My non-story begins here, with a somewhat amazing/gross video on Boingboing.  Being a Man Of The People, it then ambles down to the comments section--an admittedly risky move, but I figure "Hey, Boingboing yo, how bad can it be?"  It is with great sadness, then, that I find the comment section over-run with dickwads. Bear in mind the original was posted at 8:46 am

8:55 am
Umm.. just to be pedantic...
If they are in fact Daddy Long Legs, then they are not, in fact, spiders. They are arachnids, but from the order Opiliones.....

8:57 am
Strictly speaking these are harvestmen, not spiders.....

8:58 am
Technically, Daddy Longlegs are not spiders.....

9:06 am
Really important point needs to be made: "daddy long legs" are not spiders.....

9:11 am
They're not spiders, but a species of harvestman....

Fucking Christ!  Is this it, dickwad?  Your moment to shine?  You finally get to erupt your non-information all over my browser?  Because that is exactly what it is: a completely useless fact, not containing one shred information.  Harvestmen you say? Belonging to the order of Opiliones?  Fascinating, I feel like I read the wikipedia page myself--only if I had, maybe I would know, oh, I don't know, maybe ONE GOD DAMN THING THAT DISTINGUISHES SPIDERS FROM DADDY LONG LEGS. Here, let me make the edit to the post you were dreaming of:

I love harvestmen of the Opiliones order, really and truly I do, but SQUICKSQUICKSQUICK

Much better.

Finally the movie that has it all; mouth-rape, girl ass-rape, guy ass-rape, attempted gang-rape.  And that's just what you see on camera!  As a special bonus there is implied father-daughter rape along with dozens upon dozens of race-hate/immigrant/whore rapes (come on DVD extras)!  I'm talking, of course, of the much ballyhooed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  Unfortunately, there's not much there outside of rape.  The remainder of the movie is a middling detective story, a wholly inexplicable love story and some of the worst directed computer-usage scenes I have ever witnessed.  I'm not sure if old Niels was going for realism or not, but god damn, there are only so many side bar navigations/shots of the desktop that I am willing to put up with in the course of a movie.  He also continues to carry the torch for laughable portrayals of hacking; apparently all it entails is using a DOS prompt (on a Mac, of course) and typing in the person's name and computer description (e.g. "laptop").  Overall the movie was entertaining enough, though I can't understand why it's so highly regarded.  Or why anyone would be afraid of jail in Sweden, considering it seems to be the equivalent of sentencing someone to a dorm.  The guy got his computer and damn wifi!

40/73 Hamburgers. Probably should have been a 45, but I have penalized it for not meeting my expectations.

Seemed fairly silly. That is, until I found I had stories of my own/friends to publish. First the overture to a love story of my own:

Me: Dickhead driving my dad's red sport coupe, roaring around tight turn at intersection.
You: Riding bike on sidewalk, scowling at high-horsepower antics. I really felt that we shared something special, so after dropping off friend I hoped to scream past you in the opposite direction, but you were gone! Contact me if you want to be sexually thrilled again by my driving very fast in your general vicinity.

In my defense it is almost impossible to drive that damn thing in an other-respecting manner, so I decided to let the car dictate my driving persona. It seems there is a precedent for this sort of thing anyway:

Mustang at PDQ on Buckeye - m4w - 35 (Madison)
You asked if you could use my cell then said you liked my mustang. If you'd like to go convertabling sometime let me know. I'd be glad to take you for a drive.

So while I can't offer a good old fashioned "convertabling" like this prince, sun-roofing is still definitely on the table.

The second missed connection is more of a public service to a friend. He's been having lady troubles of late, so I feel obliged to intervene and make sure this opportunity does not slip through his fingers:

Me: Waiting for Budget Bicycle Center to open to begin working, sprawled out on sidewalk next to bicycle, thrashing wildly, rocking out to Aerosmith piped in through earbuds.
You: Concerned jogger, stop to make sure I am not having seizure post terrible bike crash, ask if I am OK. I'm fine, and you're not so bad yourself--care to watch me jam on my air guitar sometime? I can also do drums.

