End of the year lists are marbles

That said, here's mine, in this particular order.

Girl Talk - Feed the Animals. Soundtrack of the summer. Go CWRU.








The Walkmen - You & Me. The album I can never remember anything about until I listen to it again. But while I'm listening I'm convinced it's the best of the year.





M83 - Saturdays=Youth. The '80s did not sound this good.









Bon Iver - For Emma Forever Ago. Technically came out last year, but I don't feel terribly constrained by technicalities. Yeah, his voice sounds like the guy from TV on the Radio, but the absence of their record from this list should tell you how much I care about that.


Cut Copy - In Ghost Colours. This one sounds like a number of other things I already like, but, again, that doesn't matter if it's also damn good.





Others that I don't feel like putting up pictures for - both Los Campesinos albums, Street Horrrsing by Fuck Buttons, and Alopecia by Why?

I should note that I listen to maybe 5% of the "talked about" releases each year. Maybe. So I have no business compiling this. But I don't think the internet will crack under the weight of another ill-conceived end of year best albums list.

Missing your true calling is marbles

If only I had lived in the 1830's, I could have been a Poulterer.

This was taken in Dickens Village, at Macy's. It features animatronic recreations of scenes from A Christmas Carol, set in a miniature Victorian village. So creepy.

Priests who make pedophilia jokes are marbles

Welcome to a very special Christmas edition. At my yearly church visit yesterday, I'm pretty sure the priest made a joke about pedophilia.

It went down, er, happened like this - the service began with a singing of Christmas carols accompanied by a procession of children dressed up as Magi, sheep, etc. When all of the kids got to the front of the church, they apparently became a little unruly, and the priest made an offhand comment to the effect of "Hey, anyone want any kids, ages 5-10?"

After a brief pause to allow everyone a chuckle, he added "I know better." Whoa. Now as far as I know, priests ain't got no kids, so it's not like he meant "I know better because I have six of my own." What could he possibly have meant, besides the obvious? Regardless, way to blow, er, botch your biggest night of the year, dude.

Treadmills are marbles

It sounds like a good idea. I mean, there's TV, how bad can it be?

For maybe the third time in my life, I attempted to run on a treadmill this morning, hoping to counteract some of the heroic gluttony of the past few days. My God, what a horrible experience. I only ran two miles, but it felt like twelve. I turned on CNN, but it's amazing how time slows down when you're running in place - those freecreditreport.com commercials somehow get worse and seem to last for days. So instead I ended up watching the red LEDs slowly light up around the track I was supposed to imagine myself running around, impatiently waiting for each like miniature Santa Clauses. Next time I think I'll just risk the hypothermia and run outside.

Drunk eDialing is marbles

Along the lines of the last post...

You've been there - it's 3:14 AM Saturday night, you've had seven too many Manhattans and you type out a horrific email to the ex-girlfriend, unrequited love, or hated boss. If you're lucky you were so drunk that the email was completely unintelligible. If not you end up on somebody's blog.

Google is here to help you out with Mail Goggles. Short version: this app forces you to do a math quiz if you're sending an email out during your pre-defined danger times. The bad news is that most of the nerds who would install this can probably do complex calc problems while getting their stomach pumped. Still a good idea, though I suppose the next step is to invent a breathalyzer to turn on your computer or exit the screensaver a la the "One For The Road" ignition tester...

Scrawling messages to your ex in red lipstick on a storefront window is so emo, so marbles

When posting Bright Eyes lyrics on your Myspace page just won't cut it, I guess. And I'm pretty sure the letters at the bottom are initials - would hate for an innocent bystander to get confused and think the message was for him.

Philadelphia's billboards are marbles

via Philebrity

Goldman Sachs paying a 1% tax rate is marbles

Granted, it wouldn't make sense if they had to give their $10B bailout gift right back to Uncle Sam come April, but for Goldman to go from paying $6B in taxes last year to $14M this year (that's a drop in tax rate from 34% to 1%, for those keeping score at home) is a little suspicious. Hell, even tax lawyers think so.

Playing 1004 games of Freecell in a year and a half is marbles

Going back to school sure has kept me busy.

