spacematic.net

What you see before you is a series of photographs of what has to be the single greatest car in the world (on Ponce De Leon Avenue in front of El Azteca, at least). The owner obviously had grand dreams of putting this vision of paradise on the larger canvas of a late-Seventies Chevy van. Times being what they are, you gotta make the most of what you have. And since this guy had an old Honda Prelude; well, he just let the creativity fly anyhow. If this Honda’s rockin’, WHATEVER YOU DO, don’t come a-knockin’.

The naked blonde lady with the mountain cat… yeah. She got it goin’ on. –mike

I write this post at the risk of sounding old, out-of-touch and a tad back-asswards. But things are moving fast, ladies and gentlemen. The times are a-changin’, and it took a new cellphone to wake me up out of the Stone Age of 2002 and come to the realization that in four years, I missed the tiny steps in-between. These tiny steps are like small towns on a road trip – if you nod off for a nap, you’ll miss the scenery and arrive at your destination with a start. Woah! Here already? Such a thing just recently happened to me, and it led to a benign but annoying case of technological and cultural alienation.
Last weekend, my cellular provider left a cryptic text message on my phone. It stated quite simply, “Your voicemail is changing. Please contact Cingular. “ I did not comply. This cellphone, a Nokia candy bar, has been reliable. It has put up with my abuse for four years and I’ve been very happy with it. I’ve dropped it, I’ve forgotten to charge it, I’ve cursed at it, I’ve carved into its face, I’ve drawn on it, painted it and I’ve thrown it at (okay, toward) a cat. It still works perfectly. Then the weekend came and went – and so did my voicemail.
I hopped in the car and went to the Cingular store to see what the problem was. It seems that the problem wasn’t my phone, it was my account. Even though I’ve been living in Atlanta since 2004, my phone still had a Florida (850) area code. The rep couldn’t help me with my problem. He suggested that I modify my account to reflect local customs and conventions. While I was at it, I decided to get a new phone. This time, I opted for the Motorola Razr V3c. It’s a nifty device. It takes pictures, it plays video, it supports mp3 ringtones… and if you want, you can use it as a phone!
I don’t consider myself technologically naive. In fact, I try to keep an eye on advancement simply out of interest. After all, I grew up with computers. I’ve been smitten with gadgets ever since I first got a TI-99/4A computer and learned to make it say nasty words. That was back in 1983. Since then, I’ve watched the advent of the hard drive, the 3.5″ floppy, optical media, wireless networking and the rapid spread of Dippin’Dots: Ice Cream of the Future. So I’m not naive, but I can’t help myself wanting to say “Scotty, how long until we have the warp engines back online?” when I flip my Razr open. This thing comes straight out of Star Trek. It’s a Star Trek phone, for Godsakes, and it came to us two centuries before its time! But this futuristic gadget even has a leg up on Kirk’s communicator. Kirk couldn’t snap a shot of the rubber-suited monster he was fighting in the California desert. Back in the Sixties, visions of the future were still a somewhat practical, even if unbelievable. Phones were phones, cameras were cameras and never the twain would meet. It seems that the future turned out even stranger than the wild and optimistic visions of our previous generations’ speculative mind-trips. In all their attempts to predict the advancement of technology, the writers of sci-fi never thought of combining devices into bizarre and improbable combinations. They must have thought that in the 23rd Century, man would had evolved beyond entertainment through novelty. Obviously, in the 21st Century, this trait is still hard-wired and going strong.
Not long after I got this new chunk of technological candy, my “harrumphs!” about having a phone that is also a camera were quieted. This little all-in-one device can be a lot of fun – hell, it can even be practical! How many times have I wanted to get even a low-res snapshot of a funny situation, only to remember that I left my camera at home?
I hopped on the Web and started looking for articles that detailed how to get images from the phone to my Mac. It was then that I stumbled upon a review that stated, “The RAZR V3c has a lot of features that please, although to save both battery life and space, this phone has no flash.” I read it again. “This phone has no flash.” I think I pulled a ligament in my brain. What the hell? This is the future? You have to take one star off an otherwise great review because the TELEPHONE you are reviewing doesn’t have an integrated FLASH BULB? I was confused. I was tickled. I started thinking.
What surprises are in store for us in the next four years? I imagined reviews of appliances from the year 2010.

