If there is a song in the eyes of every child, there should at least be a floor cleaner commercial jingle in the eyes of every squirrel. Some of those bastards are *crazy*.

Last night I'm getting ready to mosey down to Antonio's for a slice, and I hear what sounds like a crying child. Well, not precisely a crying child, but more like a crying, retarded child with severe asthma. Curious if I was soon-to-be a key player in the birth of a new urban legend, I gave a little pause and tried to follow the noise. Eventually following it up to the roof of my three-story Victorian apartment home, I saw a rather haggard gray squirrel hanging by a single paw on the guttering, apparently crying for help. Now, I had no object long enough to reach the squirrel and an insufficient background in rodent biology to effectively communicate to the creature, so there was little I could do to help my little woodland friend out of his jam. After a few moments of watching, I was soon joined by a few neighbors who had also been searching for the source of the sound.

After a bit of careful analysis, it was determined that we should get some sort of net to safely catch the squirrel and stand on top of an SUV and poke the gutter with a stick until it fell, and then promptly set it free. There were two small catches in this ingenious plan however: 1) We had no SUV and 2) we had no net.

Undaunted, we settled for a couple of Sarah's throw pillows and Eddie's new Volkswagen Beetle. Being the tallest of the group now numbering eight, we determined that the stick detail was best left to me and the pillow duty to someone with health insurance that included rabies shots. Carefully resting my weight on the frame of Ed's Beetle and clamoring about a bit with the stick, I finally get in a position to push the squirrel off the ledge.

At precisely that point, the squirrel realizes what the fuck we're doing and climbs back up on the roof, hops on a nearby power line, and leaves the eight of us idiots in the dust.

What was more strange - the squirrel hanging and crying like a human baby or a group of eight adults coordinating such an unsophisticated rescue operation - remains a mystery.

I did make it out to see The Greatest Story Ever Sold with Scottie and Jess tonight. My advice would be against seeing this particular film during the premiere, but chances are you probably haven't by the time word gets out.

First of all, it was Ash Wednesday and when walking into the theater that had folks lined up for an hour before showtime I was almost overwhelmed to the point of yak. This was not, as one might assume, a result of The Passion's now-legendary ultra-violence, but rather from getting slammed in the face with the distinct stench of nursing home.

Now sharing a theater with 150 old Catholics, Scottie and I began making bets on the first one to blow chunks during the crucifixion scene. Watching her munch merrily munch away on some Raisenets, my bet was on the perky 60ish lady across the aisle. However, it did in fact end up being Scottie by a nose, correctly picking a morbidly obese Baptist in the second to last row who sprung like a frozen water main on the first stroke of cat o' nine tails.

The film, obviously, is necessary viewing for anyone who liked Braveheart as much as I did. That said, being an atheist at The Passion premiere is kind of like being the midget going on the company ice-skating trip. Everyone *acts* like they are glad you came, but really it was probably best if you stayed your ass at home. In terms of the tradition of actual Passion plays, Gibson, as ever, did his homework. From the Mephistophelean character always appearing to the right of Christ and the scream at Jesus' passing, it was about all a medieval history geek could ask for, *with* some choice Latin dialogue.

But, at the end of the day, there is only so much fucking slow motion a man can take. Didn't we already say everything we needed to say in slow-mo with Once Upon A Time In Mexico? Further, the content of the film is largely flashbacks that remain only accessible to those who already know the Scripture being referenced and JC getting his ass handed to him in a very literal sense. The theme of forgiveness, thankfully, predominates the film... which I can only hope is taken to heart by the millions of Christians who watch the torture of their Messiah as the result of a bunch of Jews not taking no for an answer. Historically speaking, the Jewish community's hand in the death of Christ is pretty undeniable. But the cinematographic cut from one high priest's hooknose to the other is not exactly the most even-handed approach to an extremely volatile subject. And any film where a Roman prelate is regarded as reluctant to kill non-Romans is cursed with the same historical credibility as, oh, say, Braveheart.

Of course, I think my viewing of the film was incredibly skewed. This was largely due to a pair of fucking nancies that cried from the first time Jesus got ganked in the face. What the fuck did you think was going to happen when you bought the ticket, sweetheart? Likely the same stupid jackasses who sat behind me and bawled through Titantic, these women acted like this was the first time they heard of some Nazarene getting smacked down by trigger-happy legionnaires.

I mean, the story is only 2,000 fucking years old and integral to the third most important religion on the planet. I suppose it's easy to miss.

