MATTERS OF INTEREST: The ephemeral facade of beauty

I will forgo the usual pomp and circumstance ascribed to these sporadic updates.

Matters will be going away for awhile. It's time to travel the earth. Matters will leave you, the loyal worstevers, with a broken shard of Matter's life to ponder in his month's absence.

Every morning Matters drags himself out of bed to face the unforgiving embrace of the daylight. He does this not by fortitude or iron-willed tenacity, but by rote, as it was scripted by the Hebrews at the dawn of creation. He greets the morning with the bleary eyed complacency of a rodent grown accustomed to the confines of its cage. There is nothing new or innocent that cares to be discovered.

Matters will train an unfocused gaze out the portal in his ceiling for some five minutes every morning, waiting for consciousness to reclaim his existence. On a rare morning Matters will be taken off guard and humbled by the overpowering beauty of the earth and all of creation, and will futilely attempt to capture the grandeur in a photograph. The following is the resulting detritus, now strewn across the internet like so many unwanted children. If you should feel the urge to vomit cover your mouth and nose and imagine yourself in a field of poppies.

09/07/05 7:15 AM
10/04/05 7:14 AM
11/04/05 8:20 AM
11/07/05 7:14 AM
11/16/05 7:12 AM
11/29/05 7:23 AM

A War of Attrition: Scene The First

I was dismayed yesterday to see that AOL has, in its boundless and infinite wisdom, assigned me two cold calculating and unfeeling robots as chat buddies in a hackneyed attempt to sell me more goods and services. My first inclination was, of course, to remove these doubtful guests from my personal list of friends. What though, would this achieve? It would indeed be a feeble blow to the heart of the beast. What would be accomplished by dismantling this infinitesimally small cog in the AOL/CNN/Time-Warner machine?

Instead, I shall endeavour to teach these robots to love. Step one is to break down their defences.

Matters: hey ShoppingBuddy, we have to talk

ShoppingBuddy: Welcome. Now you can search for products with AOLShopping. Type main to get started. To read our privacy policy, type privacy anytime.
Matters: its nothing personal, but we all think it'd be best if you stopped coming by

ShoppingBuddy: OK, I'm searching for matches 4 U. Gimme a sec...
ShoppingBuddy: - Search results for personal think best stopped coming
- PEA AND THE PRINCESS, THE NEW Edi [$10.74]
Here are some related categories:

1. Miscellaneous Books,

2. Books & Magazines, etc.

Type in the number to use the related
category.

Matters: look, you can't placate me with tricks and gimmicks. i know you think that's going to impress me, but we're beyond that. its just over. the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can both move on

ShoppingBuddy: OK, I'm searching for matches 4 U.
Gimme a sec...
ShoppingBuddy: I didn't find any good matches 4 U but may I
ask you a question?
Matters: no, no more questions, no more anything. i want you to just leave

ShoppingBuddy: Want to give a gift they'll really remember?
Matters: look ShoppingBuddy, you're really starting to piss me off! What part of Fuck Off don't you understand?

ShoppingBuddy: OK, this is really cool -- check out the GAP Photo GiftCard. Would you like more
ideas like this one?
Y = Yes

N = NO
Matters: You see?? this is exactly the problem! I'm trying to have a serious discussion with you and you're pedaling merchandise! Well, I'm sick of your stupid codes, and your glitzy products. It's OVER.

ShoppingBuddy: Check out these ideas from that'll help you make your gifts more special at Gap HowToGive.
Type M to get back to the main menu.
Matters: I hope you get face cancer ShoppingBuddy

ShoppingBuddy: Who are you shopping 4? ;-)
1 -- Myself

2 -- Someone Else

ShoppingBuddy won this battle. But the war is not over. There will be many casualties, because we're fighting a war of attrition.

Matters: i hate you MovieFone
MovieFone: Hi there. I'm the new MovieFone bot! I can find movies for you anywhere in the country in a fraction of second. All you have to do is give me part of the title, an actor or director's name. I can also send you alerts when your favorite films are opening. Type privacy anytime to review the policy. Type any movie you want to see or menu to get going.

======= Movie of the Week =======
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - Movie Site

Terms Of Embarrassment: Un Hommage Aux Henners Sans Graphiques

There has been, of late, a perceptible dearth of Henners related activity on this site. After careful analysis of Henners previous works, I present Terms Of Embarrassment: Un Hommage Aux Henners Sans Graphiques. The following work is not so much in the style of Henners, as it is a tribute to the style of Henners.

This is a doubleheader.

Last Friday evening began inauspiciously at a gay bar downtown, gayly celebrating the very heterosexual birth of my token gay friend Eduardo. In the interest of maintaining the privacy of all involved, I will call him Eduardo, even though his real name is Edwin.

This type of establishment (we're talking the homosexual type) has its advantages and disadvantages. For example, if you're gay, its one of the few places that boasts an all fruit martini drink menu. It's also a great place to meet people who share your affinity for the love that dare not speak its name. In case you fell off the savvy waggon at the starting gate, we're talking gayness here.

If you're one of the 95% of people who is not gay there are still some benefits to be found. When I walked in, for instance a nice man held the door for me, and smiled a reassuring smile. "How refreshing," I thought. Everyone was well dressed. There was a sense of real camaraderie; that we were all in this thing together, and that things would be OK. I was a little uncomfortable, less because of the homosexuality than the fact that I am innately suspicious of happy people. What are they hiding? No one knows.

After a drink or two I politely parted ways with Eduardo to meet up with Madman and Henners.

Post-game analysis: Not That Embarrassed, but slightly disappointed that no one hit on me.

I was to meet up with Madman and Henners at a bar cleverly called "The Best Bar In Boston." I stopped at a bar nearby to ask the bouncer for directions, and realized my mistake near the latter half of the first sentence.

Matters: Excuse me, do you know where the best bar in Boston...
Internal Monologue: Oh crap. Is there a graceful way out of this?
Time elapses. The bouncer leers in anticipation.
Internal Monologue: No. Damnit.
Matters: is?
Enormo The Bouncer: HA HA HA. HOUS ABUT YA FAND IT
RAHERE FAVE DOLA CUVA.
Enormo brings his car sized fist over his shoulder in a backwards
motion to indicate Footy McDougal's Taverloon and Bar Joint behind him.
Matters backs away slowly.