“The Maytag QuietCycle 4400 is a superb front-loading washer, but to maintain its Energy Star rating, the manufacturer opted to produce this particular model in two-wheel drive only. Therefore, Road And Garment has to rate this otherwise spectacular washer a 3.5, a star and a half below the BMW Z-13 Terrain Tumbler.”

In 2010, will BMW also be the Ultimate Washing Machine? –mike

As is often the case in the realm of sports, victory proves bittersweet once again. Veteran Tetherball great Jeffe deEstado was disqualified in the fifth round of the Suicide Finals, just one step away from his first-ever TetherBowl appearance. But according to fans, “El Jeffe” wasn’t ousted by any fault of his own. An angry crowd of fans protested loudly at the Chevrolet Suburban Driveway Arena on February 23rd as officials called El Jeffe out after the entire anchoring apparatus spontaneously failed.

“El Jeffe had Habersham fair and square.” commented Ellison McManus, an enraged spectator. “Then he pulled out his signature “˜Thunder Wumpus 720,’ and the whole thing just shattered! At first, we were all like “˜Damn! Jeffe gave you the Wumpus, Habersham! Go back to Talmo!’ But then the officials declared that no-talent putz winner by default. That’s just bull$#!%, man.”

The “Thunder Wumpus 720º has been a hotly-debated move in professional Tetherball ever since deEstado debuted the maneuver in 1998, defeating three-time TetherBowl champion Martin Clearwater in the Vancouver Semi-Finals. In that classic match, deEstado cocked his fist in anticipation of the ball’s advance and then punched it squarely in the air-hole. The resultant explosion of the ball, in combination with the player’s brute kinetic force, caused the rope to wind around the post rapidly, with the ball ultimately stopping for a win.

deEstado has only been able to replicate the “Wumpus” during two other matches – once to defeat Arthur Hutchinson in the 2002 Jacksonville Classic, and once more in yesterday’s match against Habersham.

But it wasn’t the “Wumpus” alone that caused the hotly-contested disqualification. An unforeseen structural failure of the tether mount as a result of the “Wumpus” move was the culprit. When questioned on the game call, official Bob Pettinaugh had this to say: “deEstado has always wondered why we watch the Wumpus carefully, and now he knows. We had no choice but to call it as we saw it when the post anchor broke.”

According to the International Tetherball Association’s Guidelines, Rules and Sportsmanship Handbook, any player “that willfully destroys an anchor, post or tether must be disqualified on the charge of subterfuge.” Subterfuge, in the sport of Tetherball, is defined as any activity by a player that prevents either side from successfully scoring.

At a press conference this morning, Pettinaugh continued to defend his judgment and added “The ball never actually hit the post. The sequence of events was clear. deEstado Wumpused the living hell out of that ball, and he knew what the consequences could be. I’m sure this will make any Tetherball athletes in our Association think twice before emulating the dastardly tactics of El Jeffe.”

Although his fans have been vocally abrasive about the turn of events, deEstado seemed to take the loss in stride. When asked about it in a post-game interview, El Jeffe simply said, “Sometime you give the Wumpus, and sometime the Wumpus gets you. That’s just the Wumpus way.”

Willie Habersham of Talmo, Alabama now advances to TetherBowl XXXVII, where he faces Izquierda Enrique Quantum of Cobb Parkway. Quantum is favored by a variable but wide margin. The TetherBowl will not be televised. –mike

Check out the pic above. That’s me at around four or five, which puts the photo in the neighborhood of 1977 or 1978. At that time, my older brothers were still both at home and going to high school. Because of the ten year age difference, I wasn’t so much a little brother as I was a personal monkey. They told me to do stuff and I’d have to oblige. Most of the antics involved dressing in garish costumes or drag, harassing Mom or a combination of the two. My oldest brother’s all-time favorite trick was to get me in a frenzy, send me downstairs with my hands on my head and scream “Mommy! Mommy! He put neatsfoot oil in my hair!!!” This invariably shocked and infuriated my poor mother who is genetically pre-disposed to panic, and she would scream bloody and murderous threats to her eldest child. It always ended with me doubled over in laughter as she pried my hands off my head to see what damage came to me from the topical use of leather protectant. For some reason, the unraveling of a lie was a joy beyond joy for me. When she learned there was no neatsfoot oil in my hair, she’d pop me on the bottom and send me back upstairs while muttering something like “I can’t believe y’all just live to make me cuss. What if the preacher was at the door? He’d think we all lost our religion!” This made me laugh just that much harder. “Get in that room, you little demon! And don’t come out ’til I say it’s time for dinnah.” I liked being at the heart of matters of deception.

