasn't. He said "yeah," then collapsed backward off his barstool and lay on the floor amid spilled beer, overturned barstools, and wretched shame.
I've been to this bar twice in the past 6 months or so, and it's the second time I've helped someone up the stairs. The first time, it was a man who looked 150 years old, a ruined Statler/Waldorf, his mouth hanging open so wide it looked like he was cruising for plankton. With his son.
New England beat Dallas but may have lost Sammy Morris, making Kevin Faulk an acceptable desperation #2 back for week 7.

Mid-October nuggets

2007-10-18T00:51:00.000-04:00

You hung over? Feelin' like you need to reboot the works? Wanna purge the toxins? Read this article about Gawker. It's nauseating.
A quote from the Washington Monthly about the article: "The vast emptiness at the core of what these people do is almost unfathomable, and their self-loathing ranks right up there with crack addicts..."
Concert Review: 10/14/07, Of Montreal. Good music, wanted to punch Kevin Barnes in the throat. Biggest divergence between singer/song impressions since Telly Savalas' "Telly" (1974). I don't have anything against preening pretension, honestly, but I was in a bad mood; Freddie Mercury was in retrograde or something.
I was all set to launch a spirited discussion of Gary Taubes' piece on epidemiology (as made manifest in diet/chronic disease etiologic research: weak associations, unmeasured confounding, shaky conclusions), but then I got bored. And you would have too. So instead, I thought we could-- together, you and me-- launch a jihad against the phrase "junk science." Consider this an amateur fatwa (the hottest kind).

Instructions for making a nuclear bomb

2007-10-15T14:53:00.000-04:00

Here is a surefire recipe for constructing a nuclear weapon:

I have always been curious to see who searches for this kind of thing. Radioactive Boy Scouts, for instance.
Presumably, there's all kinds of crappy or scarily useful information posted online by lunatics.
Therefore, this post probably won't make it into Google's top 100 search results.
I might need some specific ordered combination of terms, like "bomb recipe" or "step by step nuclear bomb" or "nuclear bomb instructions."
Nonetheless, it would be awfully interesting if I got hits on this site from people searching for such a thing. I will report back to you.
I'm sure the NSA and the FBI and the BBC and BB King have posted all kinds of lures and traps online, and play the "track IP address" game.
By simply posting about this topic, I may find myself face-to-face with scary waterboarders in dark suits tomorrow.
Tell my mother I love her.
Mix 3 cups of flour, 1 tsp of baking powder, and 1 tsp of salt in a bowl.
Add 2 oz bourbon, a dash of bitters, and 1/2 a teaspoon of Triple Sec.

Colbert didn't quite nail it

2007-10-14T11:09:00.000-04:00

Although I wish he didn't look quite so smug in his photo, I think Frank Rich writes good columns. Here's one you should read. I'm looking at you, you complacent ass, stuffing your face with grilled chicken panini. You!

Don't roll your eyes at my motto, bro

2007-10-08T23:58:00.000-04:00

Apparently I was out of the loop. I thought "Don't tase me, bro" was a sufficiently obscure reference to serve as this blog's motto. Apparently not. Apparently I need to read blogs produced and owned by Wired magazine.

A quote from the story: "For those of you who've been on vacation on a Greek Island, or are just logging onto your computer from a remote location in China..."

This kind of embarrassed disclaimer preceding an explanation chafes my nerves almost as much as the phrase "Party foul!" does. Yes, for those of you who aren't pale men aged 15-40 who spend all day checking out the "most viewed" videos on YouTube...

Ok, fine. I'm just mad that I didn't hang out backstage with "Don't tase me, bro" before it was signed to a major label. Before the Nigel Godrich production and the string section. Anyway, I've replaced the slogan with a new one, a non-jokey one, taken from a nice essay by John Updike. I like this phrase. It is just the right flavor of bloggy narcissism.

24-23

2007-10-07T03:03:00.000-04:00

Hyperbole never tasted so sweet:

"Yes, in the wake of the greatest upset in college football's entire history--a history that stretches back to 1869, four years after the Civil War came to an end--one can fairly say that somewhere in a land of peace and joy, Bill Walsh is smiling broadly as he looks down on pupil Jim Harbaugh, and a bunch of Stanford men who have just attained a considerable measure of gridiron immortality."

Arabbers, dirtbikes, wheelchairs

2007-10-05T00:32:00.000-04:00

The streets of Baltimore prominently feature three means of conveyance that are at best rare in other cities. Bullet points!

Arabbers. They deserve their own post, if not Presidential Medals of Freedom. They are a dying breed (by a recent count, only 6 remain) of street vendors who hawk fruit and sundries from pony-drawn carts. They maintain an African-American tradition dating back nearly 200 years. I once noticed horseshit in my alley, and wondered: what the fuck? Then I saw some Arabbers passing through the neighborhood, shouting and vending, and I understood.
Dirtbikes. This is unreal. Groups of dirtbike riders careen through Baltimore like showboating swallows at dusk. Wheelies at 60 mph. Flying through parks, cutting through yards. Dodging traffic, even flying the wrong way up Highway 83. You hear the buzz of the motors after the kids are already past you, all pulling wheelies and exhibiting daring beyond anything you've ever displayed. Cops can't stop them. Every black kid in East Baltimore wants a dirtbike. The 8-year-old kid I mentor covets one like you'd covet a Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock. When we draw, he asks me to draw dirtbikes. I've thought about pedantically drawing him pictures of massive head injuries, but my artistic skills are limited. So I draw him dirtbikes. Dirtbikes!
Motorized wheelchairs. There are neighborhoods where they clog the streets. Distressingly piloted by young men, who exhibit an "I got nothing to lose" indifference to automobiles.

Lonely at the top

2007-10-02T12:18:00.000-04:00

I won both my fantasy baseball leagues. Yes, that's right. Shout it from the mountaintops. I won. And you know what victory looks like?

Victory looked like this: a slouched posture in front of the computer. An empty beer bottle in my right hand. Outside, ruined Baltimore briefly flattered by the dying sun. An empty apartment. The mild annoyance of friends. The utter indifference of loved ones. Countless hours of life wasted. And for what? For what?

All the National Bohemians I can drink. I don't think King Pyrrhus ever got that reward. Time to pay up. You know who you are.

stop the coming war

2007-09-30T22:57:00.000-04:00

Time to write your congressional rep. Really.

Be my Mal Evans

2007-09-28T00:01:00.000-04:00

I've spent the last week shirking my trivial epidemiological responsibilities and immersing myself in the Beatles. If you've never watched the 8-part Anthology-- and I hadn't-- it's well worth the time.