I find Madman, Henners and Brice on the third level of the Best Bar in Boston (with capital letters). They have already gained access to some kind of quasi-exclusive gathering. Madman introduces me to Niki for the second time. I recall the first time we met some months ago, when I drunkenly informed her that "Hey your name rhymes with that mouse... what's his name. You know. Donald." I consider the chances that she remembers this. Not likely. Henners leaves to get the girlfriend. The main attraction for the evening begins.

Madman, Brice, Niki and I will take turns picking out a "target" from among the dancing throngs. The person who is "it" must hold a conversation for 20 seconds or more, and cannot reveal the game to the target. Madman will go first. Niki sent him to a certain death: a girl engrossed in conversation with her three girl friends, standing in the middle of the bar. They are wearing black clothes and unfriendly expressions. Madman had a 15 minute conversation, got three phone numbers, a hug, and a marriage proposal. This is not unexpected. Later in the night, one of the four would ignite herself in the women's bathroom, rather than live another moment in the absence of Madman's radiant glow.

Sensing my reluctance to play the game, Niki spent the 15 minute wait haranguing me with various accusations, ranging from "shy" and "not confident" to "loserific" and "you will never meet a woman, you will be alone for your entire life, you pathetic miserable emotional retard." I protested with as many lies as I could fabricate. "Once, when I was 7 a stranger killed and ate my dog while I watched." "On my 11th birthday a woman in a bar shot me in the leg for asking the time." "30% of women carry pepper spray in Boston. One of us will visit the hospital tonight, and it won't be you or Adam." She was strangely unsympathetic. Luckily, it was Brice's turn.

Brice's turn ended unremarkably, and his unwavering cowardice will undoubtedly prove a sore spot for him for weeks to come.

Madman picked an "easy" one out for me. I ordered two more confidence from the bar, and turned around to go get pepper sprayed in the face. The target was making out with her boyfriend. Though Madman intimated that perhaps she would still be open to conversation after she removed her tongue from that guy's mouth, I excused myself to go marvel at the post modern water fixtures in the bathroom.

Henners returned like a conquering army and there was much celebration. Somewhere in there the night ended.

Post-game analysis: Slightly Embarrassed. Too much confidence, felt bloated.

MATTERS OF INTEREST: The Daily Grind

Gun-toting, tomb-robbing, adventureologists have unceremoniously exhumed another MATTERS OF INTEREST, disturbing its thousand-years slumber beneath the Mayan Pyramid Kukulkan. In a fervent and impassioned denial of what is obvious to everyone at the party, I am Matters.

This month’s foray into the black heart of science, nature, and the universe delves deep into the greasy innards of a topic that beleaguers even the most sickeningly positive among us. This topic is The Daily Grind, and it wants you to file that sarcastic mutter in triplicate. This is not the type of grind that "rap artists" do with their "honeys" in your "“hip hop clubs," mind you. You will find no information here regarding your grunge rock garage band skater antics.

No, this is the type of grind that pulls a nine-to-five and still finds time to hassle the neighbors with the minutia of local politics. This is the type of grind that concerns itself with missing socks, and fritters away evenings vacantly transfixed by Everybody Loves Raymond reruns on TBS, while strands of saliva dry into long white streaks along the obese rolls of its extra facial skin. This is the type of grind that, over a period of years, wears the soul down to a numb unfeeling thread-bare nub, fit only to animate the walking dead flesh of carcasses waiting to more accurately fit the clinical definition. This type of grind erodes your humanity, and it does it every day. This type of grind is called The Daily Grind.

This column aims to help you, the reader, more fully understand The Daily Grind. By the end of this text you will be able to:

• Answer the question “what is the Daily Grind?”
• Identify the seven signs of the apocalypse
• Identify three signs of danger, including rail-road crossing signs
• Identify The Daily Grind in a police line-up
• Solve all problems

Keep reading.

The tapestry of human history was woven by indentured servitude and sweat shop child labor. It is well established that the first casualty to The Daily Grind was Mrrrrrrrrrrag, shown here (red arrow) submitting the first patent application for a perpetual motion machine. Since the time of Mrrrrrrrrrrag, countless others have blundered down the same path as this hapless troglodyte. While the toll in human suffering inflicted by The Daily Grind cannot be expressed as a quotient of rational numbers, rest assured that raw fingers and repetitive motion disorders are rife. Recently, such advents as The Internet and Matters Of Interest have taken great strides to break the vicious cycle of The Daily Grind.

The Daily Grind is an indiscriminate enemy. It ignores class boundaries, race, and credo. It is much like the road, in that it "don't care." Of course, like all indiscriminate enemies, it attacks the poor and minorities most savagely of all. It is imperative that you know the warning signs of The Daily Grind. If you have caught yourself thinking the following, it is likely too late for you:

• "it’s a good thing my socks participate in the laundry buddy system. They are vulnerable, and there is safety in numbers."
• "The daily ebb and flow of traffic is the rhythmic life-breath of the city. In the morning its concrete lungs inhale the masses anew, fresh from their homes and beds, charged with energy for the day, and come night, it exhales a steady stream of human waste and misery, exhausted and drained of life."
• "Sports are neat. I think I like baseball best."

You have two natural weapons against The Daily Grind:

1. Blinding, furious, white hot optimism. As should be obvious to even the most adolescent neophyte, I am a burning ingot of unchecked optimism. It is the raging hellfire that keeps me artificially young. Note that this option should be exercised with a measure of caution. Consider the space shuttle Colombia, which, in 2003, was consumed in a fireball of optimism upon reentry miles above Texas.
   
2. Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll. Rock on. Crank up the lo-fi guitar riffs, and cue the smoke machine. Fade to camera three and cut the lights, because we’re selling out. Be sure to buy our products. BUY BUY BUY.

~Matters

The Best Blog Ever

For lack of any scientifically quantifiable or experimentally measurable "enthusiasm" or "content" I give you this excellent link and this brief and unintelligible history lesson.