Losing the Heisman because a freshman safety dropped an interception in early November is marbles

It sure must suck to be Colt McCoy. First to be shut out of both the conference and national championships, and now the Heisman trophy, solely because a bozo teammate dropped an easy interception. Even worse is that the drive before that fateful error, Colt McCoy led a made-for-Heisman-highlight-reel comeback. But he's always got that sweet-ass name to fall back on. Colt McCoy.

Note: I might have written FAIL or the like over the photo above (courtesy InsideTexas.com), but I didn't want to obscure the guy in the background's premature celebration.

Everything Tom Friedman says is marbles

While I agree with some of the general points in his otherwise moronic op-ed from Tuesday (e.g., Green good, Detroit bad), Tom Friedman's typical carelessness with facts and reality in order to make some hey-man-you-gotta-see-the-Big-Picture point really grates on me.

In the article he touts an overseas plan to vertically integrate electric cars with electricity generation and distribution, and admonishes Detroit for not doing the same:

The Better Place electric car charging system involves generating electrons from as much renewable energy — such as wind and solar — as possible and then feeding those clean electrons into a national electric car charging infrastructure. This consists of electricity charging spots with plug-in outlets — the first pilots were opened in Israel this week — plus battery-exchange stations all over the respective country. The whole system is then coordinated by a service control center that integrates and does the billing.

Great, just let me know when you get that "national electric car charging infrastructure" done here. Not to mention the cars that would plug into it (and charge themselves in a reasonable amount of time).

Of course there's nothing inherently stupid about big ideas. Sometimes they work. But what is stupid is to compare this zany startup to freaking Apple:

It just takes the right kind of auto battery — the iPod in this story — and the right kind of national plug-in network — the iTunes store — to make the business model work for electric cars at six cents a mile.

Might be a fair comparison if Apple also built the internet.

Using a huge box to send me hard candy and a packing slip is marbles

Running out into the rain this morning to rescue my UPS shipment, I was surprised to see two boxes waiting for me. Some assembly required, I thought. No, what I ordered was fully assembled, in one box, and in the other was this:

Thanks, Shoplet, for killing however many trees and burning however many fossil fuels to send me a bag of strawberry and creme candy that I didn't want.

Listening to ESPN verbally fellate Stephen Curry for two hours is marbles

Congratulations, Davidson, you barely beat a mediocre Big East team that had its two best players sitting on the bench. My sour grapes aside, the two hour flashback to last year's NCAA tournament in which every move Stephen Curry makes is exalted as the greatest in the history of history was a little more than I could handle this early in the season. Every dribble he took was declared brilliant and every play that he had nothing to do with was nonetheless attributed to his greatness. At one commercial break, they even showed a slow-mo clip of him missing a layup - not to underscore some missed opportunity, but simply because it was the last time he had touched the ball. And when they weren't talking about Stephen Curry, they were filming the stands to show his NBA father, Dell, wondering giddily what he might be thinking and feeling.

Serves me right for watching basketball before the New Year.

The guy from Tool making wine in Arizona is marbles

I guess this is old news, but I keep up with neither Tool nor Arizona wine. Here he is on the WLTV:

Complaining about not getting free money is marbles

This article was dugg as a top story today, and to me it perfectly captures a certain annoying trait that I come across a lot on the internets. The crux of the author's complaint is that he had his AdSense account suspended because of "invalid clicks" that weren't his own, thereby depriving him of 106 hard-earned dollars.

Since AdSense pays based on clicks, Google gets suspicious if the same IP address clicks an ad too many times, fearing that the site owner is behind it. According to the author's theory, somebody sabotaged him by clicking his ads over and over, causing the big G to suspend his account. Funny stuff. But this guy doesn't see it that way:

Reflecting back on my experience, it’s actually quite sickening, thinking that I gave Google 5 months of FREE advertising on my site, only to get my account deactivated due to someone else who didn’t want me to get paid.

Um, you didn't so much give Google anything as enter an agreement with them whose terms, if you had read them, were written to protect Google. And rightfully so, given that they only, what, solicited the advertisers, negotiated agreements with them, and provided the mechanism to target and deliver the ads, all the while assuming the risk on behalf of those advertisers that this delivery system might be abused. So Google in turn allocated some of that risk to you, and you break into tears when it turns out you can't get free money from your anime site. A real cybertragedy.

