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Turn It Off [Fuck You Friday]

September 7th, 2012 by

From Uncle Internet Jesus Warren Ellis comes this blast of Canada's worst problem Chip Zdarsky on this Fuck You Friday:


Thank you, Chip.

It's Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's 75th birthday.

July 18th, 2012 by

Hunter S. Thompson, circa 1960

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson would have been 75 today.

In his honor, here are birthday words from Mr. Drew McKinney:

THIS WILL IDENTIFY HUNTER THOMPSONHunter Stockton Thompson was born seventy-five years ago in Louisville, Kentucky.

I wasn’t there that day but I have no doubt that it was miserable -- the air hot, humid, and thick with fifty different species of mosquitoes. There could be no other way to welcome the cranky Good Doctor to the planet that would trap him for nearly seventy years before he took it upon himself to leave and explore the cosmos.

But we’re not here to dredge up painful memories or mourn the passing of a great man, no, we’re here to celebrate a Rocket that burned powerful and bright and ignited the world with his white phosphorus afterglow.

I’m sitting on a front porch in rural Georgia and I can’t help but think that this is what it must have been like when Hunter was born. It’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning and the temperature is already at an oppressive ninety-seven degrees, sure to rise another ten or twelve or fifteen degrees more before the day is done. The humidity is intolerable and sits on my chest like a drunken Lady Wrestler, chafing the skin and causing the hair to grow inward and down where it will fester and poison the blood.

Bourbon is the only thing that saves in times like these. It’s too fucking hot for bourbon, yet here I sit, gulping Wild Turkey 101 like a fish gulps water. I have to, though, because of Tradition. It’s My Way and the only way I know so I keep at it, year after year, drinking a bottle of The Dirty Bird to celebrate the birthdate of that mean S.O.B. Thompson. In the years following his death my Tradition often tastes like a bitter, jagged pill that cuts all the way to the core before tearing a new asshole as it makes its way out and Beyond. But still, we do what we must and we suck it up and keep our mouths shut.

I don’t even know if the Good Doctor drank bourbon on a regular basis. Many accounts I’ve read of him suggest that he had a penchant for colorful girly drinks that contained rum and umbrellas and pieces of fruit. And so what? The man was from Kentucky -- bourbon country if there ever was one, and in my mind that makes him a bourbon drinker by default.

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and a bottle of Wild TurkeyA birthday in America is traditionally celebrated with friends and gifts and cake but I fantasize that Hunter would have no part of that, preferring instead to pour a glass of liquor and maybe go outside and shoot something or blow some shit up and finish the day with a nice cut of beef or perhaps the heart of a bear.

I’m close to that, really close. I’m sipping straight from the bottle because I can’t stand dirtying a glass when the liquor comes in its own, and I have a .22 Long Rifle instead of heavy-duty firepower that Thompson was known for, and I don’t have any beef or hearts immediately available but I do have a ham sandwich. Sit, sip, shoot, nibble. The sitting and sipping and nibbling are easy but the shooting is something I’m not entirely used to, being a pacifist sissy City Boy and all that. So instead of taking potshots at the squirrels and foxes and lizards that seem to rule this part of the country I go for pine trees. Bang, take that you useless fucker! As far as trees go I find pine to be utterly worthless and have zero problems pumping them full of hot lead. The Doc would be proud of the War Cry that escapes from my throat every time I’m actually able to hit one, my aim being one of my truly horrible qualities that shouldn’t be discussed while in Polite Company.

And so we sit and eat ham and drink bourbon and shoot trees. Pretty tame compared to what Hunter would get himself up to but it’s what I have so Carpe Diem and all that. Happy Birthday, you weird Fucker, thanks for the inspiration and good times. We’ll do this again next year.

Young HST photo via wallofpaul.com. HST press badge photo via thethoughtexperiment.wordpress.com. HST + Wild Turkey via nomeatballs.wordpress.com. Thank you, Drew. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Hunter.

Learning about relaxation. [Fuck You Friday]

June 15th, 2012 by

It's a Fuck You Friday.Fu is an expert at relaxation.

Michele asked me to ask Fu about how to relax.

Here's what Ms. Fu had to say on this Fuck You Friday:







A good answer.

