Dang me...

This makes me angry.

For all the stupidity that runs around this planet it never fails to amaze that the words "reasonable doubt" are never fully understood. If you, yes YOU, know nothing else about the legal system it is this:

Convictions should almost never happen.

I'll qualify this a little: trial-by-jury criminal cases should almost never get convictions.

Why?

Because the defense doesn't have to prove jack, and the prosecution has to prove everything that was, as time rips the ability to portray an accurate picture.

Could they do it? Yeah. Motive and means were surely available.
Did they possibly do it? It is within the realm of possibility.

DID they do it? Couldn't say. Sounds like the investigation was done by a man named Cletus who couldn't spell "DNA," let alone successfully collect a sample. That and not finding a murder weapon or how the heck it was done should've closed the book on a 1st degree murder case. 2nd or 3rd would've been more plausible (but still shouldn't have gotten a conviction, based on the story).

Even the prosecution suggests that they were in coitus and interrupted, as a possible scenario for how the murder happened.

Oh, and I love John Stewart.

Thursday Thirteen

Because I'm all over the map on these "Thursday Thirteens"

How about I offer up 13 comfort foods?

1) Ham, black-eyed peas, and greens
2) fried okra
3) fried 'maters (like gramma does 'em).
4) muscadines
5) blackberries (w00t!) (that image is a desktop from Miller Soap (I don't know either), so feel free to use it).
6) Lasagna
7) Goulash (the rest of it looked good, so I posted the whole page).
8) Bar-b-q ribs (because if you spell it right, you probably can't cook it right).
9) Fried chicken
10) Warm bagel
11) Tea (Milo's is also famous for their french fries. For some reason.)
12) Cold Pizza (breakfast only).
13) Big ol' bag of pork rinds.

Much of this is the result of a southern upbringing, and the various german sausages didn't make the cut (har!) mostly owing to the fact that I haven't had a good one in ages, much like sauerkraut. America does those things poorly. I have managed to find some decent confections over the years, and I strongly recommend that you hussle over to Ethel M for some o' them.

A big shout out to smugmug for some fine pictures of food.

I hit like a girl...

Today I took it upon myself to go over to the boxing part of the gym... oh, yeah. Maybe I should back up to the part where I'm working out every day of the week (different muscle groups though), and that I have been since Ultra Boy and Space Pirate (MegaBoy? I dunno), started back at school. A few breaks, but otherwise relentless.

A few days back a friend suggested that she'd like to start up as well, being all sorts of out of shape since having left the Army. And what she likes to do most is beat the crud out of things. Which had me worried for a moment, but then I remembered that whole section dedicated to boxing in the gym. I go over there for situps.

She's never been, so I play tour guide for a moment or two, but she's got her own wraps and gloves and she's ready to pummel. Seriously.

We get over there, and it's the first time that I've been for any real length of time... there are no men. Nor boys. None. I wasn't the first one of us to make that observation, either.

Sam (yes, that's her name), leans over and mutters, "where are the guys?"

"Hey! Speed bags!"

Anyway, we spent something like 45 minutes taking turns on those large bags that hang down and have roughly the density of a human. I think I spent something like 15 minutes to her 30.

Oh, yeah, and another interesting thing I learned today: carpal tunnel friggin' hurts. I was almost crying when I left the gym. Which, being male, means that I need to do that kind of thing more often.

We're stupid that way.

I was actually sweating and out of breath by the end of the workout, since I don't know what the words, "pace yourself," mean, in the same way that I don't really get, "the rules... follow the rules."

After seeing the kickboxing, butt-kicking, death-on-legs brand o' woman that I did today, I think I can take "you hit like a girl" as a compliment.

Food for thought

You might not have gotten over to YouTube for whatever reason. Perhaps you are under the impression that it's simply a bunch of geeks posting videos of themselves, or similar rubbish.

Well, there's some of that, but what you're missing out on is practically an archive of television. If it's not complained about, YouTube houses it.

You want a music video? I found The Cars, Abba, more rap and metal than I can shake a stick at, and whoever it was that did "Boom Town".

How about a public service announcement, from the likes of Rob Lowe and Barbara Bush? Not your cup of tea? Try some historical footage.

There are TV shows, movie trailers, and a bucket of other stuff. You could go to google video, but youtube is contributed to and maintained specifically for this kind of thing.

My lunch today...

I've gotten kinda annoyed with the whole "take back the night" campaign. Who has the night? When did it stop belonging to women? Which women had the night?