Return, if you will, to the era of the mid-nineties. The brooding maw of the beekeepers association of america* was only just beginning to cast its sickly pall across the land, and I was a shadow in the reflection of a distorted and discordant echo careening through the twisting and desolate halls of the past. At the time, I vividly recall my erstwhile self transfixed in a reverie, dreaming of the memory of a thought long forgotten, of casting off my moorings and drifting, listless, in the foam green sea of tomorrow. It was at this exact time that I met the Maschas. Read of his blog. Let it fill your soul, and rejuvenate your body. Surrender your mortal goods and services. Send him money. For the Maschas is that which unites us as one, that which defines our humanity and provides synonyms for our divinity. It is that which enshrouds us all with a sense of awe and wonderment. It is the fabric that weaves our very being into the bosom of creation, and the majesty upon which we weep for the purity and beauty of it all. It is the embarrassingly glowing endorsement that makes grown men uncomfortable standing next to me on the subway.

http://www.pwadoc.com/

A-dub, put this in the links section, lest I expose you for the fraudulent fraud-grubbing fraud you are.

*name of evil cartel changed to protect the sycophantic power mongering influence whores of the religious right.

The Viking Game Plan

Bricheezie, remarkably yes, I have consulted the Worst Blog Ever charter and we do have a Viking Contingency Plan (VCP). As the plan is fairly simple, and a must for every community, I have put together this brief synopsis as a public service.

1. Confuse the Viking onslaught with inane and embarrassing infighting.
2. Merchandize,

merchandize,

merchandize.

MATTERS OF INTEREST: Entropy And The Human Condition (a.k.a. Let’s Get Old And Die)

Tragically, the fates have conspired to vomit up another mucus sheathed MATTERS OF INTEREST. In a paroxysm of fatigue induced hallucinations, I am Matters.

Before forcing entry into, and burglarizing this week's topic, let me take a moment to trivialize and ridicule some of my critics in the grand tradition of scientific punditry. A whole litany of confusing "terms" and "phrases" has been leveled at this column of late. A random sampling of these absurd accusations is provided below:

• "intractable hell storm of verbal diarrhea"
• "an irrelevant fiction"
• "pantheon of mediocre musings and redundant ruminations"
• "dumb"
• "inaccessible, protracted, and elitist"

To my critics, I say if haphazardly jamming unrelated sentences together into a half plagiarized diatribe against reason and accepted truth makes me a bad writer, well then I guess I'm a bad writer, Mr. Critic.

I will be happy to respond to further criticism for a very minimal processing fee of $24.99. I can accept cash and PayPal. See me in the comments section after the column if you are interested.

This week's topic is extremely relevant to all of our lives: death. That's right. In the interest of restoring balance to the universe after A-Dub's life-affirming wedding piece of last week, I am obligated by journalistic integrity and my undergraduate minor in quantum physics to examine chaos, death, and the decline of the human form. This topic is especially relevant to me, as I spent the day painfully cracking open the hardened carapace of my 23 year old skin and emerging as a spongy pale 24 year old.

Since time immemorium, human kind has searched tirelessly for a way to beat the reaper. From Explorer/Rapist Ponce DeLeon, who scoured the Florida everglades for the fountain of youth, to Scientist/Inventor Ray Kurzweil, who scoured the internet for people willing to spend money on his book, we have been largely unsuccessful in our quest for immortality. In this contemporary painting Ponce (red arrow) can be seen drinking from an animal urine contaminated stream, much to the amusement of his crew and native guides.

The following table indicates the names of some quasi-famous people who would have liked to live forever, their proposed means for cheating death, and the reason for their embarrassing failure.

[Person] (Means of Cheating Death){Reason for Embarrassing Failure}

1. [Ponce DeLeon] (Fountain of Youth) {Alligators}
2. [Jesus] (Nepotism) {Interpreted bible literally}
3. [Rasputin] (Black Magic) {brill-zinsser disease}
4. [Ray Kurzweil] (Vitamins, Nanorobots) {Age. Too bad you're not my age Ray}
5. [Tom Hanks] (Live on in Hearts and Minds) {Tom Hanks Disease}

For reasons scholars do not fully understand, Madman and I frequently discuss my prospects for immortality. The conversation is formulaic, and goes as follows:

Madman: Blah blah blah, you're going to die blah blah.
Matters: Au contraire Adam, you forget that I'm going to live forever.
Madman: Haha ha. No you're not.

Why can Madman afford to be so cavalier towards my posturing and grandiose proclamations of immortality? Confidentially, between you, me, and the internet, I had the opportunity to perform a little covert reconnaissance at the Madman family farm this summer. In the dark recesses of a musty old shed in an abandoned corner of the property I found the following painting:

Fortunately for the free world, I had my spy-camera-hyphen-prosthetic-third-arm attached at the time, and if I may say so, the image quality is very impressive. I think it's obvious exactly what kind of cruel unnatural plot is unfolding here. While Madman lives a life of hedonism, devoted to the sole pursuit of sensual earthly pleasures, this piece of artwork has been aging in his stead. I'm sure that in the Grand Design our eternally youthful friend Madman will be on the business end of some heavy-handed moral lesson. Perhaps in the end his story will prove to be a lush, cautionary tale of a life of vileness and deception, or a perhaps a loving portrait of the aesthetic impulse run rampant? Or dare I say, both?

Whatever the reason, I'm jealous. I'll gladly be the punch line in some edifying morality tale in exchange for a modest slice of eternity and perpetual youth. Whether by means of frivolous wish or diabolical dealing, Madman has rustled himself up a sweet deal, and I want in.

With that end in mind, I began an exhaustive 15 minute search of my kitchen for any items that might be the key to eternal youth and beauty. I found this Frosted Flake that was my surprising likeness. I muttered a quick incantation over it, and have since kept it in a shoebox under my bed, next to my invisible powers pickles and mind bullets saltines. I have not yet determined if the flake is aging in my stead, but I am happy to report that it is aging quite a bit. It's been almost completely consumed by mold since the experiment began one week ago.

