carbon dioxide as laughing gas

The Wall Street Journal is well-known for its troglodyte-level editorial page. I didn’t realize how far down the scale of evolution it was, however, until I ran across today’s opinion piece on global warming while paging through the newspaper in the lunch room at work. It was a letter signed by “16 concerned scientists” explaining why we really don’t need to worry much about carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere.

At first I was willing to believe that maybe the WSG could dig up 16 climate scientists who held this view. Maybe if they looked really hard. I immediately went to the list of authors and found that no; they couldn’t come up with even 16 climate scientists. They found a highly educated weather forecast journalist, a head of a biochemical lab, a member of the Academy of Engineering and the NAS (formerly with Exxon), a physics professor, a technology professor, a chemistry professor, an astronaut (now there’s a climate expert), and rocket designer Burt Rutan (getting increasingly desperate here). And two, that’s right, two people who could fit the role of climate scientist.    

I’m not kidding. Here’s the link. Don’t they realize that they’re sort of shooting themselves in the foot when they do this? Or does the average WSG reader just want a belief-reinforcement hit without any brain engagement at all?

the business end of the language cannon

the business end of the language cannon

at the bottom of 16 silvery floors
there’s an illegal space heater aimed at my toes and
mismatched ear buds sitting on the desk.
i run the northern post of
the ministry of correct information.

words good and true,
words such as “leverage” and “savvy”
are tapped out on a keyboard,
corralled into cogent paragraphs
and fired at a target audience.

at the bottom of 16 silvery floors
i’m heavily fortified.
i’ve got a lock on the location
of the nearest chocolate chip cookies,
i’ve got the health club boot camp membership,
the secret card-key entry,
the slot in the gated parking garage.

words are working for me
working on me
and probably working right into the fabric
of the sleek skeletal chair
in my pod away from home
at the bottom of 16 silvery floors;
i’m covered in adjectives
swamped with superlatives
and otherwise armed with
trademarks and brand names
because, friend, this is the ministry of correct information
and this is where the words
come out right
or they don’t come out at all.

limitless nothing

I’ve got an unlimited data plan with T-Mobile! But guess what? After you’ve used five GB of data the speed is limited to a point where it takes an unlimited amount of time to download something.

The concept of unlimited data requiring infinite time probably seems funny to T-Mobile marketers who promote the “unlimited” plan. (“A new sucker is born every minute, just like Barnum said!”)

If you’re planning a podcast about the future collision between the Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies, I suggest you post it now, so when the event occurs in five or six billion years, T-Mobile customers will have had sufficient time to download it.

i gave me that old time religion

You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I’m an ordained minister. Back in the day I feared “Bob” and wanted to kill him, and believed in launching the bleeding head of Arnold Palmer and all the other tenants of the one true religion. I was called Pope Unholy Protuberance III. I still dabble in SubGenius ritual on occasion when the need arises.

Anyway, it was my duty to rant, so I wrote the rant below prior to a Seattle area Devival in 1999. There is still some ass-holiness in these words, so read at your own risk. This is not a religion to be trifled with, even though its membership grows long in the tooth and the whole mess transmogrifies from living gospel to fossilized legend. Beware. My rant begins:

“At the beginning of that wretched Ed Wood movie, Plan 9 from Outer Space, a man named the Amazing Criswell looks into the camera and shares some words of wisdom with movie-viewers. ‘Everyone is interested in the future,’ he says, ‘because that is where we will spend the rest of our lives.’

“Stupid? Of course. But pay attention, because buried deep within movies like this one are messages from Higher Powers. If you didn’t know that the gods speak to us in this way, then you haven’t been paying attention. Much of what I know about life and the future has been transmitted to me through cheap science fiction movies of the 50s and 60s. That’s why a visit to Scarecrow Video is much like entering a cathedral. As I ascend the stairs to the second floor and enter the room labeled ‘Psychotronic,’ I feel life’s burdens becoming a little lighter.

