spacematic.net

I’ve been taking advantage of the great weather we’ve had these past few weeks. There’s just something criminal about staying inside behind a computer when it’s beautiful outside. Still, most of us do it. We go against our nature and cram ourselves inside cubicles to feed our abstract ambitions of wealth and peer worship. And in a great communal nod to the “too much is never enough” ethic of modern social economics and hedonism, we dig ourselves in deeper, first with that big house, then the big car – eventually the big screen. None of it is bought with our money. Seven years later, the money you’ll be making pays the guys that paid for that damned TV. And you look out the window and sigh. What have we done to ourselves? Where the hell is Darwinism when you really need it? Let’s wipe the slate clean and start over. Let’s breed a human who is capable of balancing needs, who sees manufactured desire for what it is and pays attention to the things that really matter. Like baseball.
No, not major league baseball. I’ve had enough of that. Aside from obnoxious pay and the odd players’ strike, the prevalent use of steroids and the cavalier attitude toward usage has turned my stomach. I’ve never been a major league baseball fanatic, and now I’m sure I never will be. Major league baseball is for corporate lackies who want to jerk off business prospects hands-free, hence the ticket price. Whores are always expensive. I’m sure it costs a family of three the same amount of money to see a decent whore. Still, there’s no guarantee the whore isn’t hopped up on steroids. So what’s left? Little league.
Little league reminds you that baseball isn’t an industry. It isn’t about home-run hitting. It’s about that one play that just might surprise you. Little league begs you to watch because something could go magically right or abysmally wrong. Sometimes, it’s just plain funny. Whatever. At least you know that the players’ intentions are honest and that they’re not arguing another bump in salary or threatening to part ways with their team mid-season. Children aren’t lured to baseball because of money. They play it because it’s fun. And fun is contagious.
Where is the fun in major league baseball? I don’t see it. I just see a bunch of money-grubbing, drug-addicted freaks of nature basking in the glory of condoned misbehavior. There’s no reason to go see those jokers as long as we have neighborhood games. Yet we persist. We sit among the businessmen whose astronomically-priced tickets feed the fat of the field. And we stay interested because major league baseball is “American!” Nothing could be further from the truth. Look at yourself, and then look at them. You are an American. What do you have in common with them? If America is about honesty, integrity, Mom and apple-pie, then major league baseball is the red-headed stepchild of Benedict Arnold. If you think I’m just entertaining myself with hyperbole, think again. When was the last time the price of apple pie surprised you? Better yet, when was the last time you discovered your apple pie was filled with drugs? –Mike

Señor Banapana and I often have discussions about things of little real-world importance, such as the declining flavor of lettuce, the significance of fever dreams and the ups-and-downs in the glamorous world of schizophrenic pigeon racing. I prefer their wings to be clipped. There’s always more drama when it’s a foot-race.
The model of our discussions is one of semi-clever argument tempered with heavy consideration on each word. Almost always, we agree to disagree. But we both come away with food for thought. If I engaged in such conversations with other people, I would probably end up hating them. Not so with the ‘Pana.
One discussion that really got me thinking was in regard to the Billboard Top 100 and what it says about the music we choose to listen to. He noted that Sir Fifty Cent…

You know what? Forget about this. I have a much better idea. Music is simply about what you like. Listen to what you want to listen to. The battle of the bands is NOT in your back yard. Rock will not die, Pop will not eat itself, Rap will not catch the last train for the coast. No musical genre will truly die.
We live in a country dominated by marketing, and we are very often led to believe that what’s loudest is what’s true. Hokum! Hogwash! Balderdash! The truth is what’s in your face. The truth is what you experience. The truth doesn’t come out of a box. You like square-dancing music? I don’t, but you can listen to it! You like Big Band Jazz? I do, but it doesn’t mean you have to. The grimy urban streets and the cushy sprawling cul-de-sacs of unending suburbia will ring with the music of the masses, the manufactured rebellion du jour. Last decade it was grunge, metal and gnu mating. This decade it’s hip hop, gangsta, skeet-skeet and twerkin’ yer gherkin.
Rebellion for one generation is an ad for Swiffer in the next. Examples? Plenty. 90’s: Nirvana, 80’s: Metallica, 70’s: Sabbath, 60’s: Beatles, 50’s: Elvis, 40’s: Swing, 30’s: Jazz, 20’s: Blues… and on and on. Most find it hard to believe, but at one time the Waltz was considered lewd and suggestive. I myself find it hard to believe. I’ve tried getting it on in 3/4 time and it’s anything but sexy.
Even though the eras in which they were created are no longer accessible to us, the music persists. No musical genre dies. There are no graves for a crowned successor to dance on. There are no prize fights, no heavyweight belts and no rewards for listening to one or the other, save one’s own enjoyment.
I admit that music is a distinct product of the times in which it is generated, but such can be said for any art form. We have words for the truly lasting works of art that transcend the mundane. We call such creations “classics” because sometimes an artist generates a work with remarkable and timeless appeal. The discovery of such classics is often as exciting as hearing that great new song. The music of today is built on the successes of yesterday. And even if hip-hop could weild a magic gat and send rock and roll to a watery grave, it would forever be sampling the precious booty of back-catalogue bullion, enabling the essence of the former to forever echo in the latter.
Good music finds success regardless of its form. Work hard, persevere, make it good and an audience will be found. We live in a world where we recognize differences and take sides. Must our entertainment also be used to divide us and sub-categorize us further? What good is that? And what’s good to that guy standing next to you might not be your taste. If that’s the case, just shut up and put on your headphones. We’ll all just listen to what we like. –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

