Screw you hippies! We didn't want your goddamned crackers anyway.

Having successfully made it through the addictive qualities of Star Wars Galaxies, I thought for sure I could handle the black tar heroin equivalent of the card-based role-playing world without getting sucked into a Booster pack buying bender from which there is no escape save through outrageous overdrafting and a severe shortage of shoeboxes. Sadly, however, T-dub is a bit of a pusher, hooking me up with a dose of Vampire: The Eternal Struggle, but as with all hard narcotics, the first one's always free.

First of all, this game is not like Magic, which soaked up the better part of my disposable income between 1994-1998. It's worse. Where Magic: The Gathering had a finite number of ways to best your competitor (all of which could be accomplished in the space of a half hour), V:TES takes a timesink of 4 hours just to get warmed up. With nearly infinite ways to declare victory with political, combat, and direct damage decks derisively referred to as "newbie" approaches, this game is CCG's answer to the female orgasm; mysterious, unnecessarily complex, and mind-shatteringly satisfying.

After getting me thoroughly indoctrinated in the guilty pleasures of bleeding and tapping, he brought me primetime to a tournament down in Newport for the latest Gehenna expansion of the game. Held at The Annex comic book shop, we uncovered Nerd Central in the southern part of the state. In my youth (or whatever that period before my current state of adolescence was), I was well acquainted with the sorts of twisted etiquette that governed such dark places as these.

1) Never say please or thank you.
2) The slice is edible after the first drop only.
3) Prepend the adjective "gay ass" before every noun.
and, of course, 4) Talk about how often you get laid.

It seems in my old age, I've lost a step or two against this wild youngsters, who promptly dubbed me "Molly" and happily handed my ass to me within the first hour and a half. Quickly eliminated at a table of foil-packing card-playing thugs, I had to wait on Ted to complete his own sacrificial sacking at the hands of a 12 year old with a clearly well-supplemented allowance.

It did give me a lot of time to look at some new comic books. But like the proportions that all female characters in comics apparently now have, a Saturday afternoon at the geek tournament could certainly be classified as surreal.

Alright! A cartoon of our boy is in the lead! What a scientific chart!

Despite a short break for some barbecue with Ted, the veggie streak has been going off without a hitch. Really, I thought I would miss the meat a lot more than I have, but falafels and spinach burritos have been generally keeping my tummy pleased.

It seems every time people ask about the whole veggie thing they have to add how much they like meat. The whole problem is not really about eating animals. Quite the contrary, I take quite a bit of personal satifaction in eating animals, cows and chickens in particular. Having had nothing but difficulty in my minute experience in handling them both, as I see it breakfast, lunch, and dinner are unique opportunities to once again assert our dominance in the war on shit machines and hand peckers.

Any creatures responsible for biological weapons like Mad Cow and SARS deserve what they receive. After all, its their fault for being the enemy made out of meat.

Diversion in the office can be a pretty pathetic and disturbing thing and the BZ crew is little exception. Today's fanciful event? Water bottle curls!

Driven to near madness after slaving over a hot CRT, we gathered around the water cooler and made estimates on how many repetitions we could each make on the large Culligan water bottles in a standard armcurl. Scottie, being the Jersey roughneck that he is, made a staggering seven reps only to be promptly sacked today by Derek with a big 8 pulls. I wish I could say I took the intellectual highroad and stood mockingly from my faultless ivory tower looking down my nose at the plebians and their lowly leisures...

But honestly I could only do four. And I think I pulled my shoulder doing that.

Vegetarian for one week. Can I pull it off? Well... We'll see.

I slid into Supersize Me last night with a tummy full of chicken parmesan and a Ben and Jerry's Dublin Mudslide shake. With an stuffed stomach and an already guilty conscience, Morgan Spurlock's eviscerating documentary on fast food almost made me yak a number of times. A transplanted New Yorker, Spurlock swore off common sense and spent 30 days eating nothing but McDonald's for three square meals a day. Though anyone could guess that this was going to end up as bad news, by the end of the film even the three doctors who were keeping track of his progress were positively floored by the harrowing physical effects his extreme diet had in such a short period of time.