Scrolling through the w4m ads (for research purposes only Lindsay, I swear), I have come to the conclusion that all those pornos I've... heard about involving delivery guys must be true. Look at this shit:

Schwans guy in Sun Prairie - w4m - 30
Hot AT&T Guy - w4m - 38

Come on, the damn Schwans guy? I guess it's time to put on a vague uniform, a utility belt and start going door to door. Ah... for research purposes, again. Of Course.

And now a couple backlog book reviews. Andy, thanks for reminding me of Filthy, mimicry was not my intent, but I'm honored by the comparison.  I'm going to have to increase the poop jokes ten-fold though to fill those shoes(pants).

The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway

This is the best damn book I've read in years.  Imagine, if you will, an action movie with incredible pacing, deep characters the audience can relate to and steadily building tension to the final climatic scene. I know, I know, such a movie does not exist... except in book form.  Oh, and it's genuinely funny book, which, as those of you who know me can attest, is praise I very seldom dole out, especially when comedy is the intent (I'm looking at you Confederacy of Dunces). Quite simply, you should read this book.
69/73 Hamburgers

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon

Thumbs way down on this one. My christ is this a dull piece of trash. I'm going to have to quote my favorite literary critic on this one, me.

Scene from book club:
Ellen: Micheal Chabon apparently did hundreds and hundreds of hours of interviews to maintain historical authenticity.
Me: That's really what I find so impressive about his writing; he is able to perfectly convey the feeling of sitting through every tedious hour.

To its credit, the descriptions can be fairly vivid.  To its infinite shame, this book is mercilessly dull. Just when you are starting to enjoy the oh-so-brief Antarctic vignette BAM you are dumped into 1950s New Jersey suburbia with a bunch of flat, emotionally dead characters. Yeehaw. Did I mention how damn long this book is?
19/73 Hamburgers

 

The kind of person one reveres can be most revealing.  I, for example, try to live life by the Hamburgular(TM) Code.  From this you can gather I look good in stripes and will steal your burger given the opportunity.  Ayn Rand's hero, on the other hand, was Howard Roark.  From this we can assume she liked a good rape thrown her way every now and then.  Because Howard Roark raped the heroine, but she was totally into it.  In case you were wondering, I just finished The Fountainhead, which was surprisingly entertaining.  What else did I learn about Ayn Rand? Other than rape the heroine, he cuckolded his best friend and blew up a low income housing project.  I really had to laugh when he did that, because as much as it makes sense in context of the story/Ayn Rand's batshit "Objectivism," the guy still blew up housing for the poor.  I was only somewhat surprised/disappointed he didn't follow that one up with ax-murdering Santa for his socialist agenda.  Also great was when I reached the tear-out advertisement at the halfway point, (we're talking an actual magazine-style postage paid card) trying to recruit readers to the School of Objectivism. The hook was a quote from Ayn Rand:

"As an advocate of reason, egoism, and capitalism, I seek to reach the men of the intellect--wherever such may still be found."

Oh snap! Of course, this barb would be a tad more convincing if it didn't make one question the intellect of its author; "I seek to reach the men of the intellect?" How about "I seek to reach men of intellect," or better still "I seek men of intellect." I just removed five words and strengthened the meaning, beyotch.  Aynie's got that covered though, because I've just engaged in literary criticism, the closest thing to socialist totalitarianism known to man.  Being a big fan of the socialism of the totalitarianism, wherever such may still exist, I've decided to start doing brief book reviews.  Despite Ayn Rand's subscription to the No Means Yes school of philosophy, the pages of monologue that plague the end of the book (Hi, I'm the evil guy. Let me tell you why for the next ten pages) and the idiotic send-in-three-box-tops-to-join-the-School-of-Objectivism plug in the middle, The Fountainhead is a good story with interesting characters. I give it 51 out of 73 Hamburgers.

Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead
51/73 Hamburgers

I am continually baffled and saddened by the gulf between what we are capable of as a species in movies, as compared with our staggering ineptitude in reality.  In Armageddon, for example, we landed this totally rad Future Shuttle on an asteroid which we blew up with a fucking nuke!  Suck on that atom-splitting-phallus you damn dirty space rock!  Back to reality, I have to read with sadness as we fail to find a father of two in a five day search when he died only one mile from his vehicle.

But these are both sorely dated examples you cry!  And just the other day I read an article about our own fearless leader assembling an A-team of scientists: Obama Sends Bomb, Mars Experts to Fix BP Oil Spill.  That's more like it!  Let's send a team to the center of the earth with a bomb!  It will be just like my other favorite 90's disaster movie, The Core! 