Calling O.J. a "first-time offender" is marbles

Via Reuters:

"Simpson has never previously been convicted of a crime. Thus, he now stands before the court as a first-time offender," defence attorney Gabriel Grasso told the judge in court papers filed in advance of Friday's sentencing hearing.

Freaking lawyers.

Not being able to remember anything else is also marbles

In my previous post I blamed my poor memory on a lack of reminders. Well, I've now proved myself wrong. I got home tonight and found this note in my pocket, and I have no idea what it means:


The worst part is that I actually remember myself writing it this morning. But for the life of me I can't remember why I did it. Is there some incriminating evidence I need to destroy? Did I photograph a UFO, but the government erased my memory? And what kind of jerk uses the word "photos"?

Now if you're wondering what the scratched out portion is, it was because I initially tried to write "photos" without an "h." And you can kinda see that I tried to do it again on the second attempt. Yeah.

Update, 9:41pm - Mystery solved!

Click here for the exciting details...

As usual, my idiocy in one arena is offset by non-idiocy in another. Turns out, this morning I came up with an interesting solution to my iPod-related memory problems - take a screenshot of the "Recently Added" window in iTunes, crop it so it looks nice, and sync it to the "Photos" section of the iPod. Behold:


So, my note (and its word choice) wasn't so strange after all. I'm as surprised as anyone. Of course, this screenshot gimmick will be a bit cumbersome to update (honestly I'll probably never bother to do it again), but the concept is solid. Steve Jobs, go make me an "app" or something.

Not being able to remember what music you buy is marbles

This fall I finally made the transition to an all-digital music lifestyle, ripping every stupid CD I never listen to anymore and uploading them to my shiny new iPod. The biggest change in all this has been limiting myself to downloads (for the most part) and laying off buying new CDs (for the most part). But in doing so I've discovered a big advantage of having a physical CD/LP, which I never realized before - it reminds you that you bought the damn thing.

At any given time I'd say I'm "listening to" 5 to 10 new (or new to me) albums. In the old days those 5 to 10 albums would be sitting in a pile on my desk, available as a constant reminder of what I'm supposed to be listening to. But now when I reach for music, I'm faced with a massive digital directory of everything I've ever listened to in my entire life. Consequently, I completely forget what new hits I just downloaded from emusic and end up picking an album I've had since 1993. And stupid Apple is no help with their "Recently Added" playlist, which instead of being viewable by album (or cover flowed) gives me a list of 576 recently added songs. Thanks.

So here's my proposed solution: I'll burn a shit-ton of CDs, print out covers for them, stack them on my desk, and retreat back into the 1990s where I belong.

College football is gloriously marbles

I'm probably the only person who likes the BCS these days. Not because it's a good or even logical system, but because it gets people so pissed off. What would we argue about if the season just transitioned neatly into a postseason playoff? Judging from every other major sport, I'm sure we'd find some perceived injustices to dispute, but no way could it rival the extreme absurdity the BCS presents us with year in and year out. It's such fun. And this year is proving to be even more absurd, given that the Big 12 chose to rely on the vagaries of the BCS to untangle the three way clusterfuck in its South division.

I can't help but laugh at the sportsdouches on TV crying about "settling it on the field" and "finding out who the best team really is" by instituting a playoff system. Right, because the Giants, Kansas, and the Phillies were all unquestionably the best teams in their respective leagues this year. A playoff indeed settles it on the field, but it really just amounts to another round of entertainment to determine the final allocation of bragging rights. The BCS already does this, but with so much more anger and injustice. I vote for keeping things interesting.

Claiming your banking service to be legendary is marbles

Like some douchebag bragging about his sexual prowess, TD Bank has decided that its service is "legendary" and wants to tell you about it. Please. Elvis is legendary. The 1976 Steelers defense is legendary. Hell, R. Kelly is closer to legendary than some bitch who gives you a toaster for opening a checking account, even if it does come with a creepy open-mouthed thumbs up.

Having your vanity plate preempted by a 72 year old Ohio State fan is marbles

The enormous ratio of Sonic commercials to Sonic restaurants is marbles

Sonic is the Sasquatch of fast food. Much discussed, but rarely seen. Everywhere I've lived, there have been Sonic commercials on TV, but nowhere I've lived has there actually been a real, physical, honest-to-goodness Sonic. Why does Sonic advertise nationwide, incessantly, when nationwide there appears to be at most only five or six actual Sonics? In my travels I've been lucky enough to glimpse three Sonics, but, like the Sasquatch, I could never prove it, and neither could others who reported seeing more in the remote corners of some of our less populous states.