Okay, so now that I've associated that with prostitution, I'll show you what I did today:

The Energizer

Have you tried this? It's pretty addictive. Tell you what... I'll show you something I did, but it's going to push things well below the sidebar.



Because there weren't any Star Wars motivational posters out there.

Contest d'Bone

initiate
holiday
snow

The noviate lit the last candle for the winter festival. The tree it was mounted upon would no doubt catch fire, but that was the idea. Ice demons would be run from the town by their community spirit, as represented by the fire.

"Master," he asked, "what if there are no ice demons? We can't see them, so how do we know?"

"Can you see your own heart?"

Sittin' by the dock of the bay...

Ultraboy has befriended yet another girl. This one really wants to be his study partner (as do they all), and was introduced him to her parents. Quite wily, really. Like her old man.

Honestly, I may have to subdue both of them and have the boy shipped off to someplace extremely cold. But then the global warming thing would be accelerated.

(sigh).

Guess what?

Chicken butt.

And here I am, on the cutting edge of 3rd grade humor.

We'd effect tipping...

For my last foray into talking about my days as a driver for a well known pizza chain, I will now regale you with this:

In the heart of a large Southern city I was called upon to perform that duty I was signed up for... delivering the 'zas. I was still new, but others smiled at my next address and told me how lucky I was... this guy gives out tips of $20! Ah! Now I will score big money and perhaps be able to afford a new set of gaming dice, or... dare I dream?... a book.

To the Batmobile!

Off I went in delirious contemplation of a tip that could purchase a pizza in its own right! Such glory! $20 could buy 3 days groceries if I was reasonably frugal.

I arrived. The drive, as with a previous post, wasn't more than a few blocks, making this even more delightful. I adjusted my shirt and rang the doorbell.

Grumbling came from inside, and the stomping about reminded me of my father when I was doing something I really shouldn't. Which prepared me for...

The door opened and a fist came rocketing out. I have no idea what it was aiming for, but I reacted with cat-like reflexes, tossing the pizza unerringly to the side as the blow caught me in the shoulder and I spun and stumbled off of the sidewalk.

The door slammed. I still had the pizza, and I was decidedly not tipped. Well, perhaps in the way that a cow might get tipped, but not in any satisfactory way.

On the other hand, ringing the doorbell struck me as the height of foolishness.

So, I went to the nearest pay phone and called my boss, whose name was Tim.

Tim told me to try again. I lost a modicum of respect for the man at that moment, but I was not going to disobey, or suggest that he might kiss my pasty butt. Such thoughts were far from my mind.

I went back and rang the doorbell.

Grumbling could be heard inside. I considered the most prudent course of action was to hide.

To the side. In the bushes. While I heard stomping.

The door opened and the fist was projected, but I had a much more interesting perspective this time, and got to see a willowy fellow stumble over the lip of the door and look around in a confused manner.

"Damn kids," he muttered before I managed, nervously, "Did you order a pizza, sir?"

"Hunh? Damned if I know... hold on." Grumbling continued.

"You order a $%@! pizza?"

"What!?"

"God !>@3 it! Fine!"

He grumbled the rest of the way, making much more noise than his size would suggest. Definitely a "Cat-like tread" guy.

"Here!"

He crossed my palm with silver, and the pizza was his. I left, not entirely happy, but the tip had been in the area of $20 (I think it wound up being $18, since he gave me $40 and told me to keep the change, but maybe the cost of pizzas back then wasn't as high as I think).

I realize this isn't a "horror" story, and certainly not on the same level as the other one, but it's a very strong memory that I like to share with others.

Just because.

I love my wife.

She is beautiful. Her eyes are deep and soft. Her cheeks have a natural blush to them, and what might have been freckles.


She has style and taste. Yet she puts up with the way I dress. That's also [i]tolerance[/i] as well.

She's smart. Her memory has started to slide, but she still thinks circles around anybody else I know. Actually, she doesn't bother with the circles. Waste of time.

She's feminine. She doesn't believe it, but she's soft and maternal.

Her laughter makes my soul lighter.

She's warm and wonderful.

I Love My Wife.

Woof?

I've been thinking a bit about nature, and the nature of man.

It has been posited that man seeks as many mates as possible, in order to insure spread of DNA and offer the best possibilities for a future for the human race. This runs counter to the desire women have for a steady mate in order to avoid being raped every coupla days/minutes. Thus, conflict between the genders.

This sort of makes sense, but there are other creatures in nature that mate for life. Why do they do this? It makes no sense if the "job" of the male is to hump everything that moves. Are they abhorrations? Sexual deviants?