And then the dream comes crashing down; this afternoon I hear on NPR that BP's top scientists have come up with two new potential strategies. Strategy One: shoot "heavy mud" at it, and my personal favorite, Strategy Two, bury it with tires, rope and golf balls.  Let me type that again, only angrier

BURY THE MOTHERFUCKING OIL SPILL WITH GOD-DAMN TIRES, ROPE AND GOLF BALLS.

I guess that means nukes are off the table, let alone space shuttles. Probably for the best, considering our space shuttles are almost as old as I am and use cutting edge "486" processors. The year is 2010 and the technology I'm supposed to be excited about is a fucking ipad.  Back to Fantasyland for me, thanks.  Minus the Aerosmith if possible.

P.S. I just re-read that news blurb and they use the words "hope," and "nooks and crannies" in the same sentence, leaving me in turn to hope that when our end comes it is at least swift and merciful. Oh, and it bears mentioning that the past two strategies could be described as Operation: Giant Straw (failed) and the more hilarious Operation: Metal Hat (epic fail).

 

I've never actually been to the site, but that's not going to stop me from loathing it.  As a matter of fact, it probably helps keep the hate alive as I hate all things I don't understand (Hollanders, for example).  Nonetheless, let me give you a taste of just how exciting it would be if Karstensfandango Inc were to branch out into the wild world of twitter:

I just had to clean my cat's poop off the wall with a screwdriver.
Fuck my cat.

It's what I do.  That's why when my part-time co-worker Jim who has a "Ph.D. in allergenics" or some shit, tried butting in to scientific debate I had to be firm.  The basic premise was we were going to see how long Hank could survive on nothing but corn and corn products, and Jim was all like "We should have Hank eat no corn for a couple weeks, then nothing but corn after so that he can act as his own control group."
"His own control group?" I scoffed.
"Yeah, this is kind of what I do for a living."
"I tell you what we're going to do; clone Hank. That way we can just force the clone to eat all the corn.  Now that's science.  Plus, we get the bonus of listening to him plea for mercy in broken english, e.g. 'Why you hurt?' "
"and 'No more yellow' " Hank chimed in.
It's not fair of me to be hard on Jim though, really.  You're either born with the gift or you're not.

This is something I wrote the other day:

Déjà vu

It used to be that the experience of déjà vu was an unsettling one.  It was a feeling akin to a bad sickness, a perturbing sense of distance from oneself, a disengagement from reality.  Viewing oneself as an uncontrollable automaton whittles away at the belief that we are each independent agents acting on our own volition.  Or perhaps that is not quite right; maybe it is the feeling of intense freedom in these rare moments that so troubled me, the realization that although most conversations are pre-scripted, at any point I could say something wrong, discordant or impossibly better.  I wonder if this uncertainty is an echo of a not quite forgotten time when every action seemed new and self-defining.

Whatever the cause of the unease, the sensation was always so powerful that I would immediately struggle to regain control, as one would start from an unpleasant dream.  Although my disquiet would persist for several minutes, eventually I would fade unthinking into well-established routines and mental comfort.

Yesterday I found another way.  Instead of resisting the sensation of repetition, I followed it to its conclusion.  I walked where I was supposed to walk.  I smiled at the familiar joke.  And when it came time to look out the window, I marveled at the ever-present the sky and the distance of the clouds.  The difference was my actions now seemed preordained rather than predetermined; that is to say I have spent the entirety of my life judging how best to behave in the world and, more importantly, that this time was not wasted.  The person that I am now unconsciously is also the person I would be by choice.  With a sense of calm I slipped back into my day.