Much of it is crudely sequenced and laughably staged. Paul is interviewed while apparently captaining a tugboat. Later, he is interviewed while casually tending a campfire in the woods. Paul is kind of an ass. George, though admirably humble, sardonic, and down-to-earth, is interviewed in his palatial home. It appears to have been decorated by a billionaire Uzbek immigrant. 1994 brought some questionable sartorial choices. Paul's mullet. George's colorful sweaters. Ringo's LA Raiders cap.

But the documentary is riveting. Their Elvis encounter is a Liverpudlian Rashomon:

Ringo & George seem to be telling the truth about it (I paraphrase): "We were stoned out of our minds & all of us forgot where we were going. Then we realized, oh yeah, we're gonna meet Elvis. We fell out of the limo giggling, and there he was, hanging out on the porch watching TV and playing a bass guitar. It was weird. He was surrounded by sycophants and seemed kind of out of it. We stayed a few hours. Shame he was so threatened by us later, telling Nixon that we corrupted America's youth and all. Whatever."
Paul: "Oh, yeah, I was blown away. What a historic encounter."
John: "We just jammed with him, you know, all the old rock & roll standards."
George: "John said he jammed with him. Must have been when we were out of the room."

Much of the footage is surprisingly moving. Some highlights:

A performance of "I Am The Walrus" from Magical Mystery Tour.
Music videos of "Paperback Writer" and "Rain."
Twickenham bickering and jamming.
Yoko perched like a vulture, watching the lads play "Let It Be."
John being consistently clever and acidic. If you're going to be an asshole, might as well be interesting-- take note, Sir McCartney.
Ringo comes off well.
The transition from publicly well-behaved lads to irreverent hippies is shockingly rapid. It was only four months between "You're Going To Lose That Girl" and "Norwegian Wood," and less than a year between matching suits and Sgt. Pepper.
The transition from goofy hippies to gaunt, bearded sages is similarly rapid.
The mythopoiea of the Maharishi sojourns and lysergic trips is deflated by all the footage of young confused folks behaving in entirely recognizable ways. '60s envy is ameliorated if not cured.
Just watching the 4 of them play together is pretty damned thrilling.

The Semaphore of Squamuglia

2007-09-25T11:05:00.000-04:00

You really ought to check this out.

It was forwarded to me by DR, who says "It's hard for me to imagine something you'll find more interesting." DR knows me; what can I say?

[clarification: DR is not the Dominican Republic, with whom I have had little correspondence, other than a series of increasingly urgent communiqués in 1973 stemming from a diplomatic misunderstanding. Apparently "puta" is not Spanish for "put," FYI.]

1969 Old Farmer's Almanac

2007-09-24T18:32:00.000-04:00

During the months in 1968 while we have been compiling this 1969 OFA, we have been constantly reminded, by student revolts, racism, et al., of the need in this country for such strong traditions as this Almanac.
Don't graft trees when moon is on the wane or not seen.
"A common Case this, to call in our Neighbours to rejoice when all the good Liquor is gone." -Pliny
Abortion is no longer not being talked about. However, it may well be that medical science may render such laws obsolete almost before they are written. The "morning-after" pill....
"The Soviet Union could still efficiently destroy the United States even after absorbing the full weight of an American first strike," Mr. McNamara stated as he left office in May 1968.
In general, with NORAD in operation, it may be said we have about a 15-minute warning of a missile attack from anywhere in the world. This would allow three counter-attacks... however, there is not as yet any active defense against an ICBM.
[advertisement] KEEP DRY "The Masculine Way" -- MALE-DRI. $5.95 with 3 snap-in absorbent pads.

Ceramics and skulls

2007-09-21T19:24:00.000-04:00

A friend wrote me & helpfully informed me that she considers the new CC&P design to be "Very Southwestern New Age."

I was hurt, and even considered changing the background to a different detail of the same painting-- one with uniformly dark colors that evokes only haunting and very stylish Swiss expressionism. Not bolo ties, turquoise earrings, coyote trickster spirits, and desert tai chi.

Rain

2007-09-20T15:25:00.000-04:00

I don't have much to say today, this fine Thursday, other than a small suggestion. I believe this may be the solution to the minor problem you have. Consider this to be your horoscope for the day, but a scientific kind of horoscope, calibrated in antiseptic conditions by Finnish scientists. I think you should put on the Beatles' "Rain," and turn the volume up as high as your speakers can stand without distortion.

By the way, the Didion quote below is from an interview she gave to the Paris Review in 1978. I found it yesterday when I was cleaning out my "Favorites"-- the collection of 60 or so bookmarked links that I never, ever visit. I don't know when I found it, but I'd never read it. Along with the Didion interview, I found this and this. Please to enjoy.

Excerpt

2007-09-19T07:56:00.000-04:00

Q: How did the "fragility of Joan Didion" myth start?

A: Because I'm small, I suppose...

Look out, DiMaggio

2007-09-18T18:40:00.000-04:00

My friend and I share a subscription to MLB TV, which allows one to watch most games online. However. Said friend sneakily chose an password that is a crude play on my name. Let's just say it involves two obscenities ingeniously compressed into one. Had my schoolmates discovered this innovation back in 3rd grade, I might never have recovered.

So every time I log in, I am forced to slander my good name. It's, um, as if my beer mug were constructed of dried manure. (That's two fecal analogies in two days. Every streak starts small.) I don't intervene to change the password because I hate myself.

[Also, I switched templates because of bugginess w/my old template. Sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you and your loved ones.]

When it rains

2007-09-17T20:04:00.000-04:00

Michael Hirschorn recently wrote an article in the Atlantic that assails "quirk," in particular the brand peddled by This American Life. In my judgment, Hirschorn's point is like a nugget of tasty corn in a well-formed stool. Anyhoo, this passage caught my eye: "[Quirk] becomes a kind of psychographic marker, like wearing laceless Chuck Taylors or ironic facial hair—a self-satisfied pose that stands for nothing and doesn’t require you to take creative responsibility."

It's true. For too long, people with Chuck Taylors have evaded creative responsibility for their footwear. For the record: my pose is clearly labeled. My email address and cell phone number are featured prominently on my pose (28 pt all-caps Trebuchet font), and there is a comments section.

*Also, Lindsay Robertson points out that Mr. Hirschorn is creatively responsible for the presence of Celebrity Fit Club on VH1.

Keeping the doctor at bay

2007-09-17T15:15:00.001-04:00

I have missed you, blog. Oh, how I've missed you. It's just that I didn't really have anything I wanted to write. In conclusion: I haven't missed you, blog.

But today begins a noble experiment (forced daily posts) with two non-exclusive outcomes:
a) sweet creative release, preventing my tumescent creativity from bursting through an inconvenient collection of body tissues. O Creativity! Why must you swell inside me like a banal balloon?
b) declining blog quality, assuming we haven't zeroed out here already.