At any rate, I have already kicked off the marketing campaign for my new cereal, loosely based on this discovery. You can see they have 10 of something essential. I hope there aren't going to be any copyright infringement issues. If you're interested in purchasing a carton, see me in the comments section after the blog.

That about wraps it up for this week. Join me next week when I will consider violently probing a bottle of vodka.

~Matters

Say What?: Five Things You Should Know

Being the dramatically mellow yet ignorant Asian I am, I come to at least five realizations each week. On the two days I don't have epiphanies, I am too busy licking the KFC-chicken grease off my fingers, or winning a Bomberman deathmatch. I never lose. There. If its on the internets, it must be true.

I previously assumed that my revelations were new to me alone, but last night, when I was satisfying my sleepytime munchies with some seafood pasta from Cinderella's and guzzling down Matters' TAB cola (Matters, now we're even for the meatballs and sausage pizza), I shared one of this week's revelations with Buck, upon which he sprung out of his seat, ripped his clothes off, and played the theme song to Family Matters on Tom's keyboard with his left testicle, before imploding.

Matters, I have some Febreze in my car, to get the smell of bike grease and Connecticut out of the carpet.

The point is people, after experiencing what happened to Buck, I decided that it was crucial to inform you, the loyal fans, of these revelations I have each week, to avoid further implosions and genitalia-invoked TV theme songs.

Revelation #1: No one is good at karaoke.

The majority of people think singing = karaoke singing. Not true. Karaoke is significantly harder that normal singing for several reasons. Foremost, the background music is purposely horrendous. It'd be easy enough to use real music, with real instruments, but thats not karaoke. Karaoke is about singing to a bad polka-ized MIDI rendition of a song that is faster and in a different key than the original. The key is what always gets ya. Sure, you know for a fact that you can hit the high notes in "Fly Like an Eagle"...but can you hit the high notes in Polygram's techno version of "Fly Like an Eagle" in C#dim7sus9?

Revelation #2: Garbage bins are better than trash cans.

For our huge End of September bash, Madman and I placed a garbage bin in the apartment. A week later, it's still there. Why? Because its so goddamn convenient. it holds significantly more than our puny trash can which we have to empty twice a week. Yes it's ugly, and we think there's something living in the bottom of it, but it's abundance of utility greatly surpasses its lack of glamour. And whatever is living at the bottom of it will eventually die.

Revelation #3: Friends don't buy friends inflatable presents.

All good birthday presents induce orgasms, taste good with beer, or last forever. Inflatable products do not fall into any of these categories. Well...there are some exceptions.

Revelation #4: The international integration of product and capital markets has been constraining private sector employment as well as the financial viability of the welfare state.

Since the second oil-price crisis of 1979/80 was met by restrictive monetary and expansionary fiscal policies in the United States, the steep increase of real interest rates in the international capital markets forced other central banks to raise interest rates accordingly. As a consequence, employment-creating investments could only be maintained if the share of profits in the national product was significantly increased. Well...there are some exceptions.

Revelation #5: You don't have to eat everything on your plate.

Yes, people in are starving, but...well shit. I don't want any more fries.

PS. Sponsor a child today.

MATTERS OF INTEREST: The Great Saurian Menace

Fantastically, it is time for yet another MATTERS OF INTEREST. In a state of manic hypoxia, I am Matters.

Friends, devoted and/or apathetic readers, me (if I'm reading this later), and fellow mammals, this installment of MATTERS OF INTEREST is not the typical capricious frolic through the neither-realms of science, nature, and the universe that you have grown to so complacently expect. I shall make every effort to refrain from over stating the importance of my message, but the next few paragraphs will definitely save your life. If you stop reading now you are certainly doomed to suffer a tragically-avoidable, yet pedagogically-gruesome death. Your instructively-awful demise will coerce future generations to embrace the heavy hand of SCIENCE.

What is this four-part tragi-comedy, artfully presented in a five act burlesque of photoshop detritus? I refer, of course, to THE GREAT SAURIAN MENACE (see red arrow).

Mammal-kind, since the dawn of time, has made what scholars agree is a Faustian bargain with the previous inhabitants of this planet, known as Dinosaurs. The compromise itself is as ancient as it is complicated, and understanding its explanation entails a deep understanding of prehistoric law - a discussion we will not entertain this week.

But today, that compromise, so crucial to our survival as a phylum, is on the brink of collapse. For those familiar with the plight of Faust, it may alarm you to know that some mammals, over the past few million years, have exhibited an increasing incidence of spontaneous antler growth. Is it the retribution of the great lizard-Satan, and a sure sign of the impending apocalypse? Or merely the latest in trendy evolutionary extravagance from the Holocene Epoch? The issue remains healthily debated.

One fact is certain. Mammals are the good guys. Mammals have, throughout history, been largely civil creatures. Except for a few regrettable incidents, such as the savage mauling and subsequent savage digestion of this innocent giant land slothe (now extinct), we have cooperated with one another, and harmony has reigned.

In contrast, the terrible lizards of yore were ruthless and cruel. Dinosaurs are shifty and untrustworthy. Modern science tells us that Dinosaurs did not have the ability to formulate strategic action plans, or monogram their socks. They were uncivilized and lazy, not having bothered to develop opposable thumbs. Their deadly razor sharp claws prevented them from manipulating even the most rudimentary of tools, and their walnut sized brains made Dinosaurs awful cooks, and worse company.

Anecdotal evidence, the most rock-solid of all types of evidence, will support the assertions I have just made. Early texts describe the first arrival of mammals to the planet. Dinosaurs, in a duplicitous show of faux-hospitality, invited the early mammals to a pot-luck supper. Few details remain from this era, however, we can be sure that the Dinosaurs offered a vile "tar casserole," made from the carrion meat of week-dead pterodactyl, and that the ensuing blood bath would strain future relations between the Dinosaurs and the newly formed mammals.

In those days, Dinosaurs were more genetically advanced than their mammalian counterparts. This lead to terrible and humiliating defeats on the court. As inhabitants of the future, we are free to understand that if you're going to play a Velociraptor in basket ball, it should not be attempted on a unicycle.