I like to think of myself as an introspective bloke, able to at least fabricate rationale for my actions ex post facto, even if my reasoning at the time was murky. For example, I recently purchased a stupidly large monitor for my stupidly powerful computer.  While this would strike many as a frivolous expenditure, I would hasten to inform you that I only bought it so I could get rid of our television, thus freeing the space needed for us to purchase a piano; in other words, a wholly selfless act.  Almost saint-like really.  There are still, however, those actions that leave me at a complete loss.  That I went to the trouble to find, download and then watch Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End is one such inexplicable act.  The first Pirates movie I thought was an over-hyped piece of garbage.  Nonetheless, being the eternal optimist/shitty summer movie connoisseur that I am, I did not hesitate to watch the sequel, Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Davey Jones is a Weird Octopus Dude.  To the surprise of probably no one, the sequel stunk up the place a fair deal more than did the original, and I was angry at myself for wasting my time/bandwidth.  Maybe it was the scientist in me that pressed on to the third movie, needing a full three shit movies to establish a pattern.  It could also have been my moron aspect that forced me to sit through all of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Steady Worsening.  To be honest, I don't really care who was responsible anymore, I just hope they are left swabbing the mental decks for the rest of their miserable lives... not that that would be much of a punishment, seeing as they are such fans of pirate fiction.

This summer, though,  I've subjected myself to more than my fair share of Hollywood slop.  My reviews are as follows:

X-men Origins: Wolverine 1.8/10
It should of been a .8, but it got bumped a star for its ballsy (no pun intended thank the christ) use of Hugh Jackman nudity and manly struts away from explosions.

Terminator 4: Slumm'n It  2.5/10
As much as it pains me to say it, Lindsay is totally right and Christian Bale is crap.  And who the hell is the city planner for the Terminators? Why are there goddamn fireballs everywhere? I'm going to guess it was that robot wearing a bandanna (no joke).

Star Trek 6/10
I can only partially understand the hype on this one.  Sure, plenty of the main characters are way, way better than their original counterparts, but then that's not asking for the moon, now is it?  The plot, on the other hand, was wholly forgettable sci-fi mumbo-jumbo. Time travel, alternate reality blah blah blah at least those fucking Vulcans are almost extinct.

Fortunately, some of us were gifted with the necessary creativity to produce really good films.  Alex and I recently re-imagined the end of the Back to the Future after a typically bizarre exchange at budget.  The new scene goes something like this:

Delorian roars up in front of McFly's house with flames and shit. MJF and his squeeze get all excited and run outside and hop into the back seat.

MJF: Holy pantaloons is it great to see you doc, where have you been blah blah blah

Doc, face hidden from view continues to stare forward.

MJF: Doc? You OK?

Doc rotates slowy towards MJF and Squeeze, revealing a face caked with dried blood and two gory sockets where his eyes had been.  MJF's Squeeze pukes into her lap.

MJF: JESUS FUCK!  WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR EYES!
Doc: Eyes?  Where we're going, we don't need eyes.

The Delorian's engines roar, and the car disappears in a burst of flames. Maybe show some footage from Event Horizan if we can get the rights.

Something I forgot to write about this morning, though whether or not it is a "small, graceful literary sketch" remains to be seen.

Nick recently informed me that a friend of his just had his second child. The significance of this birth? Aforementioned friend gave the kid "Danger" as its middle name. At first I laughed and was impressed, but upon further reflection I couldn't help but feel sorry for the older child. While his younger sibling can dream of someday being the man/woman (gender was not specified) of the hour,
"Don't go in there John/Jill! It's too dangerous!"
"Danger is my middle name," (kicks in burning door and rushes into legend),
the older child will spend its entire life waiting for a situation that is "too Malcom" for anyone else to handle.

I drank too much the other night. What began as a four beer bike ride (namely those beers I was carrying in my backpack) soon morphed into four beers, brandy, whiskey, and cigarettes. I returned home to discover the night was still young and a message from Pete asking if I wanted to go out for "a couple." Thanks to an alcohol-induced can-do attitude, I soon found myself out on the town yet again, this time with Pete, Lindsay and Madeline establishing that the "couple" Pete had been referring to were pitchers. By the time I got to bed at three a true friend would have taken away my walking keys.

8:00am came far too soon. After several glasses of liquid courage (orange juice in this instance), I grimly set off to work. Although I was still fairly competent at my job, it was clear I was not operating at full capacity. At one point, a customer asked me if there was anything he could have done to have prevented his bike from breaking, and in order to reassure him I responded as follows,
"No no no, there is nothing wrong you did."

After a short pause and a guffaw from Mr. freaking Mountain I added

"...I mean, you didn't do anything wrong. Jesus, I'm starting to talk like Yoda."

But that wasn't quite right. Like Yoda, yes, but there is someone else... someone far more embarrassing...