For years, I told stories of a Sonic lying deep in Ohio's Hocking Hills State Forest, in the sleepy town of Nelsonville. Lacking proof, however, the creature remained mere folklore. But, this past weekend, I was finallly able to catch it on film (see above). This should once and for all silence the skeptics. Sonic is real.

Having to google things for people is marbles

Where was this brilliant site last week when I was alone in my apartment, screaming at my computer, hoping that the moron whose work I had to edit could hear me?

If you'll indulge my geeky complaint for a moment: I was doing a second round edit on an stupid legal article that cited all kinds of obscure sources that we lucky students get to fact-check. So the previous editor whose work I was double checking was completely baffled as to whom the author's reference to a particular vote cast by "the Independent Senator from Vermont" might apply. Jackass just writes "don't know what senator the author is referring to." Because it's really difficult to tease that one out on your own. Would have been very satisfying to send him this.

Using the phrase "curdled self-pity" is marbles

Geared up and ready for the album of the millennium to drop, I'm reading the NYT review of Chinese Democracy (and checking the calendar to see if it's April 1 already) when I come across this gem of a description:

In its 14 songs there are glimpses of heartfelt ferocity and despair, along with bursts of remarkable musicianship. But they are overwhelmed by countless layers of studio diddling and a tone of curdled self-pity. The album concludes with five bombastic power ballads in a row.

What the hell is "curdled self-pity"? When does one's self-pity get so rancid that it curdles? Is the implication that one's former un-pitied self is then unrecoverable? And how does one express this in song? (Though five consecutive power ballads is probably a good start)

So naturally I had to google the phrase to see if it had ever been used before in the history of the English language. It had, once. Where else, but in a New York Times review.

Billionaire insider trading is marbles

While I realize I'm probably expecting too much of an uberdouche like Mark Cuban, I have to ask - seriously, you're a billionaire, how the hell are you stupid enough to get busted for insider trading, much less over a matter of $750K? You're a billionaire, you can pay other people to trade on inside information for you. Hell, you're a billionaire, there are organizations specifically devoted to trading on inside information for billionaires - they're called hedge funds.

I hope the SEC takes him down. But sadly he seems to have at least an outside chance of beating the rap. But I never bet against the SEC. Way better than the Big 10.

Mike Schmidt wine is marbles

Saw it at the liquor store today, on sale to celebrate the great victory. It's even got pinstripes.

Singing an interview is marbles

I'd probably find this more entertaining if it were done by a band that was either completely over-serious or completely un-serious. But I never really know with Okkervil River, so the cleverness of their singing an interview somehow bothers me. I think it would also bother me if, say, the Decemberists did it. Judge for yourself.



More here, if interested.

Getting automated phone calls warning about impending automated phone calls is marbles.

Well, I guess that's pretty much sums it up. A furniture store's automated phone service called me today to tell me that it'd be automatedly calling me tomorrow to tell me when they're going to deliver my couch. It even foretold the choices I'll have tomorrow. At least now I have 24 hours to decide if I'll need to push "2" to speak with customer service...

Ghost Hunters is marbles

I wanted to believe.

I watched this show when it first started, a few years ago, and was mildly taken by the air of (relative) objectivity they brought to their "investigations" of the paranormal. In those early episodes, more often than not, they'd come away from a supposedly haunted house with purely earthly explanations for the owner's ghostly claims. This made the few times when they did claim to find evidence of haunting more believable.

But this season, all they do is find ghosts. Most of the time, the experiences are conveniently personal, with someone seeing a "shadow" off camera or feeling a disembodied touch. But sometimes, like at the live Halloween special this year, something physical actually gets caught on camera, like Grant's jacket getting tugged. Here's the footage.



Pretty crazy, no? But note, however, that his right hand stays in his pocket the whole time. Not the kind of thing you'd do if someone or something just grabbed your collar. Suspicious, but not damning. This next video, however, is damning.