Null hypothesis: a = b. Effort is pointless but harmless. Life is meaningless. Sell your possessions, kiss a baby, murder a kitten; it doesn't matter; zero is the sum.
Alternative hypothesis: Corn Chips and Pie will save/destroy the world.

It's nothing at all

2007-09-16T11:05:00.000-04:00

I finally got around to watching Slow Century, the Pavement DVD. The highlight-- ferret around for it, because it's worth it-- is a clip of some KROQ promo guy or DJ stepping onstage before the band comes on. Upon being instantly heckled, he gamely carries on for a minute or two. When his multiple attempts to announce "upcoming shows" are met with angry shouts, he reacts by taunting the crowd: if it wasn't for KROQ, you guys wouldn't be "turned on" to Pavement, etc. Boos and cups of beer come flying at him. He keeps winding up the crowd. He stays onstage far longer than he has to (probably for 5 minutes), like a punch-drunk boxer keeping his feet. "Call and response, baby, call and response. It's an old blues trick. Picked it up in the House of Blues." He's not a hero; he's just a regular guy in extraordinary circumstances.
I also liked how Thurston Moore, the Ancient One of indie cool, was filmed in wrinkle-proof, deifying yellow light.
A long day of football awaits. Pray for me.

Cicada nuggets

2007-09-15T12:30:00.000-04:00

A long time ago, I wrote a post about a box of treasures and its unknown provenance. Recently, a man contacted me out of the blue-- he was a family friend of the woman who owned the box, and had some light to shed on her life. I'm shipping him the box; he certainly has a greater claim on it than I do. I'll miss you, Loie.
Ayn-Rand-worship, or even Rand-tolerance, never fails to irritate. Recently, it came to light that a shadow corporation involved in ground zero demolition-- and possibly corruption-- was named John Galt Corporation. Now it comes to light in the New York Times that a company providing software to TastyKake is named John Galt Solutions. Truly, there is no nobler manifestation of man's will and achievement in the field of excellence than the TastyKake. With the sign of the TastyKake as our symbol — the sign of free trade and free minds — we will move to reclaim this country once more from the impotent savages who never discovered its nature, its meaning, its splendor.
I hate baseball. What a silly sport! Grown men chasing a tiny ball around. It's so boring. How can people watch it? Me, I'll take the frenzied excitement of a nil-nil match between Portsmouth and Liverpool over a 11-10 "base-ball" yawnfest. This has nothing to do with the fact that the projected starting lineup for the Giants next year features Bengie Molina at cleanup and about 8 speedy light-hitting centerfielders competing for the leadoff spot. I honestly couldn't care less that the Giants' last 1B above replacement level was Will Clark. Maybe I'll become an Orioles fan. They seem like they're on the right track.

Of course, when I think of "burrito tunnel," my imagination conjures something else entirely

2007-08-24T09:33:00.001-04:00

I like.

Pieces

2007-07-31T18:59:00.000-04:00

RIP Bill Walsh.
RIP Ingmar Bergman.
RIP Michelangelo Antonioni.
RIP Dr. Nick Riviera.

George Comstock

2007-07-16T16:11:00.000-04:00

RIP.

Tiny nugs

2007-06-30T10:45:00.000-04:00

I was drinking some coffee in the East Village t'other day when I noticed that the guy next to me looked like Vin Diesel. Nah, I thought. Then I figured, yeah, prolly, because Parker Posey and her little annoying white dog came and sat with him after hugs & air kisses. Do all celebrities know one another? Is Buzz Aldrin best buddies with Shia LeBouf?
I guess I'm kind of like the Jet Li character in "Unleashed." Trained from birth to fly into a violent rage every time I see Robin Williams smiling smugly in bed with a curiously splotched Mandy Moore in the poster for "License to Wed." Except that my violent rages may be better described as impotent whining.
I really don't understand Tony LaRussa.
Owsley Stanley once said, "Everything in Cirque du Soleil is wet and French and gay and on fire." The LSD doesn't help, apparently. Or maybe it was Patton Oswalt; whatever.

Peanut shell buffalo

2007-06-27T20:27:00.000-04:00

I was hungry, so I decided to eat. There is a good burger place a few blocks away from me called Five Guys. It is a small chain in the Washington - Baltimore area. They make really good burgers.

I walked outside and into the hot soupy evening. It was like walking through a nice split pea, or perhaps potato leek, soup. I did not want soup; I wanted a cheeseburger. I was kind of angry when I got to the restaurant.

I ate my cheeseburger and fries in the air-conditioned restaurant, and my mood improved. It was a really good burger. Then I walked to the door and noticed a sign: "DUE TO SEVERE PEANUT ALLERGIES IN SOME NEIGHBORHOOD CHILDREN, PLEASE DO NOT THROW OR CARRY PEANUTS OR PEANUT SHELLS OUTSIDE THIS RESTAURANT."

Five Guys gives you free peanuts as a snack while you're waiting for your burger. This is pretty nice of them. Peanuts cost money.

I was curious about these neighborhood children, so I tried an experiment. I took a peanut shell outside, and dropped it onto the sidewalk. Nothing happened for a little while. Then I heard a low rumble that grew into a tremendous thundering, like the sound of buffalo hooves in the ears of Lewis and Clark. Around every corner, through every bush, over every rooftop, out of every drainpipe cascaded hundreds of slavering children with peanut allergies. Their eyes were not human. They had only one thing on their minds: peanut. The Peanut Horde approached with the rapidity of an allergic jet plane. Spittle was getting in my eyes. I snatched the peanut shell up off the ground just in time. The children disappeared imperceptibly, disinterestedly, shuffling off to their dens.

3 products that I will not buy

2007-06-25T20:00:00.000-04:00

I was in a bookstore and saw a book called "Punk Marketing."
I was listening to the radio and heard a commercial for RideAccidents.com, which is a website designed for people who are paranoid about dying on a roller coaster.
I was in a drugstore and saw a medicine named "666 Cold Preparation."