So, me and Scottie are driving along I-95 with the back of his Acura packed with the entire intellectual infrastructure of my employer. I turn around to look at the $150,000 worth of network equipment and turn back to Scottie, who is cruising at an easygoing 75 miles per hour.

"You know Scott, with another tank of gas we could drive down to Mexico and start a lucrative e-commerce site."

"Yeah, I suppose we could."

Several moments of excited silence.

"But, Rob what the hell are we going to sell?"

"Shit."

And so died another potential Fortune 500 company.

Another thing... Ralph Nader, what the fuck?

Buddy, it's not like I don't think you'd be a good president. It's not like I don't hold your work for the American consumer in exceptionally high regard. It's not like I don't think your fight for democracy is not only worthwhile, but imperative in a hypervolatile government with imperial leanings.

But dude, have you seen this Bush guy? He's got a quarter of a billion dollars *and* he fucks shit up like a paid professional. When's the last time you saw a guy with that much money and a penchant for the location of shit and the fucking thereof? That's right, he was a Roman Emperor. And what's more, this Nero wannabe's got 4 years of quality experience in shit-fucking and can be only expected to do the same with greater quantity and precision if he gets a second term. Nothing, not even reclaiming our sham of a democracy for the citizen, is more important than eliminating Dubya's ability to play his fiddle while the Greyhound Bus of America goes nonstop to Shitowne.

You're a nice guy Ralph. But you're also fucking 70. We've already got a skeleton with a bad ticker in the White House. Plus, running as an independent not only shows the true hubris of your candicacy, but does so at the expense of the Green Party which is still reeling from the last time you tried this act of futility. If Bush's approval rating were hanging around in the low forties instead of the low fifties, maybe we could talk shop. Maybe if there were more credible scholarly evidence of your claim that more non-voters came out to vote for you instead of frequent liberal voters that could have pushed Gore to win the election by a margin that would have escaped a Supreme Court contest I'd better understand your desire to run. But in the face of a tight campaign, a huge disparity of fundraising ability, and an electorate who will have seen both The Greatest Story Ever Sold and the possible capture of Osama, what good can you reasonably expect to come of this?

Ralph, I think you're absolutely right. But, this time your goals are better served by watching from the sideline.

Looking at 11pm and an uncooperative appliance server, I'm beginning to think that signs might be the record that every computer guy should own. Somehow Houston and error logs together create a synaesthesia of hardcore geek and ethereal acoustica that seems to create the perfect objective mindset for this kind of work. If you have the opportunity to listen to the disc on tinny laptop speakers, I think you get the best picture of the excellent mastering work that went into the production of this record. If it can sound good on a laptop, I imagine it can sound good just about anywhere, including the moon.

Roger copy, Houston.

This is our Rosa Parks. This is our Henry Thoreau. This is the beginning of the civil rights movement of our generation.

I hope you have a good seat. I'll see you on the other side of the table of brother(and sister)hood.

So, I got a half-hour layover in Milwaukee on the way to Des Moines, so I figure I'll saddle up to the airport bar and grab a pint. Of course, the moment I left the New England border my hopes of finding a proper Guinness were statistically fucked, but a trip down memory lane is usually what accompanies trips such as these, so a red beer will do. After sitting down and striking up a conversation with the traveling insurance salesman archetype next to me, a rather intoxicated pair decided to engage a lengthy discussion with me on the effects of "trickle-down" economics. I suppose that's what I get for exposing my liberal propaganda in the open.

Naturally, the conversation got heated quickly and following my natural dick-like tendancy never to miss and opportunity to reveal to a retard his or her mental defection, I begin spraying facts only recently acquired in the Johnston text I had took with me on the flight. Push comes to partial birth abortion and before I know it the entire terminal is watching me rant to these two drunkards about politics. Eventually we hop on the turboprop and head out with one last Republican potshot.

"If Clinton was so great, why didn't we invade Somalia after 23 marines died?"

Without missing a beat I responded, "Because they don't have any oil."

And the rest of the plane applauded.

Friday the 13th and my dumbass is flying to Iowa in February. A few rockstars already tried that and it didn't work out so well. Maybe when my turbo prop lawndarts into the middle of a field Aaron will write a bittersweet evocative song to commemorate my passing.

If you're looking to blow your mind, you should check out Chuck Close. Yes, that is a painting. And yes, it is colossal.

What if total joy was in the face of an obese juvenile retard?

What if absolute wisdom came from the mouth of a certain fool?

What if pure beauty was found in the eyes of a disfigured clown?

What if kindest deed was delivered by the largest dick?

What if everything we wanted to be was everything we weren't and everything we wanted to have was ours if we only we looked down instead of up?