[Skip to the 5:07 mark]

So, his jacket was clearly somehow rigged. What a disappointment. No ghosts, only hoaxes to improve ratings, because people like ghosts, not rational explanations. Turns out there are several sites devoted to exposing these hoaxes (most of which seem to center around Grant). Here's a good one. Oddly enough I may end up watching the show more often now, just for the fun of trying to figure out what they're doing.

509 people voting for the wrong Phillies is marbles

I got so excited when I saw on Philebrity that 509 of us had voted for "Phillies" on Tuesday. It made perfect sense, the champs being second only to The Boss and maybe that black guy everyone has been talking about.

Imagine my disappointment when I discover it's just that some fictitious libertarian has the last name Phillies. I'm willing to bet at least 400 of those votes were by confused/delighted Philadelphians. Nonetheless, I wish I would have voted for the Phillies.

[stats from CNN]

NASCAR gun violence is expected, marbles.

Maybe it was a sign from god to stop watching cars travel in circles... Maybe it was just a matter of stacked odds when attending a NASCAR event...

CNNSI: NASCAR Fan Hit By Stray Bullet

And yet, she immediately knew she was shot, so maybe it was a repeat occurrence.

30 is the new marbles

Happy belated birthday, J.

Phillies fans are marbles

[EDIT - way, way outdone by this dude]

Myself included

Dudes on news stand

Dude on streetlight and dudes on subway entrance

Dudes on firetruck

Dudes

Dudes

Scare mongering to sell batteries is marbles

From our Main Line correspondent:

now, i've seen this commercial before, but it pisses me off every time and was wondering if you noticed...that duracell commercial where the mom loses her kid in the park and they pan around and there's a glimpse of a van going down the road....and because of the batteries working in some fake looking transmitter, she finds her kid and he's okay....that whole thing pisses me off. scare mongering to sell batteries.

In case you haven't seen it:

Major league baseball hipster managers are marbles

Very simply, why does the [Devil] Ray's coach have hipster glasses? I don't get it. Why not get yourself some age-appropriate Joe Paterno glasses? And then as you go gentle into that good night, you can still do the whole Weekend at Bernie's routine that JoePa has going, being carted around in golf carts and propped up in press boxes during games. Dead hipsters just don't warrant that kind of attention. Get with the program.

Impressions are marbles

I don't get why impressions of famous people are funny. Impressive yes, but funny no. I got to thinking of this a few weeks ago when I saw the guy from Frank TV at a random campus bar on a random Saturday afternoon. He was a cool guy and let us take a picture (dude on the right) and even did a quick W impression. He does one hell of an impression, and I laughed, but I don't know why.
I have the same problem with SNL. Their better known sketches over the years seem to have centered around direct imitations of famous people, doing what they normally do, the same way they normally do it. Sure, there's some exaggeration, and that is of course necessary in order to "make fun," but it seems like a lot of audience's appreciation gets bound up in how spot-on the impression is. And I just don't see what it is about direct imitation that is funny (even though I laugh more often than not).

Take the Tina Fey-Sarah Palin thing. First, it was clear from the beginning that the bitch just looked like Tina Fey (and Tina Fey gets first dibs on looking like Tina Fey). And when Tina Fey did her now-famous impression, the likeness was uncanny. But it was seen as especially remarkable because she was able to quote the would-be-VP-disaster verbatim and still get huge laughs. That probably says more about her subject than anything else, but why don't we all just laugh directly at Sarah Palin? That shit is funny out of anybody's mouth, if you ask me.

Living down the street from Big Butter Jesus is marbles

Slightly north of Cinci resides Big Butter Jesus (nee Touchdown Jesus, or Quicksand Jesus), reportedly the largest Christ statue in the world. I also reside slightly north of Cinci. Besides constantly reminding me of where the last presidential election was decided, living a couple miles from BBJ is marbles for one important reason. It's not because I'm anti-religion (I'm not). It's not because I'm personally against Jesus (he seemed like a friendly guy). It's not the moderate hypocrisy of false idols and mega-church millionaires. It's not that it makes for a good terrorist target (that's just overreacting). It's marbles because if they happen to be right, and armageddon is a'comin, then if I'm Lucifer I know where Phase 1 of Operation Shitstorm will occur. Well, it's either here or Wisconsin. Heathens.

Fringe cable station advertising products are marbles, probably.