When I turned five, my brothers thought I was old enough to be competent in performing more complex pranks. My mom used to drag all three of us to the mall so she could shop without fear of the house catching fire while she was away. The problem with this arrangement was that two teenagers and one five year old were stuck in the ladieswear section of Rich’s, bored out of our minds. So my brothers whispered provocative, Enquirer-style headlines into my ears and made me repeat them back until they were confident I had them memorized. Then they set out into the aisles, where I would tug on ladies’ dresses and begin my performance.

“‘Scuze me, Ma’am.”
“Oh my goodness! Where’s your mother? How can I help you?”
“I gotta tell you sumpin’.”
“Well now, are you lost?”
“Nope.”
The unsuspecting ladies’ eyes always searched around briefly before smiling back and asking, “Well, what’s the matter, then?”
“JIMMY CARTER ‘MOKES POT!”
Then I’d cackle madly and run away in search of my devious brothers. I had no idea what I was saying, but my brothers sure thought it was funny, and making them laugh was an achievement I relished. When my mother found out what was going on from another store patron or from management, she dragged us home and gave us a firm talking to regarding possible penalties that could arise from uttering fallacious statements about the leader of the free world.

Following one of these grievous infractions against the establishment, I was sent to my room where my brothers entered and gave me a can of “Billy Beer,” a product of presidential brother Billy Carter and a magazine article regarding the President himself. They then photographed me for the prankster’s hall of fame. The picture above is enduring proof of such shenanigans.

From then on, my mother knew that as long as the three of us were togther, things at the mall would just get worse. So she started allowing my brothers to stay at home while she continued dragging me to the ladieswear section of Rich’s and Davidson’s. The golden days of prankhood were over, and I was doomed to boredom. Or so I thought.

Back in the day, my brothers had competing interests in music and their rooms were right next to each other. My room looked directly at both their doors. My oldest brother listened to Blue Oyster Cult, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, John Denver, Dan Fogleberg, Asia and Led Zeppelin.

The interests of the younger were more along the lines of Earth, Wind and Fire, Fantastic Voyage, The Village People, Parliament, The Beatles and ELO. The only thing they had in common music-wise was KISS, and even then they’d blare competing tracks. “Detroit Rock City” and “Beth” don’t mix. The cacophonous din that would sail off into the hallway from the two full-volume stereos almost drove me crazy, so I opted for spending time in either room just so I could hear either “Immigrant Song” or “YMCA,” and not have to endure some unbearable ear-shattering hellspawn of both.

The oldest brother loved me no less than the other, but he thought that having me in the room all the time was lame, so I often found myself in the younger brother’s room listening to those damned Village People. Back then, I thought they were super cool. The music was upbeat and lively and all the candy-coated things little kids like happy music for. For my birthday, my brother even gave me a 45 RPM single of “Macho Man.”

One day, not too long after the gifted “Macho Man” single, the elder brother had a frank discussion with the younger. He couldn’t believe his ears. They couldn’t be! The Village People!? They just couldn’t be! He got on the phone with his friends – time and time again, the awful truth was confirmed. The VILLAGE PEOPLE WERE GAY. For a teenager in the mid-to-late 1970’s , such a brand was unacceptable. Why, what would his peers think of him? He had to take action and rid himself of all Village People vinyl and swag.

I’ll never forget the day I came home from preschool, opened my bedroom door and found a veritable Village People wonderland in place of my old zoo posters and stuffed animals. All my brother’s LP’s, 45’s, posters and magazines were plastered on every wall and in every corner of my room. There was even a copy of Rolling Stone featuring the Village People on the pillow of my bed. I had to go thank him immediately. Alas, he was nowhere to be found. So I spun up one of my new acquisitions and started to git down with my bad self. Halfway through the second track, I could hear uproarious laughter on the other side of the door. I tried to open it to see what was the matter, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey! What’s the big idea? Whatcha doin?!”
A muffled voice from the other side of the door giggled “Nothin’, man. Just lookin’ through the Village Peep-Hole to see if we can find any VILLAGE PEOPLE!” A new wave of guffaws immediately erupted.
“Lemme out!” I shrieked over the din of “In The Navy.” “Lemme out now or I’m tellin’ Mom!