The temptation to believe that "everything will be fine" is strong. "Facts" tell us that Dinosaurs are extinct, and that zombie Dinosaurs are a modern rarity. However, just because our reptilian overlords are confined to museums, deserts, and the molten core of the earth, we cannot yield to complacency. Even now, Dinosaurs strive to corrupt our youth and murder our paleontologists, as the photo-evidence clearly shows.

The following images contain content that some readers may find disturbing in nature. I feel obligated to remind you, however, that if you decide to stop reading now, you will likely fall victim to a Dinosaur. Here we see that even long dead and skeletalized, Dinosaurs have the audacity to pedal drugs to museum-going children in broad daylight.

The second photo shows us that Dinosaurs yet retain the savage power to kill. This image documents a "bone eruption" at an excavation in the American Southwest. Seven talented paleontologists and an intern lost their lives in this tragedy.

The enmity displayed in such senseless killing of academics only serves to illustrate the innate disdain for life inherent in all Dinosaurs.

What should you remember to avoid being victimized?

• Stay indoors when Dinosaur activity is forecast to be high.
• Write your congressman. Ask him to address the Great Saurian Menace through effective legislation.
• Look out for Bone Eruptions if you are traveling to fossil rich areas.
• Tuck your pants into your socks if you will be hiking in the forest. You may look foolish, but Lyme disease is no laughing matter.
• If playing sports with a Dinosaur (or any cadre of deadly beasts) avoid the use of a Unicycle.
• Finally, if you do find yourself being eaten by a Dinosaur, remember to present your mewling pleas to him in a language he can understand, such as FORTRAN or COBOL.

It is my hope that this manuscript will serve you well. If it does not, please entomb your complaints in the bowels of the earth to allow the fossilization process to occur. The process may take six to eight weeks to complete, depending on the depth of the hole and acidity of the soil in your area.

~Matters

Bomberman 2

Advice for anyone who has spent a Sunday trying to blow up Mad-Bomber-Man and Henners: wait till their lady friends come over. They will be distracted.

"If You Had a Spaceship...": A Guide to 8minute Dating

Dear avid readers, I have recently realized that although my previous articles have been comical, or perhaps amusing at best, they provide nothing of worth to you, the readers, that we love so dearly. With this in mind, and the weight of my obligation to inform society, and Matters, I bring to you my guide to 8minute Dating.

Our good friend Woody stumbled across 8 minute dating (8md) quite some weeks ago, and expressed his interest to us via electronic mail. He further requested that we attend an upcoming event to be held at the Fire & Ice restaurant in Boston. Amiably, Adam and I agreed, and the three of us registered for the event, upon which we were told that we would be put on a waiting list, until a gender-balanced attendance could be confirmed. After several days of waiting by the proverbial mailbox, we received notification of our acceptance onto the elite list of members who would be allowed to attend this auspicious event.

Danielle, Alix and Sonia came too.

The guide to 8md begins before you even get in the car.

Step 1: Dress Gay/Metro

This rule applies unless you are in fact gay or metrosexual, in which case you may consider dressing down. Adam, stubbornly, wanted to wear his baggy-ass jeans and his lucky red shirt. Woody and I protested...this was completely unacceptable. Not because it made him look even more like a farmboy, but more because he would be a bad reflection on us. After several hours of verbal abuse that eventually turned physical (Adam lost a few pints of blood. Ask him), he agreed to wear black pants, and borrowed my fancy black shoes, as opposed to his blue-collar work shoes.

Silly blue-colored folk. Those smurfin' idiots don't know what's smurfin' good for them.

Step 2: Arrive Early

This step is crucial to your success with 8md. Why? Arriving early allows you to do several opportunities. Once you have checked in, you are provided a card with your table assignments for the eight 8 minute dates you are about to have. Review this card carefully. If possible, sneak a peek at other peoples cards and consider dates you may want to avoid. Furthermore, move every table you will be seated at closer to the bar.

Which brings me to your next advantage of arriving early. Drink. Drink as much as you can. Your initial thinking may be that you want to stay sober, and keep your breath fresh for your dates. You learn quickly however that no one has fresh breath after munching on the garlic meatball hors d'oeuvres, and feigning an interest in pancreatic cell synthesis is much easier when you're plastered. Forget the puny bottles, go for the 20 oz. drafts. And keep going.

Step 3: Practice Your Pitch

I hear you saying, "What pitch? It's me, of course I know what I'm going to say about me. How hard can it be?" Oh, my naive little friends. You have already assumed too much. This brings me to the next step:

Step 4: Lie
Through your teeth. Observe the following scenarios.

BAD
Henry: Hey, how's it going?
Girl: Good, good, how about you?
Henry: Yeah, I'm alright.
Girl: So, what do you do?
Henry: Oh I work at a software company designing order management software...
Girl: Oh my father did that. I killed him.

Note how things turn disastrous when you tell the truth. Let's see how it should be done.

GOOD
Henry: Hey, how's it going?
Girl: Good, good, how about you?
Henry: Yeah, I'm alright.
Girl: So, what do you do?
Henry: Oh I'm Brad Pitt.
Girl: Please insert yourself.

I can't stress the importance of this step enough. Let's move on.

Step 5: Avoid Eye Contact...
...with everyone but your date. Doing so will help you avoid awkward conversations.

Henry: Yeah, so whereabouts are you from?
Girl: Well originally Indiana, but now I...what are you looking at?
Henry: Oh my god, this is so embarassing.
Girl: What? Whats wrong?
Henry: I've got this thing about looking and talking to fat people at the same time...

Awkward.

Step 6: Cut The Crap
Come on, let's face it. You've got 8 minutes. Find out what you really want to know.

Bad questions:
Where did you grow up?
What kind of work do you do?
What do you do for fun?
Whats your favourite ____?
What are your needs?

Good questions:
Do you like cooking? For me?
How do you feel about porn?
Do you trim the hedges, or mow the lawn?
Do you do...
...blowjobs?
...anal?
...fisting?
...anal fisting?
...threesomes?
...DVDA? (Consult a perverted friend)
...windows?
...small pets?

