Burn the Man

I've got this friend who's really involved in the Burning Man community, and she keeps telling me these crazy stories that make me want to get in my car and drive there, just to see what I'd do. This year's theme is Psyche. For those of you unfamiliar with Burning Man (by which I mean more unfamiliar than me, which isn't saying much, since I've never been), imagine:

Herds of humanity from across the world (yes, the Burning Man community is global) swarm into Black Rock Desert in Nevada and build a fully functioning city in a matter of days. These people then inhabit the city for two weeks of "celebration". Think a total experience of self-reliance with a heavy dose of anti-commercialism, art, music, (sounds OK so far, right?) followe by nudity, dancing, psychedelic-type costumes, crazy temporary buildings, themed everything and a splash of debauchery with good times had by all, but perhaps only remembered by some.

Then, after they burn The Man on Saturday (you're starting to get this now, huh?), the city totally vanishes as if it were never there. Everyone goes home to their normal lives and takes it all with them. Gone. Without. A. Trace.

Here's an excerpt from the horse's mouth, so to speak (link to the site by clicking the headline, above):

The event takes place on an ancient lakebed, known as the playa. [Black Rock Desert, Nevada] By the time the event is completed and the volunteers leave, sometimes nearly a month after the event has ended, there will be no trace of the city that was, for a short time, the most populous town in the entire county. Art is an unavoidable part of this experience, and in fact, is such a part of the experience that Larry Harvey, founder of the Burning Man project, gives a theme to each year, to encourage a common bond to help tie each individual's contribution together in a meaningful way. Participants are encouraged to find a way to help make the theme come alive, whether it is through a large-scale art installation, a theme camp, gifts brought to be given to other individuals, costumes, or any other medium that one comes up with.

If any of you guys go, come back and tell us all about it. Sounds like a wierd/cool experience. You know... like, trippy.

Hydration: NASA cares

As if Superglue and Memory Foam mattresses weren't enough (wait - what about Silly Putty? Who effed up and invented that?) NASA can now be credited for yet another brilliant, relevant, necessary invention: a Pee Purifyer.

OK, it sounds pretty ridiculous, but this one makes some sense. Think:

1. By enabling astronauts to recycle some of their own waste, NASA will save millions on the transportation of potable water to space alone.
2. Then you've got the whole universal pollution issue. Yep, they used to just dump astronauts' number 1's and number 2's into the great black yonder, where it will orbit forever, probably contributing to global warming and toxic rain and male pattern baldness.
3. Think about all the other applications here on Earth. Tsunami ravaged your corner of the planet, rendering all water a muddy, polluted mess? Drink your own pee! Draught giving you dry mouth? Drink your own pee! Live in rural Utah with negative 5 gazillion degree winters and outdoor plumbing? Drink your own pee and stay inside with your 10 kids and 2 wives, warming yourselves by the fire and singing in 13-part harmony!

Now, the PP hasn't yet been released to the general public, but by all trial accounts I could locate (OK, one) the tinkle-water doesn't taste too bad.

Laugh all you want, but next time you're stranded in the woods eating grubs and wiping with Poison Oak with only your love of Pokemon's trading card game to keep you alive, (no, seriously. Click that link. I'm not kidding. That could be you.) you'll wish you bought NASA stock. Because you COULD be drinking your own pee.

* click on the title for the full story from WIRED.com

Anything you want for $2.18

So the other day was $2.18 day at Dairy Queen. Actually, I don't think it really was, but the experience I had there was enough to convince me, at least momentarily, that we were all getting a real deal.

Let me start by saying this would be perhaps the second time in a year I've been to DQ... I don't generally do the fast food thing. But I was in a hurry, and in a moment of weakness, gave in to the cheap thrill of dessert before dinner.

The lines were horrendous- the man in front of me was clutching his son by the collar so as to refrain him from clobbering his older sister, who was leaning against the counter, smirking at him. Their mother marveled at the cost efficience of their meal, oblivious to conflict. The elderly, blueharied woman behind me was confounded by the fact that the photo of the Banana split blizzard looked more like chocolate than banana. It was as if her entire world was slowly being corrupted because of some sort of chocolate conspiracy, and now faithful Dairy Queen was among those on the dark side.

The woman behind her, overwieght and exasperated, harumphed a touch too loudly to her surprisingly thin daughter about the wait. In my irritated state, I wondered what she was in such a rush to do, (and with her proportions, how quickly she'd do it, anyway). I then silently reprimanded myself and decided, with a furtive glance at her, against the fries.

As the line slowly disintigrated in front of me, I watched the people busily dashing about behind the counter with their hats and chocolate stains on. I marveled at their fixations upon their individual tasks, as if their universe would end if the drive-through customer didn't get his extra slice of tomato on that deluxe burger- and in a hurry.

"Could I help the next person in line?"

They reminded me of brave, hurried ants scurrying, digging, hurrying with their oversized loads only to find all their work demolished in the morning after a six year old with a stick discovered their haven.

"Miss?"

I shook my head and stepped up, apologizing to the acne-spotted teenager behind the counter for my daze. Ordering a small mint oreo blizzard and a fish sandwich (no mayo), I waited for my total.

As he worked at my order, he spoke over his shoulder at me.

"That's $2.18", please."

I, still working my way out of lala land, assumed I had misheard him. I leaned forward and craned my neck to see the total on the register. $2.18.

I, now realizing that some mistake had been made, I felt a small heavy pit in my stomach. This is one of those moments where your moral judgement is tested, I thought, with some frustration. Now I had a decision to make. I checked the menu and added up my order. It came to much more than $2.18, without tax. I rolled my eyes at the irony of the fact that I had only that much in my wallet, give or take .50, and on my income (nonexistant), that was a fortune to save.