Then, as I began putting together this very post, she did this:





Thanks, Fu. I'll try to learn from you.

Some Things Should Not Be Forgotten

April 26th, 2012 by

Guernica by Picasso

There is no hyperbole in saying that April 26 is a day that should be remembered.

What happened to Guernica in 1937 should be remembered.

This feels like home to me.

March 29th, 2012 by

Home is where I want to be.

I feel like I know this place, that I've been here before.

About Grace and cancer.

March 4th, 2012 by


She's right here. She's in the room with me right now.

My small friend.

She's my friend. She's my comrade. She has comforted me gently when I was at my most distraught. I love her dearly.

Soon, she'll leave.

She's leaving. I don't want her to leave.

An elegant, brash, long-haired orange cat 14-years old, my small friend Grace has oral cancer. Squamous-cell carcinoma to be specific.

She was just diagnosed last week. Events have been moving chillingly fast.

There are tumors growing along the inside of her lower jaw, even now. Right now. I can't stop their growth. I couldn't stop how large they've become. She is slowly but surely losing the use of her tongue.

A few days ago she could barely eat her customary dry food. Yesterday she could not eat liquified wet food. Today we fed her wet food from a large plastic syringe.

There is no action I can take to stop what is happening. There is no throat I could grasp. There is no extreme thing I could do to parley away or to delay this story's coda. I am helpless.

I am not helpless. Writing this right now is my way of fighting back against cancer.

And here is why: Grace is the best cat I have ever known. She makes it all look so easy. And it's not even quite accurate to call her a cat. It almost talks down to her to call her a cat; I call her a creature. My creature. And I am hers. I live with two strange, singular creatures. I love them both dearly.

Let me tell you about Grace. Grace is contrary. Often are the times when she leaves a room strutting her hips away from appeals for her to make an appearance, her impeccably-kept tail sailing after her like a flag.

Grace is grace.

Grace is loud. There is no sound like it in the world. A demanding atonal honk of a voice: "Weghnr." she'll say, green eyes staring back with authoritative insistence. She'll demand your attention and get it. She declaims. She is calmly persistent. She is sure in her arguments. And when she likes you, she'll pursue with the most indirect maneuvers. First taking over your jacket cast over on the bed or chair, later making her way onto the couch with you. Next thing you know, she's asleep beside you with her chin atop your knee. Her indirect adoring leads over time into open full-fledged adoration. I see what you do now, Grace. Adorably devious.

Grace is comforting. In my time of greatest despair, when I almost lost the woman I love to a car accident, whenever I could be persuaded to leave the hospital, Grace would greet me when I returned home. I'd open the door to a acknowledging Whheghnr. At night, Grace slept at my hip, right near where my hands rest, so I could stroke her fur as we both drifted to sleep.

Grace on my hip.

Grace is insouciant. She knows that she isn't supposed to drink from the toilet and despite having both a water bowl and 60-ounce water mug, Grace makes it her mission to sup from the porcelain chalice as often as she can. When admonished, she doesn't slink from the bathroom -- no, she trots from her arena of infraction, tail held high and proud.

Grace is exacting. No feline has ever operated in such a well-adjusted way when navigating blankets with people under them. Grace isn't afraid of what legs or feet might be doing under sheets and comforters, no. She triangulates where and which lap or leg will grant her the most warmth, and then she moves calmly across the bed (no matter the turbulence), closing in on the chosen site to make muffins (kneading and kneading and kneading). Finally, when she is satisfied, she flumphs down and deigns close her eyes.

Grace is model-quality.

Grace is tough. When faced with a human's (farcical) challenge to her haughty authority, Grace will parade to her scratching post and scratch and scratch and scratch her claws in, all the while radiating defiant vigor. "You dare?" she seems to sneer at her audience.

Grace is unafraid. She's a queen. She appraises. She inspects. She fears nothing on two legs. She enters a room not by the side of the doorway, but coursing right through the middle of it, confident of her place in things. No enemies here, not in her domain, but things to be overseen.

Grace considers whether or not to disapprove.

My small friend is leaving soon, and there is nothing I can do to prevent that.