That concludes the learning part of this program. If you follow these few simple rules, I guarantee you will succeed at 8md. Take Woody for example, who earned big points with Trisha (names have been changed to protect the identities of the inviduals involved):

"Oh Woody is just the best. I could tell I wanted him since I saw him passed out on the barstool in his pink feathered boa and chaps. I love a guy who can get straight to the point, though I'm worried I don't have enough...experience....I've only been to three orgies! And what can I say....I guess I've always had a thing for British secret agents...."

Bravo Woody. Bravo.

MATTERS OF INTEREST: The Human Brain

It's arbitrarily time for another MATTERS OF INTEREST. In a rabid fit of grandiose delusions, I am Matters.

This installment broaches a subject 8 to 14 inches from all our hearts: The Human Brain. Down through the ages of man and beast, philosophers have pontificated upon the majesty and miracle of the mind of man. Beasts have lapped up its gooey remains after cracking through our deficient skulls. Both have appreciated its good aspects to the full possible extent. Unfortunately, The Human Brain is also the source of nearly every species-shaming idea that has ever been or shall be. Every stupid, half-assed, or ill-conceived thought since the dawn of creation can be attributed to The Human Brain, with the notable exception of the Unicycle. The Unicycle was invented by a bear. Stupid bear! It's got only one wheel.

For the purposes of illustration, I have gone to the trouble of obtaining an image of my brain, which, scientists assure me, is practically human in nature.

This image, and some others with my top off that I won't post on the internet, were taken during a medical experiment for which I volunteered some years ago. The suckers paid me $50, and there were no lasting effects lasting effects. Two important regions are indicated in the image above, and I will explain these in due time.

Now, The Human Brain, being filled with scrumptious brain goo (neurotransmitters, deoxyribonucleic acid, monosodium glutamate, high fructose corn syrup) is immediately tempted to do the following:

But I assure you, this tendency is stupid. What does it even mean? Am I really storing miniature hamburgers in my sinuses? No one has an adequate answer.

The other immediate temptation is to create some kind of Warhol-esque modern art travesty:

It could be used to advertise for a brain surgery clinic run by artists, or to burn the retinas out of the eye sockets of attacking coyotes. Whatever the motivation, it too is assuredly stupid, and a mockery of all things good and descent.

Other stupid acts that belay the vast reserves of dumb contained within The Human Brain include:

• editing the above picture to fictitiously insert images of genetalia into the mouth, or
• using the brain image as a mechanism to describe the quality of a motion picture in a "movie review and a meal" format column.

For perspective, let's examine some other key stupid ideas throughout history, and take a moment to briefly debunk the ignorance that contributed to their inception.

• Screen Door Submarine: Ha, silly Pollaks.
• Phrenology: If you know what this is, you know why its stupid.
• The Narwhal: Ok, I am well aware that this is not a result of The Human Brain, but come on, what is this thing? A Sea Unicorn? Give me a break. Keep them out of our communities, I say.
• Intelligent Design: Dress up some bible passages in fancy Scientronomy and Researchology terms to skirt the Separation Clause, and all of a sudden you have an alternate theory? Well answer me this yokel (that's right, I called you a yokel) if your omniscient intelligent designer was so worried about creating a world that merely seemed old (dinosaurs, radio-carbon dating, speed dating, Dick Clark) in order to conceal his existence, why would he have created proponents of intelligent design to reveal it? Hmm?? OR DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND.
• Republicans: I don't want to be a racist, but hey...

How, you ask, can I give such poignantly reasoned arguments in the face of such overwhelming stupidity? Well, if you will refer to the diagram at the beginning of this page, the red arrow indicates the region of the brain responsible for belief in stupid crap. You will see that it is conspicuously missing from my brain scan. Unfortunately, the green arrow indicates the region of the brain that makes one's personality repulsive to the ladies. Even a walrus in a doctor suit could tell you that its well developed (that's how it happened to me).

It is my personal and heartfelt belief that we all can take comfort in the fact that absolutely nothing was resolved in this high velocity probe of The Human Brain. I will continue my mission to violently probe the orifices of science, nature, and the universe.

~Matters

Before They Were Stars...

I'm not even TRYING....

...Damn right it shows.

Diphy, The Omni Elixir

For those of you who have been sharing a bed with me recently (it doesn't count if you leave after sex, Wanda), you may want to skip down a few paragraphs as you probably know all of this already. For the rest of you, read on, and keep in mind that my Thursday slot is still open. All services come with a complimentary walk of shame. Make your reservations now, at www.humpahenner.com.

Over the past few weeks I have experienced a gradual degradation in the quality and quantity of sleep. Why you ask? I dont know I reply. I have always had a simple formula for a good nights sleep:

(X*Y*Z)/(S*O) = R * q

Where:
X = physical exhaustion
Y = mental exhaustion
Z = mild cerebral hemorrhaging
S = stress
O = inflicted or induced pain (the Owie factor)
R = sleep
q = Quarelle's constant, which is 1.

But now all thats gone to shit. Take last night for example, perhaps the worst bout of insomnia I have ever had. After a long day at work, followed by a tiring callback audition for Rainbow Tribe (not a gay coalition), running on only one cup of coffee and a Lean Cuisine, my physical and mental exhaustion was at a high. Admittedly my stress levels are mildly high, but not any higher than before, and to balance that out I rammed my head into the bedpost repeatedly to get those cerebral juices flowing.

After all that, one would think there'd be no problem nodding off to dreamland, snoring like a obtuse Jew with irritiable bowel syndrome on Rosh Hashanah...but NO. Nothing. I lie there, staring at the ceiling with my hand down my pants, wondering why I can't even yawn.

I go through the gauntlet of sleep aids I have previously employed. The first and most obvious is food. I scarf down some leftover roast chicken ($6.99 at Shaws, good shit) and some Ruby Red grapefruit juice, then wait for the food coma to take effect.

Nothing.

Next, some light reading. And by reading, I mean listening, since I now refuse to read anything I can listen to while multitasking instead. I'm currently enveloped in a book called The Secret Life of Bees, a story about a white Southern girl during the Civil Rights movement, who runs away from home and lives with a family of black sisters that run a honey business. Magical. Magically 10 hours long. Anyways, I get through Chapter 13, when she comes to terms with the reality that her mother left her as a young child.