The door swang wide. The faces of my brother and friend were a hazardous shade of red, their mouths twisted into a confused expression that exhibited characteristics both of glee and agony. Unable to breathe through uncontrollable fits of laughter, they gripped at their ribs tightly, letting go only to ocassionally point at me in amused anguish.
“What you guys laughin’ about?” I asked suspiciously.
“Nothin’. Nothin’, Jonny.” My brother heaved, still red-faced from watching me boogie to the music he had forsaken only a day before.
My brother’s friend then blurted, “Man, don’t you know? Those Village People are totally GAY!” After two or three desparate gasps for air, their laughter resumed. They wailed like mad hyenas in a gas chamber.
“Yeah, so?” I asked.
Try explaining what gay is to a five year old.
The laughs subsided and they attempted once more to embarrass me about the “gay” thing. No luck. I just kept saying “So? So what?”

The source of their raucous glee was fading fast, their twisted smiles gradually faded into thin expressions of frustration. They were struck with embarrassment at the prospect of explaining the birds and the bees, or rather the birds-birds/bees-bees. So they simply left me alone to enjoy my new Village People showcase.

When my older brother found out about it, he had a good laugh too. But when I started to put on a Village People record, he grabbed me, sat me down in his room and made me listen to “2112,” “Animals” and “Destroyer,” back to back to back. Even years later, he felt that his task in attempting to remedy my questioable taste in music wasn’t complete, and he prescribed heavy doses of Billy Idol and Def Leppard. Soon enough, he was off to college, and home was host to just me and my middle brother. He found other bands to enjoy, including Big Country and U2. U2 became our new favorite. One day, as we were listening to October, my brother apologized to me. “Sorry about that Village People thing, Jonny. You know we were just kidding, right?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been done with them for years, anyway.”
As if to make up for the terrible thing he did, he helped guide me in “proper” musical choices from then on out. Thanks to him, I was one of the only children in elementary school to avoid the craze of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

But I’ve got to admit that even today, when I find myself stumbling upon a Village People track on a classics radio station, I leave it there. Without fail, I always see my brother and his friend laughing away at me as I flailed about the room listening to the “gay” band. So what? For all the camp and flair of the Village People’s music and costumes, they remind me of an ideal childhood – when I was a joker in a den of scoundrels during the late 70’s. Boy, what a f&%ked-up Mardi Gras that decade was. Let’s write it off and get back to here and now. –mike

Ikea opened its doors in the Atlanta area just a few weeks ago, and since then I have been gradually giving in to the Ikea Nesting Instinct. My excuse for upgrading furniture is that now I have a dog. And even though she’s tiny, she needs more room to run in the apartment. She’s also taken a liking to the space under my huge guest chair. God only knows what she’s up to when she hides away like that. Ikea’s got good, small and cheap solutions to my problem. I’m thinking one small futon, a chair you can actually see under with a narrow footprint, a coffee table that’s not glass and an entertainment center that’s lower and smaller. These things would improve doggie running space while opening the apartment up a little, making it look bigger. Huge furniture’s great in a house. It sucks in an 800 square-foot apartment.
If you live in Bass Lofts and are here to check out the furniture, let me elaborate on the pieces in the above flyer. The sofa is in good shape, except for one of the top cushions being a little torn. This isn’t a cosmetic problem, since it’s hidden at the stitch line at the top. There’s also a scuff on the back top end, the fabric is a little frayed, but it’s not much more than one inch. The coffee table’s legs look a little scratched toward the bottom, but otherwise it’s in good shape. Same goes for the end tables. The chair is in great shape, just a little dark around the skirt. That should come out with some cleaner like “Resolve” or “Tuff Stuff.” The great thing about this furniture is that it’s really colorfast. I’ve used a bunch of cleaners on it and neither piece has either faded or stained. Just for kicks, I’m throwing in an old Sony monitor without a power cord. If you like dual-monitor support, this could do the trick. Of course, if you’re not much into the depth and weight of old CRT’s, then this behemoth won’t do you much good. If you have a 3-prong power cord to juice this sucker up, then it’s for YOU!
As a side note, I forgot to include my cheapy-cheap O’Sullivan TV stand/entertainment center. It currently supports my 27″ TV, VCR, surround system and a bunch of random crap. This thing has an excellent junk drawer. I’ll be willing to part with it for $40.
So you think I’m not being a very good salesman? I’m just being honest about this stuff. I don’t really care if anyone buys it, because after September, it’s all going in the trash anyway. I’m certainly not in it for profit, I’d just like to see it do some good for anyone who might need sturdy, cheap furniture that’s really big and conventional in style. Hey, some people really like big-ol’ cozy things. I’d keep it if it weren’t for Miss Allie. She needs the trotting space for our games. –Mike