CC&P answers rock stars' questions

2007-06-21T15:27:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Jones,
I have considered this for a while, and the answer seems childishly simple in retrospect. If you are correct-- and I have no reason to doubt you-- then, by my calculations, going is half the trouble of staying. So I would say "go." Good luck to you!
Sincerely,
CC&P

Dear Mr. Morrissey,
I think it's best not to take things so literally here. When I say it's going to happen "now," I don't mean that it will happen in a moment that is asymptotically equivalent to the very instant my breath ceases to pronounce the word itself. I guess I sort of meant, "in a reasonably short period of time." I understand that you have waited a long time, and that you are even feeling a bit hopeless. For that, I do apologize. Please try to have a little faith, and in the meantime, take a nice bubble bath.
Sincerely,
CC&P

Dear Mr. Fogerty,
I have, and it was lovely.
Sincerely,
CC&P

Dear Mr. Malkmus,
Not really. I don't expect anyone else's attitudes toward me to change, for that matter. It's not like I'm that immature or deluded. But, you know, sometimes you just need to shake things up a bit. I think Ringo Starr once said something like, "Things got to a point where I had to either kill myself or shave my head. I chose the latter."
Sincerely,
CC&P

Dear Mr. Coyne,
Kind of. But I guess I never really thought of it that way. Thanks.
Sincerely,
CC&P

Dear Mr. McCartney,
Do you remember, about ten years ago, how a bunch of rural high school kids were getting killed by lying down in the middle of the road at night, just as the heroes had done in some dumb movie? I'm worried that might happen. Plus I like girls.
Sincerely,
CC&P

Shopping list

2007-06-14T09:17:00.000-04:00

Felix Pie
Coco Crisp
Candy Maldonado
Cookie Lavagetto
Tim Salmon
Randy Bass
Steve Trout
Catfish Hunter
Mike Lamb
Rob Deer
Rabbit Maranville
Goose Gossage
Chili Davis
Billy Bean
Zack Wheat
Jim Rice
Peanuts Lowrey
Pepper Martin
Bobby Wine
Chet Lemon
Darryl Strawberry
Rocky Cherry
Dan Quisenberry

The Tokyo-Montana Express

2007-06-11T14:21:00.000-04:00

Reggie Jackson once said, “'Articulate' is a word white people use to express their astonishment that black people can speak English.” (Note that this was about 25 years before the Biden-Obama thing. It’s true, I swear, even if The All-Seeing Eye of Google can’t back me up. This may have come from Maury Allen’s “Baseball’s 100,” a book that was my personal Bible when I was a kid. Willie Mays, #1, was my personal Jesus. I guess Napoleon Lajoie was my personal Seth, or something.)

Along those lines, it appears that “imaginative” is a word Westerners use to express their astonishment that Japanese authors are not bland, conformist salarymen whose only outlet for individualism is a creepy connoisseurship of schoolgirls’ underwear. This comes to mind because I’ve been reading a bit of Murakami recently, and every single back-cover-blurb follows an identical template: “East meets West in this imaginative romp joining American pop culture with Japanese spirituality. Careening from Bob Dylan to Gary Cooper to Zen koan, it’s as if contemporary Tokyo were placed in a blender and its intestines & pancreas were spattered all over the walls, creating a Japanese interpretation of Clifford Still etc. etc. etc.”

Well, OK, Murakami is imaginative. But I think we can all agree to ban “East Meets West” from ever appearing again, in any language (except ASL; come on, they’re deaf. Cut them some slack). East met West a long time ago; they became fairly well acquainted in the early 1900s, and despite a nasty spat during the early 1940s, they reconciled and began having casual sex during MacArthur’s occupation. East has a toothbrush & lots of clothes in West’s apartment. West has, like, a lot of its shit over at East’s place (it’s totally gonna want its Monks LP back in the event of a breakup; I’m just saying). Corn on Japanese pizza, made by Iranian immigrants = avocado in American sushi, made by Salvadoran immigrants. I’ve heard there are some feral Eurasian kids roaming free. Lock your doors.

Cognosce veritate; ecce libertas

2007-06-07T17:58:00.000-04:00

Corn Chips & Pie has been in rehab for the past month. I'm feeling much better. I realize that I may have made many mistakes, and if anyone feels as if he were hurt by these hypothetical "mistakes," I apologize. Unreservedly.

I have never felt better. I have an odd gleam in my eye, and I don't smell the same way I used to. I kind of smell like arugula. It's not unpleasant; it's just a little strange. Why do I smell like arugula?

My soft, measured, articulate sentences seem rote. There is a hollowness in my gaze. My pre-rehab narcissism has been replaced by a post-rehab narcissism. Rehab helps one to redirect one's narcissism-- it's like a makeover for one's self-regard. The pig now wears Dolce & Gabbana. Whatever.

Oh, and how have you been?

Corn Chips And Pie: don't pull the plug on me like you did to Schiavo, you heartless motherfuckers

2007-05-02T22:19:00.000-04:00

This is the way things are going: I just posted a link, considered it for a while, then deleted it.

It may have been funny. It may have provided a distraction from your genital herpes outbreak for, like, 3 minutes. Sure, it wouldn't have saved no baby sea otters or nuthin', but it may have turned your frown upside down. Inverted your frown, so to speak.

But when you don't post for a month, you get a little gun-shy. You want to return triumphantly. This link was not triumphant. It was moderately amusing. But, you know, maybe I should scale back my aims. Stay within myself. Hit the ball where it's pitched.

Whatever. I'm not dead yet, I swear.

Everyone needs a goat to scape

2007-04-10T21:18:00.000-04:00

It is yet April. I know. But the confidence limits have narrowed, and loom like Scylla and Charybdis. I can state with some certainty that this San Francisco Giants season will prove to be the worst since 1996, and perhaps even as bad as the Frank Robinson-led squads of ineptitude from the mid-1980s. And all this, dear reader, if you still exist, is the fault of Pedro Feliz.

Pedro Feliz will flail at sliders twelve feet outside the strike zone until he dies.
Pedro Feliz cannot advance to third a runner on second with nobody out.
Pedro Feliz was instrumental in the politically motivated firing of several U.S. Attorneys.
Pedro Feliz looks at the toilet paper every single time he wipes his ass, even the first time.
Pedro Feliz is self-righteously indignant that the hoi polloi failed to recognize Joshua Bell playing violin at the L'Enfant Plaza Metro stop in DC.
Pedro Feliz finds ethnic cleansing "soothing."
Pedro Feliz has three nipples and smells like fetid bongwater.
Pedro Feliz is preventing our troops from receiving adequate body armor.
Pedro Feliz wants to name his son Cody.
Pedro Feliz has a Chinese character tatooed on the small of his back. He believes that it represents "strength."
Pedro Feliz refers to Zinfandel as "Zin" and Cabernet as "Cab."
Pedro Feliz wishes he were a woman so that he could have an abortion.
Pedro Feliz is a single-stranded RNA retrovirus.
Pedro Feliz arranges his pubic hair into cornrows.
Pedro Feliz was totally trying to get with your significant other the other night. Seriously. I saw him. He was really, like, skeezy and shit. He was all, like, "I really think you have amazing eyes," and when he was told about you (you know?) he totally didn't care. He just kept on giving a really sensual massage and surreptitiously adjusting his awkward erection.