If you're not using the best browser in the world to read this page, you should be. Other required surfing includes the transcript from Tim Russert's interview with our bumbling Commander-in-Thief. Stumbling answers to straight questions with the irrational repetition of a little kid caught lying about mowing the lawn, and the jackass still snags 5+ approval rating points.

I ended up picking up Gigantic over the weekend as was pleased to gain a little insight into the writing process of They Might Be Giants, one of my favorite bands. Like another successful duo I know, it turns out the entire first 15 years of their career was spent entirely by themselves. Makes the Shaft's first 2 years without a real band seem pretty small by comparison, with the notable exception of any real innovative music. The disc is chock full of super bonus features, likely the best being the version of Birdhouse in Your Soul performed on the old Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, featuring the Johns ably accompanied by the legendary Doc Severinsen. The documentary also snags a lot of guest appearances of big name comedians and actors (even Andy Richter for Christ's sake) providing readings of some of my favorite TMBG lyrics. Fortunately, the film strays from being a fluff piece trying as best as possible to catch all angles of the band, including the unsightly squabble with Elektra Records and (at least in the deleted scenes) the debacle with Elvis Costello over Apollo 18. Top it off with a hefty amount of live footage from the Mink Car tour with The Band of Dans, and you have a purchase for TMBG completists and casual fans alike.

Happy Birthday rob.plan!

It's official: the very first entry in this experiment in rampant speculation took place 2 years ago today. The Shaft has been quite the strange rollercoaster and already is getting close to have an ex-membership roster as large as Spinal Tap. Definitely a journey rather than a destination, I looked over the archives today with nostalgia typical both of the frontman archetype and the geeky college alum.

It seems like just a month ago Scott Egbers and I were playing Vertical Horizon in a Crete coffeeshop with a Dave Matthews covering howie&scott. Or just a couple weeks since Drew Nedderman and I were playing the ill-fated Hastings College campus branch of the Blue Moon Cafe. Or last Wednesday we were on the whirlwind 12 (million) show (r)ocktober tour, trapsing around Nebraska and Kansas, playing next to strip clubs to empty, uninterested crowds. Or just yesterday when I moved all the way to Rhode fucking Island.

And these vivid memories of the rollercoaster moments of this band count among the most favored of moments in my life. And I give you the sincerest of thanks for sharing them - the best and the worst - with me in a little tri-weekly weblog.

I'm looking forward to the next two.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Stupendous Bowl is a righteous deal up here right now, what with the Patriots predicted to win by a couple thousand points. I feel like I'm in Nebraska in January instead of Rhode Island in February.

So, my boy Scottie Homeslice, his main squeeze, and I headed out to Taste of India to get our curry on a few weeks ago. Having developed a pretty high tolerance for all things spicy and possessing a genetic predisposition for such, I asked the waiter if the Chicken Tandoori was spicy.

"Yes, it is quite spicy sir."

"Can you make it extra spicy?"

"*Extra* spicy, sir?" the waiter asks, as if I had told him that I had a nine inch trout in my pants.

"Yes, bring the pain."

"Yes. Bring... the... pain," he replies with a smirk and scribbles on his notepad.

Scottie asks me if I'm sure, as the place is renowned for its spiciness. Naturally being the buff Kansas stud that I am, I confidently waive aside any concerns and prepare to suck that mother down like it was mild eggnog. We chat idly and before long the Hindi waiter hops out with a four-alarm fire on a plate and some nan. By now the situation has built to such that I have to really show my stuff. Casually, I scoop up a big mass of the tandoori on the fork and pack it down like it was nothing. After a few seconds, the burn is a little toasty but not intolerable. Naturally, *I* think that, like every other place in Rhode Island, the spicemeisters in the kitchen are a bunch of marys that wouldn't know the first thing about the real hot sauces found in the hole-in-the-wall Tex-Mex joints of the Midwest. I follow the confident scoop with a series of large scarfs with a small bite of nan, while Scottie and Jessyca look on in amazement.

It was about T plus 1:30 that the bomb drops. Suddenly my bronchial system reaches a level of efficiency heretofore unknown by me, and likely all of human kind. My mouth, nose, and the better part of my digestive system is now for all practical purposes a magnesium fire. Pride keeps my composure together, but make no mistake I got my shit rocked by these fellas. After about 9 pitchers of water, a laughing onlooking kitchen staff, and the check I was bound and determined to return to greet my nemesis again.

Last night, the night came. And the motherfucker made it mild. It's like a flew through the trench of the Death Star and they didn't even bother to turn the artillery my direction.