You’ve probably heard me talking about this weird site before. What exactly is the Monkeytronic Circus of Conquest? Quite simply, it’s “A Treatise On The Enjoyability Of Fun.”
That phrase is the guiding light for all content that makes its way into the Monkeytronic realm. MCOC is a loose affiliation of images, text, music and chaos. For all the noise and random dictates, an elusive but undeniable theme emerges. The Circus Of Conquest is a reservoir of silliness, a digital monument to what is on the mind of the populace. It is naked badness forged in code.
Its entries are provided by Russell Warner and myself. Thanks to the diligence and web-savvy of the former, contributions tend to mix and randomize into a directionless voyage sure to confuse any user brave enough to click through the endless barrage of imagery. MCOC is an assault on reason and an insult to usability. It is designed to test your patience and tickle your fancy.
Most importantly, MCOC utilizes a tool (the www) designed for organization of thought and abuses it thoroughly, deconstructing the nature of logic and creating on-the-fly symbolism to no practical end. Sound interesting? I suggest you go visit it. http://www.monkeytroniccircusofconquest. Operators are standing around and sneering at your file request.
Oh yeah, and in a shameless display of ego-whoring, I submit to you a sample of spacematic music designed for Monkeytronic use. Click HERE to give it a listen. Beware, this file is super-loud. I suggest you reduce your standard listening volume and adjust to your liking once the file starts playing. Later! –Mike

There were a lot of people out and about before the premiere of Lucas’ latest Star Wars entry clamoring about the ruination of the saga. I myself was included in this camp of rabid fans. But after seeing Revenge of the Sith last night at a midnight screening, I must confess that my opinion of the previous installments has changed. “Sith” is the film that gives Episodes I and II the license to be as silly and lighthearted as they are. About three quarters through the film, I actually found myself starting to sympathize with Christensen’s Anakin character. “Don’t do that!” I repeated again and again, knowing that ultimately, he must do his share of evil deeds to become the dreaded Darth Vader. But even though this film is better than either Phantom Menace or Send In the Clones, it’s not without its moments of total cheese.
Some of the droid dialogue is bumbling and childish, as are the romantic scenes that had women in the audience laughing out loud. The overall mood of the audience was a cross between MST3K-style amusement and deep intrigue. Any movie that evokes such a frequently changing response in a crowd is a rare bird indeed. On the whole, I have to give “Sith” my approval. And as someone who is currently pursuing a novel, I must give Lucas proper respect for follow-through on a unique and compelling vision. He has taken us on a ride that few can genuinely say they do not enjoy. As you watch this film and roll your eyes at more than a few true groaners, remember that this is STAR WARS your watching… not Rob Roy and certainly not The Godfather.
Star Wars has been and always will be a simplistic tale, distilling real world shades of gray into stark and discernable contrast. Tales of betrayal and redemption beg a writer to bog his/her audience down in motivation and circumstance. For all the visual mumbo-jumbo Lucas throws at us, he gives us a taste of literary cake, but reminds us after all that this is a movie. In this sense, he is holding true to film roots, where he shows us a story rather than tells it. If all the fans of the franchise got what they wanted, the films would be nearly incomprehensible to the casual viewer. Sith is the evolved climax of a storyteller who says ‘damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’ I get the sense that Lucas was more determined to tell the story on his terms, rather than pleasing the old school fans of episodes IV, V and VI. Whereas the recent chapters are not my favorites, they are interesting and worthy of viewing. I will probably go see “Sith” again… not because I feel that I may see something I previously missed, but because it was a really fun ride. There is next to zero subtlety in this flick. As such, it may not please refined filmgoers or art cinema snobs who latch onto subtext and motivation. Star Wars is transparent, simple and fun. And that’s not all bad. –Mike