Legalize it

2007-04-03T22:30:00.000-04:00

Keith Richards snorted his dad.

Humble nuggets

2007-03-28T22:25:00.000-04:00

Life is cruel, but baseball season starts soon.
The Northeast Market in Baltimore is pretty much a giant public health menace, with disgusting greasy food stalls and vermin &c; armed robberies right outside are alarmingly frequent. But it's cheap. Anyhoo, at the Korean-run "Surf & Wok" you can get a weird amalgam of Mexican and Asian food. For $3 you get the "chicken fajita wrap": teriyaki chicken with Sriracha chili sauce, rice, cheese, sour cream, tomato, and lettuce.
Which reminds me of the Ruthlessly Efficient Korean Bagelry on the 2100 block of P St. in DC. I can't describe its wonders, other than to say that it is ruthlessly efficient.
The other day, me & my friend were invited (out of desperation) to attend a fundraising breakfast for the mentoring program in which we lazily participate. I'd kind of like to flesh this story out in its own post, but let me just say that my friend killed at the breakfast. Had the room in the palm of his hand. And it reminded me (because this is really about me) that I really need to practice my anecdotes.
It hasn't escaped my attention that CC&P is in a bit of a slump. A week without posting. 4 bullet points with no jokes or even points. I'll get my swing back, though. I just need to keep working on fundamentals, and it'll come. Gotta stick my stick up.

cloglog

2007-03-22T23:57:00.000-04:00

I'd just like you all to know that the 27 pounds of Argentine beef I consumed are still making their way through my system.

Happy Nightmare Baby.

3 daily sights

2007-03-21T19:01:00.000-04:00

An advertisement on Baltimore city buses, featuring a syringe labeled "HEROIN" being split in twain by a glorious cross. "The ONLY faith-based methadone program! $11/day".
A giant billboard, featuring a profile of Rodin's The Thinker. "AM I THE DADDY? DNA paternity testing."
A big armored van parked by route 83, with bright orange and red lettering heralding mobile bail bonds services.

Mighty winds

2007-03-18T22:44:00.000-04:00

A week in Buenos Aires, and every observation I have about the place is grounded in cliché. It is very European. There is lots of tasty beef. There is some tango, which is very sexxxy. Emaciated over-surgified women run rampant. I failed to spot any Nazi war criminals. I hopscotched through no infinite libraries. I drank good, inexpensive, red wine.

I am a failure as a blogger and as a human being.

The week's love affairs

2007-03-12T22:42:00.000-04:00

I am SO SORRY for being out of touch. I love you all,

Athens, Georgia
Mr. Wayne Thiebaud
Joni Mitchell
Jack Clark
Patrick Fitzgerald
Joanathan Didion
The brave marine biologists dedicated to ferreting out the Giant Squid
Mel Blanc
Samantha Power
Chet Lemon
Lisa Nowak
Sam Flanagan, whose merging of Lily Allen's "LDN" and the Stone Roses' "Waterfall" overwhelmed any possible objections
Omar Vizquel
Patterson [duckpin] Bowling Center, Baltimore, MD

In Buenos Aires (I am so goddamned fancy) until next week. Stay sweet.

3 things and a picture of Kent Tekulve

2007-03-05T21:13:00.000-05:00

Baltimore would do well to change its slogan from "BELIEVE" to "GIVE UP."

Do you have this problem? I often forget to set Itunes to shuffle, and as a consequence, I've heard the opening bars of the 13th Floor Elevators' "Slip Inside This House" about 5000 times.

Great quote from John Ashbery, via the Dust Congress: "I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too."

happy birthday kenton tekulve

What's in the box?

2007-03-01T00:38:00.000-05:00

Once my friend and I found a dead osprey on a street corner in Baltimore. It was very large, flawless, and still warm. This seemed strange at the time. We wrapped it in a discarded fleece blanket and put it in a cardboard box. This seems strange in retrospect. We carried it down the street, intending to give it a Viking funeral (set box afire & set it adrift in the harbor). A homeless man asked, "What's in the box?" We said, "Dead osprey." He said, "You mean that bird? Oooooooh, I saw him hit the window. Smack!" As often happens, we were distracted by a bar. We entered the bar and drank, using the mysterious box rather successfully as a conversation piece. We were asked to leave the bar.

This reminds me (for no reason) of a homeless guy in San Francisco who would exhort passers-by to take a bag that was sitting on the sidewalk. "Take the bag. Aren't you curious? It's yours. Take the bag. There is two million dollars in that bag. I am conducting a social experiment. Take the bag. Take the bag!" Nobody would ever take the bag. There was a pair of tennis shoes and a hoodie in the bag.

Artyfactual nuggets

2007-02-27T19:41:00.000-05:00

R.E.M. (the tantalizingly mysterious Michael Stipe wears his perm well) plays "Radio Free Europe" on David Letterman in 1983. Here.
I have lived in San Francisco and New York; both cities rightfully honor the Brunch. (You know, brunch. It's not quite breakfast, it's not quite lunch, but it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end. The meal favored by louche pussies.) Kate's Kitchen, Miss Millie's, Dottie's True Blue, M's Cafe, Prune, Clinton St. Bakery, 9th St. Market, etc. etc. But after extensive research and careful review, I have concluded that the best place for brunch in the world is the Blue Moon Cafe in Baltimore. Aliceann St., one block west of Broadway. I will not sully its perfection with logorrhea. They just need stronger coffee, is all.
This is pretty horrible. Drug counterfeiters are not only forging packaging with breathtaking virtuosity, but are including subclinical doses of life-saving medications to minimize the chances that patients will realize they're taking fakes. For example, Chinese manufacturers of fake malaria drugs have included acetaminophen to temporarily lower fever & a little bit of real arteminisin (just enough to foster drug resistance). This is genoslaughter, or something. Reader: what can you do? Strap on an AK-47 and head into China. Go nuts, buddy. Tell 'em CC&P sent you.

I got the flavor

2007-02-26T20:47:00.000-05:00

I don't really like them, but I think Skittles have umami. You know what I mean?
It is weird that oak has a recognizable flavor.
Sodium lauryl sulfate's inhibitory effect on sweet-sensing taste buds is the reason orange juice tastes bad after brushing your teeth.
The Special Lady (blindfolded) can distinguish between various brands of bottled water. I learned this the hard way. As the loser of our bet a couple of years ago, I had to dress in an adult diaper & pacifier & bow, and strut around Manhattan for several hours. (Prada store, subway, Times Square, Baby Gap, LES, etc.) Did I mention I had to carry around a little boombox playing, on infinite loop, "Who Let The Dogs Out"? There are photographs.