Nothing.

Next on the list is the white noise. They say it works on babies, so why not Asians? I downloaded it on Limewire, meaning I could very well be listening to someones heart murmurs. Lying there, I wonder if I'm subliminally learning Swedish, or regulating my menstrual cycle.

Nothing.

Finally, sleep hypnosis. Again, downloaded from Limewire. Limewire rocks. This has definitely worked for me in the past. Though not so much the hypnosis part, where the man (who sounds like he has low self esteem and a brain deficiency) counts down from ten to zero, telling you to do things like imagine a soft mist around your body, and tell your mind to slow down...sloww.....downn.....its time for your mind....to slowwwwww.......dowwnnnnnnnn......send me money.......and slowwwww........dowwwnnnnnnnnnn.

No, it really just bores me to sleep. But tonight?

Nothing.

So I give food coma another shot, combined with late night television. Okay, so leftover KFC and Conan O'Brien probably isnt the best way to fall asleep. It's just too damn stimulating. Especially when Conan is being supremely funny:

Clips from WALKER: TEXAS RANGER
The Other Guy: What is it?
Walker: It's Vietnamese, but it's in some kind of code...
The Other Guy: Code?
Walker: It's been encrypted.
The Other Guy: Well what do we do now?
Walker: I don't know, but we should find Sumyung Gai
The Other Guy: Sumyung Gai? Why?
Walker: Because he speaks Vietnamese....and is a computer genius.

How convenient. Alas, no sleep. In a fit of frustration, I peel my naked ass off the couch and throw some pants on. Off to the 24 Hour Brooks pharmacy.

Why is it that I always, ALWAYS get stuck behind the slowest person at the checkout? It's 2 in the morning. There are only three people in the store...me, the guy behind the counter, and the oldest woman in the world between us. Regardless. I purchase a pack of Reds, and my new friend Diphy.

Diphy, short for diphenhydramine hydrochloride comes with with my old buddy Ace, short for for acetaminophen. They make me happy. Well, then don't. Thats just about the ONLY thing they don't do. I did a little background check on my buddy Diphy:

Diphenhydramine hydrochloride is given to people who are experiencing allergic reactions, such as itchy skin, runny nose, cough, hives (types of skin eruptions), other skin rashes, and hay fever (allergic reactions to trees, grass, or weed pollens). Because diphenhydramine hydrochloride causes sleepiness, it is also taken by people who are having difficulty sleeping. It is also given to relieve motion sickness and nausea, vomiting, and dizziness that is unrelated to motion sickness. Furthermore, it gives you the power to fly, become invisible, and shoot mind bullets.

Doesn't that sound lovely? Aside from allowing me to sleep, it also protects me from...well...pretty much anything.

Umm...I forgot what the point of this whole entry was. So I'm just going to stop now. Toodles!

MATTERS OF INTEREST

Its time for the first, and arguably best, MATTERS OF INTEREST. In an obvious infringement on Henners nom de plume, I am Matters.

As the first installment of this heap of excrement (generously bestowed the rank of English text) some explanation is warranted. This column is chartered to violently probe the orifices of science, nature, and the universe.

In keeping with the narcissistic self-aggrandizing precedent of this blog, today's MATTER OF INTEREST will be me.

LIFE ALTERING FACT #1 I was awarded a seat of indefinite tenure on this triumverate of webly loggers for my profanity laden critique of last Monday. It can be found in shamelessly adulterated form here.

LIFE ALTERING FACT #2 I am a humble citizen of East Cambridge. I live in a 146ft. Ivory tower, engraved with dragons and likenesses of Bill Murray, which can be seen below, from a distance of 3 miles, looming over the skyline of our fair city (red arrow).

In conclusion, for so long as it is allowed by my capricious handlers Henners and A-Dub, this section will serve up a host of personal neuroses, vendettas, and trivia that should prove thoroughly uninteresting to the general public, readers of this blog, and FBI agents tirelessly scouring the internet for instances of the word jihad. Jihad jihad jihad.

~Matters

Spy Games and Utility Friends

So our protagonist, Adam, has been putting off a 'date' with our antagonist, a girl we will affectionately refer to as The Beast, that he met online. After several (fortunately) failed attempts to meet, he finally has no choice but to make her acquaintance at the Green Dragon.
Naturally, Brice and I think it'd be nice to tag along, incognito. Adam thinks it'd be nice too.

Upon arrival, we find Adam munching on a chicken sandwich, alone.
"WTF?" I says.
"I'm meeting her in a few somewhere else," he says.

But since Brice and I have already ordered our beers, we decide it'd be good to stick around. This is when we get into our conversation about utility friends. It goes something like this:

Henry: I think we need more utility friends.
Brice: Me too.

Essentially, the definition of a utility friend is one who can provide you with free, discounted, or previously unavailable goods or services, and allow convenient access to otherwise difficult or inaccessible establishments. Jen FlatTops is probably the best example of a utility friend we currently have, and perhaps the only good example. Other lesser examples may be Annie Grendels, or DJ Orleans MacFaddens.

Coincidentally enough, right smackdab in the middle of our conversation, somewhere between the words 'need' and 'utility', our bartender interjects, "You guys go to Paddy O's sometimes, right?" I thought he looked familiar.

Over the next half hour, we come to know and love our new potential utility friend Burnsy, who bartends at the Green Dragon during the week, and bounces at Paddy O's on the weekends. He'd make a great utility friend. We plan on visiting him again next Tuesday.

Now, the important point we must stress here is that, utility friends are friends before they are utilities. Note that 'utility' describes the 'friend', and not the other way around. They're not 'friend utilities'. Although a friend utility infers a completely different meaning - an XBox is a friend utility. So is sausage and mushroom pizza, or the ability to produce large amounts of chocolate from your pituitary glands.

All credit for the phrase 'utility friend' goes to Adam, for I believe it was he who coined the term. A Google search produces nothing remotely similar to our definition. So don't look. Don't. You'll just feel stupid if you do.