******DISCLAIMER****** This was an APRIL FOOL’S JOKE! I am very much alive and in one piece, for now.
We are indeed sorry to see him go. He had so much life ahead of him. He will be missed by all of us and by many who knew him. For those of you who have not yet been notified by family or friends of the death of Mike, allow me to describe the strange, yet strangely expected circumstances.
Mike loved involving himself in new hobbies. But his purchase of a grain thresher from an online clearinghouse seemed a bit out of character. There were two witnesses to his death outside his apartment complex late Thursday afternoon. Daniel Newman and Caroline Wright said they saw him tinkering with the thresher near the dog run about a half hour before the accident.
“I saw him out there with this wagon-slash-woodchipper thing, trying to get the wheels on it.” Ms. Wright told me. “He had a bunch of tools and a gasoline can. I went inside to tell my boyfriend Daniel what was going on and we decided to head outside to watch, from a safe distance, of course. In the past, we had seen him with those damn model airplanes of his. He would always be laughing to himself, just letting the models buzz by those poor dogs. We always thought he was a nuisance, and I thought about telling the leasing office about this monstrosity he had dragged out, but Daniel said they were closed and the maintenance officers rarely showed up to take care of these kinds of problems.”
According to Mr. Newman, Mike was a quiet neighbor and always seemed to keep to himself. “I think we said ‘hello’ to each other a handful of times. We did converse once, however. He seemed interested that Caroline and I were from Florida. Honestly, the way he talked, I thought he was some big-shot writer. But I’d never heard of any of his stuff. Frankly, I don’t think he ever published anything. Now that I think back on it, maybe I should have indulged him a little more. Maybe it would have helped him if he had some friends around the premises. But when I saw him with that tractor, or whatever it was, I was kind of glad that I didn’t. I mean, who wants to hang out with people like that? No telling what they’re capable of.” Mr. Newman said that he and Ms. Wright stayed a safe distance away and watched Mike get the machine started.
“It made a God-awful noise,” Ms. Wright told me. “It was like a lawn mower, but like ten times as loud. Then he went to a nearby garbage bag full of lettuce, and just started chucking them at this thing’s mouth, or, whatever.”
Ms. Wright described Mike as zealous, throwing lettuce heads and phone books at the machine, watching them be devoured and reduced to tiny pieces. She said that she was pretty sure the machine shouldn’t have been acting like that. At the scene, there was evidence that Mike wasn’t merely putting the thresher together, he was modifying it for high-performance.
“I think that was the problem.” Mr. Newman added. “If he just followed the instructions, he probably wouldn’t have had the accident. Hell, if he just followed the documentation, he would have realized he didn’t even need a thresher. This isn’t a farm. You show me where the wheat is. If you ask me, this guy was just a screw-up from the get-go.”
Ms. Newman said that just as things were getting really out of hand, the thresher made a “choking” sound shortly after Mike tossed another copy of the Yellow Pages into it. He knelt down near the front of the machine and stuck his hand inside it with a tool of some sort. “He was visibly agitated” she said. “If it weren’t for all the noise, we might have been able to hear what he was saying, but it was just so loud. I think he was cursing. I think he was able to fix the problem, but not before those blades got hold of him. I think that the leather on his jacket got caught up in there somehow, and by then it was too late. It just dragged him in. It seemed to go on forever, just chewing him up. At first, we didn’t know what was happening. I think me and Daniel were in shock. I was thinking to myself, ‘maybe he’s just getting a better look.’ I should have known better. I’ve seen people crawl before. That poor bastard was being dragged.”
I thank Ms. Wright and Mr. Newman for their account of events. If it is of any consolation to the friends and family of Mr. Griffin, he left his estate open for sale. Items include two Apple Macintosh computers, two Fender Stratocaster electric guitars, a Yamaha and Fender bass guitar and a Guild acoustic guitar. All financial assets are to be donated to the Humane Society, at Mike’s written request. For more information, please go to his obituary page for more information.

Benjamin P. Griffin,
Executor of Estate