Last bit on Imam Musa

2007-02-25T20:59:00.000-05:00

I guess I ran out of narrative steam. I'm not quite sure what happened; I must have been distracted by a shiny bauble-- a colorful little gewgaw-- and I just love gewgaws. Love them! I apologize for losing focus.

Anyhoooo. So Big Hank dealt dope the JC Penney way. Big Hank moved from pot to harder drugs. Big Hank made a killing. At one point, Big Hank looked in the mirror of a nightclub and thought to himself, "Man, I look mean. I look like a drug dealer. I'm sitting there thinking, 'this guy, that guy owes me money.'"

Big Hank kept dealing drugs. Big Hank got involved with "fake Islam"; i.e., the Nation Of Islam. Big Hank started to associate with the Black Panthers. Big Hank fled to Algeria, where he presumably consorted with Eldridge Cleaver and the hanger-on, Timothy Leary. Big Hank changed his mind and turned himself in, eventually doing time in federal prison.

Big Hank had one of those slow-motion epiphanies. There was no one moment, he says. But he converted to Islam (Sunni, though he abhors the exaggerated divisions between Sunnis and Shi'as that prevail these days). Big Hank became Abdul Alim Musa. Abdul Alim Musa became the imam of a major mosque in Washington.

So that's his basic story. I had a wonderfully entertaining conversation with the man; we talked about drugs quite a bit. Although he travels the world to preach the evils of drug use, and exudes a convincing moral opposition to getting high (he is an advocate of legalization, tho), I can't help but suspect that he's a little nostalgic. His stories were just a little too colorful. Anyway, he seemed kind & tolerant & open-minded, despite his apparent reputation as Radical Terrorist Agitator. Now, I can't judge simply based on evidence from a 3-hour Amtrak conversation. But if asked, I will argue that his reputation comes from his rhetoric, and that his rhetoric comes from his formative years in '60s radical Oakland. If you see him on Fox News as a straw man someday, take his rhetoric & his stubborn unwillingness to categorically deny, say, hating America, as the American anti-authoritarianism that it is.

Origami Hank

2007-02-20T17:58:00.000-05:00

It's not like I'm a scholar of the Black Power movement or anything. I will force you to admit (through sophistry and karate chops), however, that it is a pretty fascinating topic. I come from a nice, liberal, 1960s-SF-State household in which the Black Panthers etc. were alluded to in tones of nostalgic awe. Huey Newton, H. Rap Brown, Bobby Seale, Eldridge Cleaver... two of these guys are dead, and I'll probably never meet the other two.

This is why I was so impressed by my Amtrak seatmate, Imam Abdul Alim Musa (née Clarence Reams, or Big Hank). The setup (curious whitish wiseass meets black revolutionary intellectual) led to an interesting conversational dance. His favorite topics were 1) the US government's conspiracy behind September 11th, 2) general lefty firebrand rhetoric, and 3) the new moon. My favorite topics were 1) his drug-dealing past, 2) the arc of his life, and 3) his sparring with Sean Hannity.

So you can kind of imagine how it went down. It's the sort of situation where you agree with the guy's general stance on everything, and yet agree with none of the particulars. I did a lot of subject-changing during our 3-hour talk. His warm heart + his hatred of authority + the instinct of an impish provocateur = the potential for some serious hot air. This equation also explains why he's a telegenic straw man for right-wing news channels.

I'm busy and it's getting late, so I'll delay the last portion of this serial until tomorrow. But this is what struck me the most: the man has led several different, full lives. He reminds me of this article on origami: the finite square of a life, folded into an inexhaustible series of complex patterns.

Imam Musa

2007-02-19T13:31:00.000-05:00

I have some astounding luck when it comes to Amtrak seatmates. Yesterday, on the train from New York to Baltimore, I sat next to a kind-eyed, pleasant fellow who asked me where I was going. Was I born in Baltimore? No. Where was I born? Oakland, I replied. Where? East 33rd and Fruitvale. Ah, he said, I know that neighborhood very well; I'm from East Oakland myself.

Thus began a pretty goddamned fascinating conversation with Abdul Alim Musa, who is the face of radical Islam in America (to Fox News, anyway). He was fresh from an interview-- literally hours ago-- with Sean Hannity, who kept asking him "Do you hate America?"

Mr. Musa is the imam of a major mosque in Washington, D.C., but he began his career as a drug dealer in Oakland known as "Big Hank." Big Hank was fascinated by American entrepreneurs like J.C. Penney, and quickly rose up the Oakland drug ladder through innovation. "I was one of the first-- if not the first-- to make a lot of money (I mean a lot of money) selling smoke." Formerly a small-time drug with a casual economy in Oakland, marijuana got the J.C. Penney treatment from Big Hank.

I have just done some breathtakingly extensive research on J.C. Penney, and discovered a Wikipedia entry on the man. It includes this quotation: "Business is no longer a matter of profits alone. Profits must come through public confidence, and public confidence is given to any merchant in proportion to the service which he gives to the public." That's pretty much how Big Hank approached it. He attained public confidence through a number of familiar measures: branding, attractive and standard packaging, and quality standardization. Random spot-checks and customer follow-up helped ensure the latter. I dunno if he got to the level of Six Sigma, but this is weed we're talking about.

More tomorrow.

Ice nuggets

2007-02-14T20:27:00.000-05:00

Some blogs foster the illusion of intimacy; here, it's no illusion. It really is just you and me. Maybe all those Boswell posts sloughed off the dead skin of the CC&P readership. Leaving only you, dear reader, as the shiny pink skin underneath. Shiiiiny pink skin.

What sound do you think it would make if Robert Novak's skull collided with Ari Fleischer's skull at 194 mph? I think it would make a pleasant chime, rather like a glockenspiel.
Opal's Early Recordings is one of my favorite albums, and I'd long despaired of finding any further material from that Kendra Smith & David Roback collaboration. But I just found their cover of Syd Barrett's "Jugband Blues" on a compilation; good stuff.
Which reminds me-- soon I'll post some mp3s for you and your loved ones.
Post hoc, I was just informed that I'd hung out with a guy from OK Go (friend of a friend). I had no idea I was this close to YouTube celebrity. It's as if I'd shared a blintz with LonelyGirl. Or played dominoes with a lonely Asian kid singing along to his video game theme music.
'Twas a Snow Day today in Baltimore. Joyous, feral epidemiology doctoral students celebrated the closing of Johns Hopkins by, uh, studying epidemiology.

Boswell's Gonorrhea: Epilogue

2007-02-12T00:07:00.000-05:00

As you can certainly guess, I've long loved that episode from Boswell's diaries. (Please start here if you missed it.) It's got all the ingredients: extravagant self-praise, adolescent classical allusion, and burning upon urination.