Oh my. Good buddy Jarhead sent me the link for this New Zealand solo act. The Kiwi nation has been a powerhouse for entertainment as of late, and this wonder now joins the ranks of such luminaries as Peter Jackson, Sam Neill and Split Enz. It’s becoming quite a Crowded House over there. Sorry.
Never before have I been able to say that someone’s music has “assaulted” my senses. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the One, the Only, WING. Let her lilting voice croon you a reassuring lullaby in this hectic world filled with cacophonous rock and gangsta rap. I suggest sampling “Dancing Queen,” “I Want To Hold Your Hand” and “Do-Re-Mi.” I’d really like to get my hands on “Dream Lover.” Too bad I already spent all my music money for today on Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey. –Mike

“Why me?” I have to ask this question when it comes to wacky personalities emailing me from all over the known world, hoping to get their strange ravings posted to the site. At first, it was Izquierda Enrique Quantum who was obsessed with someone called “Zorro the Gay Wav.” It was disturbing in the extreme when he/she/it accused me of being one and the same. Now I bring you Willie Habersham, Confederate Soldier. This character first appeared to me last month, in the middle of my webhosting woes. Mr. Habersham is apparently emailing me from the 1860’s (figure that one out) and has taken a shine to my “paperless newspaper,” talking about anything from hand-rolled tobacco to the discovery of bacteria. His strange correspondence is puncuated by an impatience that is, quite frankly, annoying.
My correspondence with Willie was brief, as he quickly gave up on his quest for web immortality when he decided that I wasn’t going to publish his work. Boy was he wrong. Here is the chronicle of the life and times of Willie Habersham, Confederate Soldier.

NOTE TO WILLIE: As amusing and strange as I found our correspondence, you must know I had to take 21st century conventions into consideration. That said, you will find that I had to take some initiative and edit parts of your conversations. Modern sensibilities and my own sense of moral obligation deemed this necessary. Hope you don’t mind. By the way, we’re still the USA, not the CSA and I’m glad. Sorry old man, your side lost.

“I am a humble reader of your paperless newspaper and would very
much like to impart my following feelings on the big how-do-you-do
that is rifling through this much divided country today. It is as
follows:
I do not want some grubby hands rolling my smoking tobacco. That is
my educated and much experienced conclusion I have come to after
trying one of them rolled tobacco sticks made by Msrs. Brown and
Williamson.
Now, much of my cavalry is divided on this matter, and I must
concede the point that the new rolled tobacco sticks are very much
convenient and nicely packaged in that flip tin tinderbox. If
anything, I would love to keep my sweet Carolina tobacco and
rolling paper in that tin to keep the rain and moisture from making
my tobacco harder to light.
So, why am I so dead set against rolled tobacco sticks you say? Is
it that it tastes better? Is it, as some would say in my cavalry,
that the smoke is more gratifying to the chest on a cold rainy day
here in Tennessee?
As for taste, I can say that Msrs. Brown and Williamson have
produced a comparable tasting tobacco that only pales in comparison
to those found in the low country of South Carolina. As for
pleasure, I still get a somewhat better feeling when I smoke my
unrolled tobacco.
My truest concern is that some daggum field hand’s fingers were all
over that rolled stick before I put it to my lips. You see, I am
well acquainted with Dillenger Court Williamson III; we being
friends from childhood in the Young Christian Men’s
Anti-Abolitionist Congregation. But I know just how filthy the
Williamsons kept their (editorial note: here I interject ‘hired hands’ in lieu
of more unsavory terminology –Mike) quarters, particularly that they kept
little attention to the need of bodily washing on a regular basis.
Now on my pappy’s plantation, our slaves must keep clean every
evening in Yancy River, and if it be too chilled for their rugged
skins, then my pappy would heat a vat of water and have each
ladle a splash to get that day’s grime off.
The Williamsons see no such reason and instead say that their hands
touch nothing but tobacco, so why can’t they roll tobacco already
for us.
Now, here is where I have become somewhat of a laughing-stock in my
cavalry. I think of myself as a progressive man, one with an open
mind and strong intelligence that makes me keen on new ideas, and
certainly charming to the women-folk, especially those
sarsaparillas we take kindly to in Memphis on occasion.
So I read about this doctor somewhere in Washington (this was
before the war, hear me) who said why people get sick all the time
is because of these unseen things he called germs. What are germs?
Well, we can’t see them with our nekid eyes, but they’re these
little bugs that float around in the air and you breath them in or
touch them and then roll your tobacco and put that in your mouth,
and these bugs get you feeling ill. You think me off my cackles
with this idea? I say before ye judge, I must impart a small story
about my late brother Benjamin J.D. Habersham II. He was only 12
years of life when he got sick with the pox and died in the winter
of the year 1851. Now, Dr. Eugene Westmoreland blamed poor
Benjamin’s death on exposure to the cold snow, but now I see things
differently since I learned about them germs. You see, me and
Benjamin, just days before he got sick, was playing ‘coon hunt
where he was the ‘coon and I was the hunter. Well, he decided to
hide in the outhouse down in the fields, the one used by the men,
and when I find him, I found his hands clutching the wooden
planks of the privates seat. You know that seat, the one you sits
on when you must do what God intended after eating.
Well, Benjamin and I, we weren’t much into washing hands before we
supped, so I know he ate with his unclean hands. And I believe
those germs got into his mouth and killed him.
So, that begs the question: Why would I ever smoke a tobacco stick
rolled by some unclean hands? I won’t. I trust my own fingers and
know that no bugs are crawling around me when I roll my tobacco in
my paper and enjoy a smoke.
Thank you for your attention to this egregious matter and I hope
you feel compelled to print my words on your paperless paper for
others to read.