Quite literally on the way to the theater I was introduced via radio to the natural spin from the McDonald's camp, namely the "GoActive Adult Happy Meal" which suspiciously corresponds with the major theatrical release of the film. Complete with a step counter, it seems however that Spurlock ends up with the last laugh by pointing out in the final minutes of the film that the Premium Fiesta Salad that is the centerpiece of GoActive actually has more fat than a Big Mac.

Veggie for a week. We'll see how this one works out.

So, the roommates had two things to say to me when they returned.

1) "It was not a dildo party."

2) "Look at our new cock-shaped pencil erasers."

Ever so often when the stars shine dimly beyond the light polluted Providence skies the wind catches me just right and I begin to miss Kansas... Then I come to my fucking senses and realize that right now I could get gust-raped by an F4 at any moment. Though I do enjoy the occasional thunderstorm, when I was encountered by a flood of co-workers asking of "Harper County" was near my hometown I did speak a quick blessing for the Ocean State, a small land of relatively normal - if excruciatingly cold - meterological phenomenon. Ever hear of a twister coming down and sacking a house in Newport? No? You know why? Because it never fucking happens.

In other news, I had practice with the boys in Route 44 while my roommates went to some sort of sex toy party. Evidently, the preferred method of purchasing dildos follows the business model of Tupperware, where one invites a dildo sales specialist to enter your home and, over some seven layer bean dip, relate the various intricacies of dildo operation and the sorts of considerations one must make based on technique and spatial constraints when purchasing said dildo.

Why can't they just get together for the latest episode of Queer Eye?

I'm sure most can identify with the overly peppy co-worker; that undeniably excited individual wetting oneself at the latest catch phrase or pep rally corporate meeting. I certainly have one in my little piece of OfficeSpace, but imagine my surprisewhen she announces (though while we are all working insanely late) she's going to "go out and have a smoke."

This revelation immediately caused me to flashback to the first (and thankfully only) time I saw my kindergarten teacher drunk. There are certain things that one does not associate with kindergarten teachers, such as irresponsible drinking, thorough exercise and application of the word fuck, and having sex. Catching my kindergarten teacher in the state she was in, I think, may have marked my transition into adulthood, or whatever this underdeveloped post-adolescent stage I call adulthood can be properly classified.

Similarly, finding out that the shallow hyperpeppy new person is actually a plebian like the rest of us is disturbingly egalitarian... Almost like all of us are really fuckups with straight ties trying to look presentable to a stern St. Peter.

I ended up getting dragged to a Blues open-mic to see a bunch of filthy hippies engage in various incarnations of that elusive thing called "the Blues" the other night. A pretty passable open jam filled with some quality players who clearly had some experience together, the coup de grace was in the form of a 270-pound woman with extreme freckles, catastrophically nappy hair, and an overbite likely a full inch in length. Tina was called up under protest by a number of the players to sing what was undoubtedly her trademark tune "You Can Love Me Like A Man." Cheered on by many of the attendees, Tina enumerated - in song - a rather large list of preferred qualities in a sexual partner including stability ("hard as a rock"), stamina ("'til the break of dawn"), and most notably flexibility ("like my back ain't got no spine").

Now, as a pragmatist when it comes to the bedroom, I had a little discussion with those at my table whether or not a single individual (male *or* female) had the capabilities of fulfilling on the needs she described. First, Tina came supersized. From a purely physical viewpoint, any sexual activity that has even the remotest opportunity for success is going to have to come from an approach vector vertically superior to the object. Simply put, only a great ape would have the ability to withstand an undulating Tina from underneath. While the missionary position offers a greater amount of availability in terms of preference, our subject would have to be of fairly small hip size in order to fit effectively between Tina's colossal thighs. Combining with Tina's other requirements, we were looking at an individual roughly 3'9" with a ten foot probe. With Joe C dead nearly two years from kidney failure, the prospective pool is effectively nil.