The comic pacing is almost too perfect to be nonfiction. Intrigue, fluttering heart, overweening braggadocio, completely insufferability-- and then, at the periphery of his senses, a faint itching and burning...

I love how he saved face by bullying the poor pseudonymous Louisa (Anna Lewis). As Dr. D.W. Purdie describes*, she "could honestly assure him that she was free of all signs of infection yet conceal, unknown to herself, gonococci... Boswell was unlucky." I wouldn't go that far. The guy screwed prostitutes all over London and, eventually, the continent. He usually didn't use the sheepgut "armour" of the time. And he died ridden with probably about 55,273 different sexually transmitted infections.

It would have been great to drink with Boswell. I really like the guy. It's probably not an accident that one of my favorite novels is Pale Fire; that book begins with an epigraph from Boswell's Life:

"This reminds me of the ludicrous account which he gave Mr. Langton, of the despicable state of a young Gentleman of good family. ‘Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.’ And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favorite cat, and said, ‘But Hodge shan’t be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.’"

I never really understood why Nabokov chose that particular epigraph. Boswell, sure; our honest narrator Kinbote is similar to Boswell in some of the obvious ways, but dissimilar in that I wouldn't want to drink with the guy. As much. Although I do like the line, "I laconically suggested that he 'try the pork.'"

*A pretty fascinating article, as far as articles in medical journals go.

Lost VU acetate

2007-02-07T12:56:00.000-05:00

You may already know about this, but I didn't. On the WFMU website, you can download every track from the Velvet Underground's lost "Scepter Studio sessions," which features alternate takes and alternate mixes of the songs on the Andy Warhol LP.

It's fantastic. The story of how the acetate came to be found is fairly interesting too, so it's worth a read.

[Via Detailed Twang.]

Tracklist:
European Son (alternate take)
Black Angel's Death Song (alternate mix)
All Tomorrow's Parties (alternate mix)
I'll Be Your Mirror (alternate mix)
Heroin (alternate take)
Femme Fatale (alternate mix)
Venus In Furs (alternate take)
I'm Waiting For The Man (alternate take)
Run Run Run (alternate mix)

All tracks are complete with hissy crackly record pops.

It's the last one percent that's the toughie

2007-02-06T21:45:00.000-05:00

The Reverend Ted Haggard is now 100% heterosexual. He was merely "acting out" when he had repeated sex with his male prostitute & meth buddy.

Boswell Discharges His Frustrations: Part III of III

2007-02-05T17:05:00.000-05:00

January 20, 1763

I then went to Louisa. With excellent address did I carry on this interview, as the following scene, I trust, will make appear.

LOUISA: My dear sir! I hope you are well today.
BOSWELL: Excessively well, I thank you. I hope I find you so.
L: No, really, Sir. I am distressed with a thousand things. (Cunning jade, her circumstances!) I really don't know what to do.
B: Do you know that I have been very unhappy since I saw you?
L: How so, Sir?
B: Why, I am afraid that you don't love me so well, nor have not such a regard for me, as I thought you had.
L: Nay, dear Sir! (Seeming unconcerned.)
B: Pray, Madam, have I no reason?
L: No, indeed, Sir, you have not.
B: Have I no reason, Madam? Pray think.
L: Sir!
B: Pray, Madam, in what state of health have you been in for some time?
L: Sir, you amaze me.
B: I have but too strong, too plain reason to doubt of your regard. I have for some days observed the symptoms of disease, but was unwilling to believe you so very ungenerous. But now, Madam, I am thoroughly convinced.
L: Sir, you have terrified me. I protest I know nothing of the matter.
B: Madam, I have had no connection with any woman but you these two months. I was with my surgeon this morning, who declared I had got a strong infection, and that she from whom I had it could not be ignorant of it. Madam, such a thing in this case is worse than from a woman of the town, as from her you may expect it. You have used me very ill. I did not deserve it...
L: Sir, I will confess to you that about three years ago I was very bad. But for these fifteen months I have been quite well. I appeal to G-D Almighty that I am speaking true; and for these six months I have had to do with no man but yourself.
B: But by G-D, Madam, I have been with none but you, and here I am very bad.
L: Well, Sir, by the same solemn oath I protest that I was ignorant of it.
B: Madam, I wish much to believe you. But I own I cannot upon this occasion believe a miracle.
L: Sir, I cannot say more to you. But you will leave me in the greatest misery. I shall lose your esteem. I shall be hurt in the opinion of everybody, and in my circumstances.
B (to himself): What the devil does the confounded jilt mean by being hurt in her circumstances? This is the grossest cunning. But I won't take notice of that at all. -- Madam, as to the opinion of everybody, you need not be afraid. I was going to joke and say that I never boast of a lady's favours. But I give you my word of honour that you shall not be discovered.
L: Sir, this is being more generous than I could expect.
B: I hope, Madam, you will own that since I have been with you I have always behaved like a man of honour.
L: You have indeed, Sir.
B (rising): Madam, your most obedient servant.

[from Boswell's London Journal.]

Temporary break in the Boswell action

2007-02-05T12:57:00.000-05:00

This you gotta read.

Boswell Is Puzzled By A Venutian Distemper: part II of III

2007-02-03T15:37:00.000-05:00

January 13, 1763
I really conducted this affair with a manliness and prudence that pleased me very much. The whole expense was just eighteen shillings.

January 14, 1763
I strutted up and down, considering myself as a valiant man who could gratify a lady's loving desires five times in a night; and I satisfied my pride by considering that if this and all my other great qualities were known, all the women almost in the room would be making love to me.

January 18, 1763
I this day began to feel an unaccountable alarm of unexpected evil: a little heat in the members of my body sacred to Cupid, very like a symptom of that distemper with which Venus, when cross, takes it into her head to plague her votaries. But then I had run no risks. I had been with no woman but Louisa; and sure she could not have such a thing. Away then with such idle fears, such groundless, uneasy apprehensions!

January 19, 1763
As we went along, I felt the symptoms increase, which was very confounding and very distressing to me... The evening was passed most cheerfully. When I got home, though, then came sorrow. Too, too plain was Signor Gonorrhoea.

January 20, 1763
I rose very disconsolate, having rested very ill by the poisonous infection raging in my veins and anxiety and vexation boiling in my breast. I could scarcely credit my own senses. What! thought I, can this beautiful, this sensible, and this agreeable woman be so sadly defiled? Can corruption lodge beneath so fair a form? Can she who professed delicacy of sentiment and sincere regard for me, use me so very basely and so very cruelly? No, it is impossible... and yet these damned twinges, that scalding heat, and that deep-tinged loathsome matter are the strongest proofs of an infection... And am I then taken in? Am I, who have had safe and elegant intrigues with fine women, become the dupe of a strumpet?