I can clean the blood and spittle from her muzzle. I can help hold her while she drinks from a plastic syringe. I can brush her still gorgeous fur that she can't bathe herself any more.

She is not in pain. She simply doesn't understand why her mouth doesn't work anymore. She's frustrated. She has gotten slower each day. More spittle around her mouth each day. The spittle slowly grew pinker, and now every so often, redder.

In the past several weeks, Grace took to strongly insisting on drinking from our plastic water cups that we put on the bedside tables when it's time to go to bed. She was getting thirstier and then we didn't know why. She might have been searching for the particular cup of water that would quench the thirst inside her that wasn't going away like it used to when she drank.

Yet even as she weakens, her sharp green eyes still shine with the same bright, brash unstinting love.

Grace loves.

It is among my worst nightmares to go the vet with three members of my family, returning home with only two.

Now, tonight, she sits on the hassock in front of the chair I sit on. As ever, her head is pointed away from me so if she opened her eyes, she could see whatever might be coming towards her. Her ears, though, are cocked back. She's listening to me breathe. She's listening to my fingers stroke her long soft warm orange fur. She's right here. I love her. I don't want her to leave.

Since her sickness has intensified in the last weeks, sometimes I catch a glimpse of her seemingly staring blithely off into the distance at nothing. This is unlike her. I recognize what she is doing. My childhood cat Bowdrie did the same as his organs began to stop working. We are near on towards the end. She seems to be looking at something off over an imagined horizon line, where I imagine that she imagines an oasis of water where she can drink as much as she could want, where she can finally feel as refreshed as she remembers water once made her, and rest.

I know that she's going to leave. I don't want her to leave. She's my friend. She's part of my family.

I can't take the cancer from her. Would that I could. I can't. So this is how I fight: I write about it, I write about her, and now I'm going to tell you what you can do to fight cancer.

Do as many of these as you can:

These are Lauren's awesome knuckles.

These are Lauren's knuckles. They are also awesome.

• 1.) My epic friend Lauren is going to shave her head again for charity to help kids with cancer. She's doing this with the St. Baldrick's Foundation in Chicago. Here is where the money goes to. Lauren is awesome. Fight cancer by pledging money to her charity drive. Do it now.

* Lauren Vega

Participant ID: P-502891 Role: Shavee

I've answered the call to be a hero! I'm having my head shaved to stand in solidarity with kids fighting cancer, but more importantly, to raise money to find cures.

Please support me with a donation to the St. Baldrick's Foundation. This volunteer-driven charity funds more in childhood cancer research grants than any organization except the U.S. government.

Your gift will give hope to infants, children, teens and young adults fighting childhood cancers. So when I ask for your support, I'm really asking you to support these kids. Thank you!

Click "Make a donation" to give online, or donate by phone or mail.

Make A Donation

• 2.) If you have a pet or pets or live with someone, stop smoking. Pets in homes with smokers at least two times more likely to develop cancer. Use this as your excuse to stop smoking. Do it.

• 3.) Tomorrow isn't a given. Today: Call or write someone you love that perhaps you'd been putting off contacting. Do it.


She left today.

Grace Kelly Blanche DuBois Hirschfeld Rogers, AKA GraceFace From Outer Space – 1997-2012. She won. You won, Grace.

Rest, my little friend.

Goodbye, Grace. I love you.

Goodbye, Grace. I love you.

Welcome To Film.

March 4th, 2012 by

Hey, film.

Welcome to film.



March 2nd, 2012 by

"I eat comedy and shit pain."

It's a Fuck You Friday.
The grand Rob Schrab* (Heat Vision and Jack; Scud: The Disposable Assassin; The Sarah Silverman Program) shares his feelings about the 2012 Oscar ceremony.

(* = His last name is pronounced "SHROB." Photo via twitter.com/robschrab/status/173986250188013570.)

No reason.

February 20th, 2012 by
I see no reason to fight when we can stand around and talk, really.

"I see no reason to fight when we can stand around and talk, really."

[Via Warren Ellis' ubergrid.tumblr.com via milonogiannis.tumblr.com.]

I'll take it.

February 18th, 2012 by

I'll take it.

One, please.


[Pic via fuckyeahdementia.com via izkyoot.tumblr.com.]