Further limiting our options was the issue of flexibility. Once our group had unanimously agreed missionary was our only option, we knew that sexual acrobatics was going to be quite a challenge. With only so much motion in a midget's ocean, some sort of external alternative had to be developed. With a few sketches on a bar napkin, we determined that it was likely feasible that a hoist operated by a series of independent pulleys could be used to raise and lower carefully selected sections of Tina's vast humanity at appropriate moments, giving the midget the effect of increased flexibility. The devil in these details is in control. Would it be proper to create an item of lingiere outfitted with MIDI triggers that operate the pulley's at appropriate intervals based on contact with the bed's surface? The technology, we concluded, certainly exists however finding a sufficient supply of silk for the teddy itself would probably decimate the earth's silkworm population for a number of years. Another possible control would be a vertical software application that would operate automatic car wash style, executing a pre-determined series of pushs and pulls to give the desired effect. However by the end of the song it was quite clear that Tina was far too discriminating for that sort of thing, requiring dynamic operation that would pull and push pieces of the hoist on the fly based on circumstances entirely of Tina's governing. It was finally decided that for this particular project, a technological solution could likely be found through years of analysis but as Tina is quite impatient in the bedroom, it was probably best to overcome the issue with properly trained personnel. Setting four individuals each controlling two sections of the hoist, we could provide Tina with eight different areas of control all adjusted by the operators based upon her (large) boddy language and vocal emissions. These operators would have to have overdeveloped forearms and significant experience with demanding bed partners, making sailors our only possible choice.

Finally, a particularly intrepid member of the conversation added that stamina was an early and repeated item on Tina's list. As was rapidly discovered by The Wizard of Oz, the wee folk don't possess the same endurance as larger humans. Obviously possessing a much smaller metabolic system, little people require more frequent breaks between periods of physical activity and proportionally large amount of food to remain effectively functional throughout the day. In order to sustain this activity during Central Daylight Time then, our enormously endowed munchkin would have to be able to engage in the sex act from approximately 9pm to 5am the next morning, a total of 9 hours of Tina boinking. Though he would be mechanically assisted with the hoist and pulleys, we would either need a pretty good sized bench of tripods to take of Tina hockey style with periodic line changes or some serious medical and pharmecutical technology to squeeze every drop (literally) of performance out of our hero during game time. Since the former is impossible due to lack of qualified personnel, we estimated we would need one Colombian kingpin with a 60 pound brick of crystal meth, a nurse practictioner administrating a constant saline drip, and a Kentucky Derby jockey in a harness positioned above the midget with an electric prod with seven additional charge clips.

And so when it was all said and done at the end of the song when the MC got up on the mike to ask, "How many men think that can love Tina like a man?"

He thought we were a bunch of smartasses when we said one midget, four sailors, a drug dealer, licensed nurse, and Tobey McGuire from Seabiscuit.

28,000 feet above spring Midwest cumulonimbus can make anyone religious.

Regardless of whether or not it was a good idea or not, my boss appealing to the impetuousness of my youth to drag me into an explanation of my particular strain of atheistic absence of belief. The common issue with most religious folks I encounter is the assumption that the burden of proof is on the unbelieving and that choosing not to decide is somehow a decision. Without exception this rationale is uncontrovertible, even the clear face of better reasoning, and its prevalance alone seems to suggest some sort of Christian predispositon for egocentric thinking.

Is it the evangelical theme of the Gospels that generates this inherent need to prove or some inherent insecurity with the holes that can't seem to be plugged? Ever so often I speak with a few select friends and hope for the latter, for the former is unsustainable on a planet full of human beings.

Courtesy of C. Howie Howard and a number of other readers:

http://www.johnkerryisadouchebagbutimvotingforhimanyway.com

As an insane fan of Atom and His Package, I've scored little a slice of heaven not once but twice this week. The first is an mp3 of a wicked good cover of my favorite Atom tune "Upside Down From Here" by a Canadian band called Fred's Fear. Much like the first time I heard this song, I've already driven my friends and loved ones away by listening to the song on repeat approximately a million times.

The second score was the CD and accompanying DVD of Atom's last show at a Unitarian Church in Pennsylvania. Though the entire first half of the CD is lacking serious mixing, it's still synthetic punk rock which makes it infinitely listenable to me. The DVD of the show complete with extra documentaries was an enjoyable watch, if a bit low budget and accessible only to the Atom diehard. I've always wondered what caused Atom's departure from the world of rock and only discovered through the DVD that the guy found out he had diabetes and a kid on the way just a few days before embarking on a major European tour. Suddenly, I feel quite the dick for spamming his mailbox with multiple reunion tour requests.