...And then am I prevented from making love to Lady Mirabel, or any other woman of fashion? O dear, O dear! What a cursed thing this is! What a miserable creature am I!

[from Boswell's London Journal. Next: Boswell manfully and benevolently confronts the fair Louisa.]

Boswell Plunges Into The Fountain Of Love: part I of III

2007-02-01T21:44:00.000-05:00

January 2, 1763
"I approached Louisa with a kind of an uneasy tremor. I sat down. I toyed with her. Yet I was not inspired by Venus. I felt rather a delicate sensation of love than a violent amorous inclination for her. I was very miserable. I thought myself feeble as a gallant, although I had experienced the reverse many a time. Louisa knew not my powers. She might imagine me impotent. I sweated almost with anxiety, which made me worse... I told her I was very dull. Said she, 'People cannot always command their spirits'... I fanned the flame by pressing her alabaster breasts and kissing her delicious lips. I then barred the door of her dining-room, led her all fluttering into her bedchamber, and was just making a triumphal entry when we heard her landlady coming up... We were stopped most suddenly and cruelly from the fruition of each other."

January 11, 1763
"This day I had some agreeable conversation with my dear Louisa. All was now agreed upon... my wife was not come to town... her husband proved a harsh, disagreeable creature..."

January 12, 1763
"Louisa and I agreed that at eight at night she would meet me in the Piazzas of Covent Garden. I was quite elevated, and felt myself able and undaunted to engage in the wars of the Paphian Queen... That Ceres and Bacchus might in moderation lend their assistance to Venus, I ordered a genteel supper and some wine."

"Good heavens, what a loose did we give to amorous dalliance! ...Proud of my godlike vigour, I soon resumed the noble game. Sobriety had preserved me from effeminacy and weakness, and my bounding blood beat quick and high alarms. A more voluptuous night I never enjoyed. Five times was I fairly lost in supreme rapture. Louisa was madly fond of me; she declared I was a prodigy, and asked me if this was not extraordinary for human nature. I said twice as much might be, but this was not, although in my own mind I was somewhat proud of my performance."

"I could not help roving in fancy to the embraces of some other ladies which my lively imagination strongly pictured. I don't know if that was altogether fair."

There's nothing sadder than a glass of wine (alone)

2007-01-31T23:31:00.000-05:00

But there's nothing happier than a lot of beer left over from poker. And it's best enjoyed alone. So, basically, I'm saying that these things are sort of complicated.

I had a theory. My theory was that kids often mask their genuine excitement by feigning total disinterest. This theory has been replaced by another: kids are peddling a Ponzi scheme of lies, and when this pyramid comes crashing down, only kid-pulp will remain.

Let me explain. SS had the excellent idea to show the Mentos-Diet Coke reaction to the kids we mentor. So we did. Response: mild interest. But now, a week later, the "experiment" is legend. A massive explosion, etc. Kids are lining up eagerly for the next performance. To mitigate their inevitable disappointment, they will have to find another crop of children, and they will have to exaggerate. I really don't want to be there when the bubble bursts & the kids must face the harsh truth: it's not that impressive. They will cut us with their razor blades.

P.S. When I pressed the button to clean my windshield earlier today, a Slurpee came out. Someone had craftily broken into my car, popped the hood, and poured a slushy mixture of lime-flavored corn syrup and ice into my wiper fluid container. What monster would do this?

One Aspen turns on another

2007-01-30T16:38:00.000-05:00

Liveblogging of Judith Miller's appearance at the Libby trial today: here.

The Ethicist

2007-01-28T20:44:00.000-05:00

Dear Ethicist,

I am a session bass player (I have recorded with Thomas Dolby, Harry Belafonte, and Animal Collective) living in a seventh floor walk-up. I also have mild undifferentiated schizophrenia, though I do not believe this fact is necessarily germane to my question. My downstairs neighbor has informed me that using my dishwasher causes his ceiling to leak rather badly; apparently, there is a ruptured hose somewhere. As a consequence, I do not regularly wash my dishes, and thus cannot cook. I subsist exclusively on takeout from Dumpling Man and multivitamins. I have considered waiting until it rains, and then washing my dishes under the cover of exculpatory precipitation. Would this be ethical?

--Randy Smoot, NY

Under ordinary circumstances, I would advise you to (a) call your super to request repairs, and (b) wash your dishes by hand in the meantime. However, I am feeling blue. I caught my lover in flagrante delicto with a man dressed as a pink bunny-- if you are unfamiliar with "furry fetishists," suffice it to say that discovering this hitherto unpublicized predilection was the occasion for alarm and soul-searching. I have not fully recovered. I regret to say, therefore, that I hope you fucking choke on your dumplings.

Totally safe for work

2007-01-25T12:52:00.000-05:00

3 videos to grease the wheels of time:

Tony Danza rolling over on his head in a go-kart crash. Best viewed repeatedly, in slow motion, while high.
Wolf Blitzer and Dick Cheney having a friendly chat about Cheney's family.
The Swedish Chef, Animal, and Beaker singing Danny Boy.

Those are people who died, died

2007-01-24T19:36:00.000-05:00

Cleaning, and found an old Washington Post from 12/22/06. Pretty good obit section that day. I abstract them here for you. For you. I give and give, and what do I get in return? Heartache.

Cecil Travis, lifetime batting average of .314, was given a Hereford Bull in an on-field ceremony during his final season with the Washington Senators.
Saparmurat Niyazov, or Turkmenbashi The Great, commissioned a gold-plated statue of himself that rotated with the sun "so his heroic visage always caught the light." He also renamed months after himself and his mother. And, of course, he was a brutal dictator.
Eleanor Wainstein was a research analyst specializing in international terrorism, and sewed her own clothes.
Marjorie Arundel fought tirelessly against illegal bulb harvesting in Asia Minor.
Fred Marsden, drummer for Gerry and the Pacemakers, later established the Pacemaker Driving School.
Catherine Pollard was the first female scoutmaster.
John Nocket, CPA, "retired in the early 1970s but got bored and took a job as chief of internal auditing for the Washington Suburban Sanitation Commission."
Roy Story was nicknamed "Ma" by fellow prisoners during the Korean War, because he cooked and cared for them all.
Margaret Ware was a pilot during WWII and later worked on antipoverty programs.
Suzanne Buzzard was inspired to become a civil servant when she heard a speech by JFK in Michigan in 1960. She worked for the Peace Corps and USAID, and had three Zs in her name, four if you count her middle name (Elizabeth).
Arnold Price, historian, helped recover the "Hildebrandslied," a 9th century epic poem from Germany that had gone missing after WWII. He made a gingerbread house every Christmas.