Getting back to the Spy Games part of our story, Brice and I bid a hearty farewell to our Burnsy, and proceed towards the Gas Light Pub, located directly between Durgin Park and the Black Horse Tavern.

Its a Tuesday night and business is scarce - nary a wanderer find their way here. We locate Adam at the bar, defeated, slumped over his stool and weakly clutching his Sam Adams in both hands. Next to him sits The Beast. She towers above his sullen form, in a tube top and matching earrings.

Being as discreet as possible, Brice and I sit at the bar, one stool between us and them. The stakes are high, the tension is thick. During pauses in our conversation, we catch glimpses into theirs.

The Beast: Oh my god. I totally fell asleep with a beer in my hand. In my hand. Oh my god.
Adam: [half-hearted chuckle]

We decide it best to change Adam's name to "Jason" in our conversations, else The Beast may catch on. Later we decide to change our names too. The story continues.

Ben and I (Eddie) order another beer. Adam excuses himself to use the bathroom. Brice takes the opportunity to follow suit. I remain in guard at the bar. The Beast is quiet, and keeps to herself. She refuses to look at me, although I stare awkwardly at her in my little Asian way. I call out to her, "Dr. Jones! Dr. Jones!"...Nothing. She appears to type something into her monster cellphone (how appropriate) and proceeds to bite her nails.

Meanwhile, Brice and Adam return to their respective stools. Brice recites the recent urinal conversation:

Brice: You want out? I can punch Henry in the nads and amidst the confusion we'll make a run for it.
Adam: No, I think we can..wait..you'd do that for me?
Brice: Hells yeah babygirl.
Adam: Oh Brice...
Brice: ...
Adam: ...
Brice: ...
Adam: Umm..nah I think I'll be fine. Just don't leave without me.
Brice: You got it. Seeyas.
Adam: Wait...Brice..
Brice: Yes?
Adam: ...nothing.

The night continues. Brice and I hear more of their conversation:

The Beast: Oh my god. I was totally drunk at work. At work. Oh my God.
Adam: Every moment I live is in agony.
The Beast: What?
Adam: Oh nothing, I was just chuckling..half-heartedly.
The Beast: Oh okay.

Finally they leave the bar, as do Brice and I. We follow, yet keep our distance to be safe. I battle the urge to run up behind The Beast, smack her ass while taking her purse and fleeing in the night. The journey is near unbearable.

Brice and I watch with relief as Adam prods her through the turnstile, and with a "Yeehaw!" scrambles towards us. The Beast scowls, but it is too late. She cannot get back her dollar twenty five. The war is over. But there are no winners. Just survivors.

Adam: You guys wanna get a drink at The Kinsale? I could sure use one.

Attendance is scarce at The Kinsale, and this is where we meet our second utility friend of the night. Nicolette, the bartender from Attleboro, originally from Hawaii, heightens our interest in implementing Green Dragon/Kinsale Tuesdays.

As the sun begins to rise..in Japan..we make our merry ways home, thankful for coming out unscathed, looking forward to the embrace of another day.

With Love, Matt.

The following e-mail was received last night. It has been reviewed for content and modified to fit your TV.

How could you start the worst f***in blog ever without my f***in input? I don't mean to say that in an indignant sort of way, but rather as a c**ks**kin legitimate question of f***in practicality. F***in, I have reams of evidence, and at least five f***in credible sources to attest to the fact that f***in everything I f***in touch predictably and precisely decays into a state of abject crap. F**in. I have every f***in confidence that any contribution on my part to any hypothetical f***in blog would send it into a horrific and tactless spiral of decline the likes of which would surely dwarf any possible f***in measure of morbidity that you might hope to f***in maintain in your so called "worst f***in blog ever." I'm sorry to be so f***in critical of what is clearly a legitimately heinous f***in travesty against the f***in auspices of human thought, but from my f***in perspective you are f***in doomed to f***in fail in your f***in attempts to alter the f***in world through bad f***in writing.

Point in fact: Aaron is ALREADY spelled with an extra A.

~Matt.

I Love Nuts: A Comparative Review

So in an effort to stay healthy and save money...well...thats not true.

So in an effort to stay healthier and have more money for booze and that back-massager from Brookstone I want, I've started eating nuts at work.

I think its a great idea. I buy a giant bag of nuts from Shaws and keep them at work, and munch on them nuts throughout the day. They prevent me from buying crap out of the vending machine, which is usually unhealthy and overpriced. They also prevent me from buying sodas and stuff too. They generally curb my appetite. And I drink lots more water to get the bits out of my teeth. Furthermore, I'm even more popular now because people like coming by and munching on my nuts.

But the point of this review is that I've been thinking about what my favourite nuts are...lets find out!

Peanuts: meh. They're alright. I was never much of a fan of peanuts, salted or unsalted. They're just kinda blah.

Almonds: pretty darn good, but they're tough to munch, especially after you've had them out for a couple days. I found them to be a little hard going down too, since they're so brittle.

Pistachios: way tasty, but they're super salty, and can get messy with the shells and the powderyness (thats now a word) and the skins. I guess peanuts have the same disadvantages.

Cocktail Shrimp: the meatiest, juiciest nuts around, but not particularly good for you. Plus they get expensive unless you do your own cocktail shrimp-picking. Cocktail shrimp farms are the best, so long as your dont throw the shrimp around (strictly prohibited). Great place to buy fresh-made cocktail shrimp cider and cocktail shrimp pies.

Cashews: they taste alright, but they kinda remind me of limp penises. I frown upon macaroni too.

Macademias: what the fuck are macademias?

Walnuts: damn tasty. they don't remind me of shriveled gentalia at all, though they should, and no messiness to worry about, provided you get them pre-shelled.

Looking at all the options. I'm probably gonna go for pre-shelled walnuts, if I can find them at Shaws. But first I gotta finish off this giant bag of pistachios, and the half bag of cheesy poofs I keep for my monthly wine-and-cheesypoof parties at work.

ADDENDUM FROM AARON

This reminds me of that thing Henry did once. Remember when we were on Spring Break and he caught that...well...you know. He had Cocktail Fever. The picture I took will explain all. Best Spring Break Ever.

love, A-Dub

We Will Bury You