Today I shall explore 2 examples: Wolf and Dog. Point and counter-point(er).

Wolves and dogs are very close in genetic makeup. Save for mankind breeding for certain qualities, they'd be roughly the same animals (jackal and other "canis" blood can be found in various breeds, so it's not a pure thing, but huskies and german shephards are decidedly wolfish). There's only one real difference: maturity.

Dogs are about as mature as a four-month old Wolf*. So, the question is, are you a dog or a wolf? A boy... or a Man?

*info acquired by asking a local wolf care center representative. No lie. Her name was Samantha.

I like Chinese

Or, more accurately, Japanese. Stuff.

This probably swings me further over into the geek category, but if I was worried about that I'd probably have buffed up alot more and maybe socialized some.

Instead I'll stay up all night looking at old "Ninja High School" comics.

So, here I am, discovering that I can recognize Faye Valentine without a headshot (and all of this because my D&D cartoons wouldn't load... I mean, really), and thinking that, back in the day, I was all about "Dominion: Tank Police", "Urusei Yatsura," (translated: "Those Annoying Aliens"), and "Akira." And that I really don't know much about the current scene.

Well, accept "Trigun", "Orange Road", Miyazaki's work, and basically anything that borders on mainstream. It's depressing.

I'll admit that stuff from Japan has flaws, such as tending toward sexism or not looking as polished as American productions. I find the latter rather charming, but it's not everyone's cup o' tea.

I'll stick with the idea of Anime being an artform because I allow that Disney could produce art, and I don't distinguish between different types of animation when it comes to potential.

I'm going to get more homework done.

>sigh<.

Alright

I'll stop righting words and feed you people good, wholesome geekiness.

(Because my writing apparently sucks)

Typical Friday at "Pizza Glut"

I've mentioned that there are some horror stories related to my driving delivery for some manner of Pizza Nuts. I'll try to keep them straight as separate posts.

Most people don't realize that delivery is a different planet from interacting with folks on a normal basis. For instance, when you get a call on a professional basis you might take it for granted that things on the other end are as stated, and if they aren't you probably won't be scarred for life by the enfolding events.

You probably don't give much thought to the average pizza jockey, who is young and male. But some people do think about it... and call.

Yessir, there've been times when ye olde Chuck-meister was staring down the unfriendly prospect of being paid in the only way that a red-neck woman in a thong and little else is willing to be paid. Well, okay, the prospect was extremely friendly... but not at all attractive.

It was a Friday, and the busy part of the night was winding down at "Pizza Shack", to the point where you become aware of the torrid heat in that little room they cook everything in, and you'd give an eye to get a delivery. People would fight over the next ticket. I came out on top this time.

A woman known to be a good tipper needed a personal pizza delivered. Usually we wouldn't, but she'd ordered a salad and Coke (spell check!), which made the cost enough to warrant it. Out I drove.

She lived maybe 5 blocks away, but had decided to stay in instead of get it herself. Not unusual. My car could've used some repairs, and clouds were rolling in with a low rumbling making everything sound worse than it was. I parked in her rather small yard and made the walk to her door. It was somewhere near 11 P.M.

I rang the doorbell and instantly the door opened. "Hi! Are you here with the pizza?"

I had to stop, because the woman was in an extreme state of dis-dress. There are two types of thoughts that might engage the proto-simian brain when faced with such a predicament... some will tell you that there are only 2 "F"s of such behavior: "fight" or "flee". I'll tell you that there is a third "F", which was a possibility had the women:

a) shaved. Something.
b) lost weight. I'm not usually one to discriminate on this point, but I do have limits. Grotesqueries are those. The woman could've hidden clowns on her person and had them erupt from her at the end of the show and it wouldn't surprise me.
c) shown some small modicum of taste and discrimination. Perhaps had asked for a different delivery person, made note of cute ones, asked me what I was doing later, ANYTHING BUT SHOW UP AT THE DOOR AND PULL THE "I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY" LINE!!"

I'm going to say something about that last: you can't possibly think this is an attractive line to anyone, can you? It's a bit like holding a sign that says: "Will have sex for pizza."

Except less original.

Understand that I was pretty young and on the verge of marrying the first cheap floozie I could locate (on a street corner, no less!), but this was insulting to me and should have been humiliating to her.

Mecca

Went over to that consumer paradise, Wal-Mart, this evening to buy a pair of shoes. Well, two pairs. I bought three, but I digress.

I entered the section of El Supra Wal-Mart Grande labeled "Shoes" and began to peruse the isles, looking for a new pair for my oldest. Two pairs. Hokay.