Before I had much more of an opportunity to dwell, however, the ants had scurried up to the counter with my order, which had metamorphisized as they were out of mint, leaving me stuck with plain Oreo. I felt myself smile sheepishly at the continued irony of it all, and handed over my two bills and quarter. As I stepped out of the way so that the orders could go on, I watched the old woman (so worried about the chocolate in her frozen treat) inquire about the ingredients of the bannana split blizzard. I fingered the .07 in my hands and turned towards the door. Just before I reached it, however, I heard the boy at the register addresses the bluehair.

"that's $2.18, please. Thank you."

I smiled, and pushed out into the rain.

Benefits: dental, medical, social...

It's always nice to be able to experience a lifestyle you'll likely never be able to afford. It's not that I'm pessimistic or defeatist... it's just that I'll never be a computer geek. Look, I try, but it's just not going to happen for me. No one really wants to pay a writer. It's a saturated market... there's always some starving PR major willing to work for less - actually, these days there are a fair number of MBA's willing to work for nearly free.

So I'm OK with the fact that I'll always have to temporarily enjoy the fruits of someone else's labor. At least I've got pictures.

Exhibit #1: This was last weekend at Seafair on a yacht (poor me!)...

See that tiny vessel tied to the yacht? That's a pretty good sized ski boat (it seats 15 comfortably).

Three floors. 4 bedrooms. 5 bathrooms. A full-time, on-call captain. L., me. We could get used to this.

It's a bird! It's a plane! (OK, it actually is a plane - 4 of them.) Blue Angels in flight. In this formation, the cockpits are only 12 inches from the wings of another plane.

Hydroplanes. They're cool for the first 5 minutes, particularly if you're drinking. Then they're just noisy and splashy and gaudily painted and boring after that, unless they crash. Which they didn't.

Exhibit #2: A birthday soiree at Gary Payton's former swanky Seattle mansion... (formerly owned by GP, not formerly swanky).

Plasmas everywhere, a full gym on the first floor, a closet I'd pay rent to live in and an infinity hottub... it was just like a rap video (only with more clothes and less gold teeth).

The kitchen, which is the size of a regular studio apartment. Eat your underwear and sock-clad heart out, young Tom Cruise.

He had his name over, like, three doors in the house. A bit narcissistic, but we took pictures, so I guess that says something about us, too.

Another reason to travel to Asia - cartoon condoms

Yes, those are yellow condoms growing on trees - and this is an actual image of a Japanese condom package. And i thought all the Anime porn was bizarre. Apparently condoms are advertised much like candy in Asia. Seriously... the "2" with the symbols by it in the lower left translates to "2 pieces".

Check this out, too:

I presume the toddlers on the packages are there as a reminder of what unprotected sex will result in... and not as models of sexually-active-condom users... right? RIGHT? That kid's smooth, though. Check out the shades and the jujjed hair. And she's practically blushing. Eeew.

Can someone please explain this to me?

Hey, don't bash clones... they're just (exactly) like you and me!

Because they are apparently lucky enough not to have, like, REAL problems to discuss, two theologans recently tackled the difficult, pressing issue of discrimination against human clones.

[shakes her head in disbelief]

Though one is socially liberal and the other is conservative, they have apparently tired of battling each other and have joined hands on behalf of clones every(err... no?)where. They believe that the simple debate about the morality of human cloning could have dire consequences for these "clones of the future" (assuming, of course, that "pro-cloners" win the ongoing dispute). How's that for pious defeatism, by the way?

Honestly.

Just to reiterate, according to one of these jackasses as quoted in the Washington Post, "Human clones, individuals created asexually from a person's cells and sharing that person's genetic identity, do not exist."

Thanks for that.

He does continue, saying that though they are just a figment of our science-fiction imaginations at present, they'll arrive in the flesh, so to speak, soon enough. And when they do, "they will be troubled to learn that people once spoke of them in opinion columns and elsewhere as 'subhuman'."

There's more...

"My concern is that by the time they're among us, we will have created a culture that so rejects their production it cannot help but reject them."

And by the way, he asks that we please do not refer to them as "science fair projects" or "machines".

And I agree. That might hurt their feelings. After all, they're just (exactly) like us. Also, please talk nice about honest politicians, ugly but actually talented female pop singers, the Tribe Called Quest's next album and self-slicing bricks of cheese (I swear they're coming... it's only a matter of time).

Thank you.

"BANG!" The mental picture alone kills me...

This is a REAL piece of British news, which ACTUALLY went out in the papers. No offense to our overseas brothers and sisters with bad oral hygiene, but this is a Bush-sized blunder, for sure.

The story goes like this:

Someone in the UK miscalculated the number of blanks the British army would need to train its Iraq-bound troops. When the "whoops" was discovered, everyone was troublingly out of solutions... until one particularly smart chap must have suggested that the soldiers just yell "BANG" when they'd otherwise shoot in a training exercise. Of course, this didn't go over well with the army, but apparently no one else really gives a shit. (Just picturing it now, with the accents and the bloody hell's and all caused me to stop typing for a moment and wipe my teary eyes after a fit of giggles. It's like something out of Austin Powers... here I go again!)

Check this out (and click the title link for the whole story, which I found on BoingBoing):


A senior British army officer said:

"There is nothing more dispiriting than soldiers having to go on exercise and shout 'bang, bang' because there is not enough blank ammunition. Any benefit from the exercise will be lost because soldiers just won't take it seriously. Why should soldiers who are being sent to Iraq, where their lives will be endangered, be forced to shout 'bang' in training because someone in the Ministry of defense can't do basic arithmetic? It's a disgrace."