By far the most disturbing element of the DVD was the very real anxiety shared by Adam Goren when his days of being Atom are officially over. One show between him and being officially designated unemployed can leave any rockstar in a vulnerable position, but it is rare that those concerns are so openly and plainly shared by both the man himself and his closest loved ones. Regrets of long-distance friendships unable to be sustained, lamentations of loss of health care, and the very grim realization of the world of the "Real Job" leave our hero confused and bewildered. Now coming up on a year after his last show, I kind of want an epilogue on how he's doing, if only to assuage the same anxiety I share a year after entering the world of the "Real Job."

T-Dub and I made the long drive (figuratively speaking) to catch the punk rock show down at URI. We came looking to catch one of my favorite bands, Less Than Jake, in action with a couple emo bands opening with which I had only vague familiarity. An arena show at the university's spacious and security-laden Ryan Center, it was unclear whether the event was a ClearChannel cowmilk or some sort of student activities event, but regardless of who paid for them there was a security personnel to punk ratio of approximately 5 to 1. I've been told I require little stimulus for rebellion and a large floor of docile teenyboppers occupying space rightfully occupied by myself and my hard-rocking companion, I spent the better portion of the night concocting various failed schemes to glean entry into the carefully sectioned off floor area. No easy task given our third floor balcony tickets, eventually I got beaten into submission by the repeated failure of other folks and the discouraging pair of opening bands Yellowcard and Something Corporate.

Yellowcard put forth admirable effort with a violin player who accomplished several impressive backflips and generally jumped around. However this mad fiddler, much like Emperor Nero before him, was merrily playing while the city was burning down. Lacking a only slightly superior compliment of songs to Something Corporate and the same pre-teen attraction value, it seemed both bands were only good for making punk the "in" look this year.

The strangest thing did happen during one of Something Corporate's love ballads. After a small and pretty ill-considered talk about all the downloading, the lead singer of Something Corporate goes into a piano-driven lament about past love lost, of course requiring compulsory lighter holding. However, revealing the youth of the crowd, I could only see a few such lighters in the air, with most folks in fact holding up their *cell phones* instead. The entire arena was a sea of blue Motorola, leaving Ted and I to wonder precisely when the fuck we lost touch with the Cool.

Less Than Jake came to play ball though and definitely made 4 hours of one-step-shy-of-boy-bands bearable. Never having even seen a picture of them before, I was pleased to find the guitar player as wild-eyed and crazy as I had hoped, though the horn section was a lot smaller than I remember hearing on record. The highlight of the night was when the guitar player pointing out a girl in my row who had her arms crossed in deference to Less Than Jake's genuine sound (distinguishing them from the pop punk hippie bullshit that came before). She was a little short, fairly pudgy, and very definitely more geek than the Britney-after-shopping-at-Urban-Outfitters clone troopers running around. Calling her up on stage, he let her dance during a tune and then began the interrogation.

"What's your name?" asked Chris with much bravado.

"Megan," came the quiet chirp.

"Everybody, welcome Megan to the show!" immediately preceding a riotous cheer.

"What's wrong tonight?" Chris asked with mock concern, "You were just standing over there with your arms crossed."

"..." or some other such unintelligible girl mumble.

"Well, I'm not a psychologist, but usually when people are crossing their arms they are trying to protect something. Are you protecting something Megan?"

Megan tries to say something, but is drowned out by the crowd.

Chris then smiles and looks out to the crowd, "You know what I would think make Megan feel better? If she made out with somebody right here on the stage!"

Naturally, the crowd f-ing flips out.

Not surprisingly, Megan also thinks this is a pretty good idea. After selecting one guy out of a sea of a thousand raised hands, for the next two songs they kissed solid on stage while the men of Less Than Jake danced around them merrily. A stupid, obtuse gesture I know, but for those two songs that geek got to do precisely what she wanted while simultaneously earning the envy of all around her. It was a funny bit they've probably done a million times before with varying levels of success, but I thought it was one of the best things I've ever seen a band do live and can't help but notice the careful, deliberate selection of Less Than Jake.

They fucking rock.