“But back to Criswell. His dumb remarks enclose a message from the mischievous deities who run our universe. He’s telling us that the future is born every second, and therein lies our salvation. You can choose this second to throw off the chains that enslave you to your movie, which is probably a modern Hollywood formula comedy–every bit as loathsome as Plan 9.

“Dear readers, there is a way to direct, produce, and star in your own designer destiny. It can be yours quicker than you can say, ‘klaatu barada nikto.’ Trust me when I tell you that all the wisdom flowing from ridiculous old sci-fi films and their doomed third-rate actors point to just one path. That path is the Church of the SubGenius and the word of ‘Bob.’ That’s right, I’m here to tell you about my religion, which is reaching for your throat and wallet at the same time.

“This church will hurl you into the harsh green radioactive illumination of Truth. The Truth is brutal, but the path to it is easy and littered with greasy taco wrappers that will slide you into the hairy arms of redemption. Are you still with me, friends? I hope so, because I will now present you with the ultimate irony. The future really is a cheap science fiction movie.

“I’ll tell you what the Church of the SubGenius promises…no…guarantees will happen. One day in the not-so-distant future, an alien species will invade and conquer the earth, mowing down everyone in their path, just as those idiotic movies have foretold. These aliens will run amok–their ray guns on the ‘puree’ setting. Sound like an Ed Wood movie? Of course it does. What do you think he was trying to tell us? Why weren’t you paying attention? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, ANYWAY?

“Well, get down on your knees and say, ‘thank you, Dan,’ because I have information here that may save you. The Church of the SubGenius just might rescue your sorry butt. Many will fry, but some will escape. Read all about it and send money.”

That’s enough to start you on a backwards path to a burned-out religion. Stand over the embers and watch a white-hot claw emerge. It’s the last thing you’ll see before entering paradise. Make a joyful noise unto the slack master.

laundromat chairs

This was the laundromat by the long-defunct Honey Bear Bakery in the Green Lake area – the Dutch Maid. Hey, I found a photo of it after first posting this. Visit the Dutch Maid!

Laundromat Chairs

dryers gasp hot breath
and spit tennis shoes,
screechy washers blow
smokey soap rings
while three plastic chairs,
blue, yellow, and blue,
sit chained to a concrete wall.

A pudgy, grey-suited janitor
lifts them one-by-one
to sweep dust balls,
causing their anchor chains to rattle
in this bleach-stained dungeon.

blue, yellow and blue brothers,
eye-like rivets staring straight ahead,
making the best of a bad situation,
I guess.

declaration of 1974

Guess what year I wrote this little rhyme?

Declaration of 1974

I’m driving the demons out of my room
and burning bridges in my head.
I’m sweeping the monsters out the door with a broom
and pronouncing my enemies dead.

I’m joining the circus,
getting up off the floor,
I’m watching the past fade away.
I’m helping the ocean
make waves on the shore,
then I’ll be like the sun making day.

one of those slow motion dreams

Pulled from an ancient stash of my poetry – what was I thinking?

one of those slow-motion dreams

they are all
running for an autograph
in slow motion,
cutting in front of me,
straining for someone’s signature,
a hundred pens thrust in the air,
but I’m not sure…

I’m turning around,
letting the book slip
between my fingers and
running the other way,
getting away,
getting into something
bigger than I can understand,
a fierce grin on my face.

goodbye goodbye goodbye

delicate ipod operation

Just when I could least afford it my iPod battery began to give out. Can’t live without my podcasts, however, so my choices:

• new Apple battery installation $100 + shipping.
• new iPod. $160 for 16 GB nano, or $250 for 160 GB classic. The former is too small and the latter is too big and expensive. Where’s the middle ground? My current one is 30 GB and just right.
• install mail-order battery myself – approximately $30.

So I sent away for a battery. I took the included plastic tool, carefully pried opened my iPod, levered the old battery out of a pool of glue, pulled the connector ribbon, connected new one, and voila! What Steve Jobs didn’t want to grant us is possible through the miracle of Milliamp. The battery is guaranteed for ten years. We’ll see how long my connection work holds up.