Sincerely,

Pvt. Willie O.P. Habersham
2nd Cavalry, Chattanooga.
Confederate States of America.”

Offensive? Probably. Interesting? Most. Encourage the rascal? Why not? Here’s the next letter:

(continue reading…)

Google is a great company, whose mantra is “Don’t Be Evil.” Still, they’re entitled to a little fun now and then. And what better way to do it than fake one’s own gruesome death? Well, since that one kinda back-fired on me, it’s no wonder Google didn’t employ the same tactic to rile its patrons. No, they did one better, by poking fun at their various “beta” products. Googles Beta products are largely free and extraordinarily useful. Take Gmail, for example. I have an account, and I must say that it’s the best email I’ve ever had. Problem is, you can’t just go sign up for it. You must know someone who has it, then you have to hope they send you an invite. But since every participant gets fifty invites, you must be very low on the friend list not to get one.
For April 1, 2005, Google announced a new Beta product rollout, Google Gulp! A description of the product is as follows:

At Google our mission is to organize the world’s information and make it useful and accessible to our users. But any piece of information’s usefulness derives, to a depressing degree, from the cognitive ability of the user who’s using it. That’s why we’re pleased to announce Google Gulp (BETA)��� with Auto-Drink��� (LIMITED RELEASE), a line of “smart drinks” designed to maximize your surfing efficiency by making you more intelligent, and less thirsty. Think fruity. Think refreshing. Think a DNA scanner embedded in the lip of your bottle reading all 3 gigabytes of your base pair genetic data in a fraction of a second, fine-tuning your individual hormonal cocktail in real time using our patented Auto-Drink��� technology, and slamming a truckload of electrolytic neurotransmitter smart-drug stimulants past the blood-brain barrier to achieve maximum optimization of your soon-to-be-grateful cerebral cortex. Plus, it’s low in carbs! And with flavors ranging from Beta Carroty to Glutamate Grape, you’ll never run out of ways to quench your thirst for knowledge.

Perfect. Unfortunately, I know of no one who has tried the new Google Gulp! yet. The method of obtaining a bottle of Gulp! is along the same lines of getting a Gmail account. “You can pick up your own supply of this “limited release” product simply by turning in a used Gulp Cap at your local grocery store. How to get a Gulp Cap? Well, if you know someone who’s already been ‘gulped,’ they can give you one. And if you don’t know anyone who can give you one, don’t worry ��� that just means you aren’t cool. But very, very (very!) soon, you will be.”
That, in my opinion, is true April Fool’s Day fun. But what do I know? I’m a geek. By the way, I’m of the belief that you can only fake your death once, so I’ll have to think of something a little more clever next year than convincing friends and family that I was devoured by a thresher in Little Five Points.

–Mike