Turns out that the means of organizing shoes that they'd had before, known henceforth as "convenient," was not exactly what the top thinkers over in Arkansas considered best for their chain.

Now, should you enter that section, you will be forced to look for a sales associate ("demon"), locate the appropriate isle ("circle"), use the secret decryption guide ("Dante's"), and then cry and grab the nearest shoe regardless of quality and price before leaving the store in a state that could not be described by the most detailed of H.P. Lovecraft ("cyclopean").

Thank you for shopping.

Eat Me

A rather intriguing film, "Grilling Bobby Hicks," is in production at the moment, and someone (you neaux who) asked me to take a look at the trailer. First impression? Slapsticky dark comedy. Here's what I wrote back to him:

The Good:

The trailer is slightly amateurish. I'm not sure if that's on purpose or due to budget constraints, but it adds charm to it. Especially the sped up "get-in-the-trailer" scene toward the end.

The writing seems to be pretty good. I'm not referring to the movie, but the dialogue of the trailer, which might not have been written by the same people as the script. It's pretty solid.

It got my interest in the film. I genuinely want to find out what happened. That's pretty much the best praise that an ad is going to get from me.

The Bad:

Funny, but the amateurish feel also detracts from some moments. While it does lend an "authentic" feel to some scenes (as it does with some horror movies), the slightly shaky feel also takes away from some moments. For cinematography I particularly liked: the opening and the guy with the rag wiping off the counter. Looked really good. The stuff in the car is less appealing.

The Ugly:
The sense I got is that, though a lot of fun, this movie is going to be chock-full of cliches. Cheesiness has an audience, and I'm in it, but it's not going to necessarily win over many critics (except Ebert. I think you've got a real chance with him). My point here is that it doesn't come across as a "think" piece. I'd also like to comment on the rapid-fire sequence at the end: over-done. It adds nothing to my interest in the film and I've seen it in other trailers.

Also, they might want to mention what award the script won, or who gave the award. Cannes would add much to the weight. Granted, if it's "Didi's Script-O-Rama: Best Burger Filler," maybe they shouldn't bring it up, but it's driving me nuts. I poked around a bit and still couldn't find it.

One final: The director also wrote. I'm pretty certain he's not acting the lead, but if he acts in it at all he raises an eyebrow.

Total:
Obviously the trailer got me interested in the film. I won't be able to watch it owing to budgetary constraints, but I hope it has more than a local distribution. Give them all the best of luck from me.

Projected rating is PG, and I wouldn't expect anything much in the way of sex or, judging by the trailer, swearing. Violence might not be out of the question, but it looks like they avoided special effects in favor of writing on this one.

Diversity

There are multiple types of geekitude and nerdosity. Rest assured that I belong to many groups along this range.

Behold! Star Trek!

Spanning time...

Legos have always held a fascination to me, and most of my friends. The flaw in the system is that getting anywhere near the bricks needed to make anything cool is somewhere near the national deficit.

Robot* building with Legos hasn't changed price, excepting that now you feel like you might evoke "Klaatu barada nikto!" at any moment.

Which might cost you cool points.

*Does not include a death ray.

Schmarchimedes...

Here I am, trying to find volume and density of a 122.5 kg (mass) man.
Converted to newtons (a measure of force), his weight is 1200.5 newtons (f=m*a).

Then he is submerged, over his head, and weighed. The water is 30 degrees, Celsius, with a specific gravity of 0.996. His weight in newtons when submerged is 44.

Density = Mass/Volume
Specific Gravity = density/(reference density)

The mans mass is static. No one is removing his arms in order to make him fit into the container of water. My chief concern is that I'm somehow messing up his weight in newtons (1200.5), since this is my own calculation.

Writing this has helped me straighten out my thoughts, but it hasn't led me closer to a resolution. Dang it.

Despite all my rage...

Tonight I work security. I'd expected to be prowling the premises every so often in search of ne'er-do-wells and miscreants to prod with a manly truncheon.

Such is not my lot. While I have spent the last hour and a half trying to verify a principle of Archimedes, it is distracting to be locked in a closet with a phone in case something should happen. Troublemakers would then fear the wrath of my Nokia, I tell you.

There are others here, providing a community service to those unfortunates chained to the bottle at this hour and in need of safe return to that place they might call home, but they are not my intellectual equals.

There is no one here to help me, save a semi-functional Dell that serves as a link to the world outside of my prison. Meanwhile, I try to discover what roll density plays in specific gravity, and how that might help me unravel the workings of Archimedes.