While the lawyers amongst us are busy getting bottle service and living it up with the 'man', the rest of us are resigned to watching VH1 Classic and subjecting ourselves to the bottom of the infomercial barrel.

Behold, the Snuggie:


Basically what we have here is a blanket with sleeves. Definitely different than a robe on backwards, definitely.

Here is my issue. While I'm laying on the couch I could use something like this. I, too, hate when my blankets get in the way of my activities. But, it needs one more access hole. The wang hole. If they add a wang hole they have a instant sale. Then I'd have the comfort of a soft blanket, with the convenience to have easy access for all my 'activities'.

I suppose I could just order one and cut a hole in it... hmmmm.

Hiding the face of a WWII Japanese soldier in a painting of the LIberty Bell is marbles

I swear I see the face of a WWII-era Japanese soldier in this portion of a painting of the Liberty Bell at the 5th Street subway station. It freaked me out one day while waiting for the train. My mom thinks I'm nuts.

Using Q&A time as your personal conspiracy theory soapbox is marbles

So I'm at a talk this afternoon being given by Secretary Chertoff (big time, I know) on risk management (big stuff, I know) and at the conclusion they did one of those question and answer sessions where a few kids line up in the aisles and take turns at the mic. After a few normal-ish questions from normal-ish kids comes the classic jackass that I've only encountered on college campuses (or witnessed on TV during the Q&A portions of these kinds of talks). He grabs the mic, announces that he's a sociology major, and launches into a five minute recitation of the history of the anthrax attacks since 2001, detailing the number of available anthrax strains, the specific military base the particular strain in question was traced to, the initial speculation of terrorist involvement, and finally the "convenience" of the most likely suspect committing suicide. He was a conspiracy theory nut, of course, and we all got to bear witness to his wild accusations of government misdeeds. Not that these questions aren't generally worth asking, they're just better directed toward crazy homeless guys or the internet. And as he finally trailed off amid the annoyed murmurs of the crowd, the secret service guy next to him looked like he was a few seconds from putting the hammer down. Now that would have been entertainment.

Children not having to confront their mortality is marbles

When I was 8 years old the neighborhood kids and I would ride our bikes to go swimming* at a local rock quarry that had been filled with water and equipped with rafts and such. It was awesome. The next year, however, it closed, leaving us with no swimming hole - an intolerable situation. Fortunately for us, a similar quarry was available a few towns over. Fortunately for our parents, they got to drive us to it.

I have one memory of this new quarry that has really stuck with me - its frightening and deadly floating playground equipment (sorry, best category I could come up with). It had its share of high dives and such, which were of course normal and reasonable. But what really stood out were two huge metal devices, one called "The Bobber" and the other "The Rocker,"** -- instruments of death the likes of which have long since been banned or litigated into obscurity.

The Bobber, shown here in full engineering detail, was a single person device that floated upright on a hollow metal ball several feet in diameter, with the rider perched about 8-10 feet in the air in a little crow's nest type thing. There must have been a counterweight underwater, too. The purpose of The Bobber was to stand in the nest and shift your weight from side to side to make the thing increasingly rock back and forth. After a few cycles, fat kids could regularly get the nest (and themselves) to partially submerge. It looked like fun, until you got up there and realized that you were barefoot on painted metal, many feet in the air, clinging to few widely spaced metal bars, and trying to keep your balance as the momentum of the thing built and tried to throw you off. And you had to rock until you touched water, lest you be chided by your fat friends. But all along it was clear that death was a real possibility. Among the possible outcomes of this exercise were slipping mid-rock and hitting your head and dying, slipping at peak-rock (causing the Bobber to whip back) and hitting your head and dying, or - after the Bobber had come back to rest - attempting to jump off (causing the Bobber to move equally and oppositely to your jump) and hitting your head and dying. All the while with Don Henley blaring from the shore.

Suburban children these days just aren't afforded the same opportunity to confront their own mortality as we were. I'm sure our parents had an even greater opportunity to do so during their youths. The evolution of dry land playground equipment bears this out as well, with rickety monkey bars, splintering treehouses, and slides that burned your ass having been replaced by smooth plastic versions with safety nets. A trip to the quarry might provide a valuable life lesson for these kids.

*Note that this was the beginning of the water-in-the-brain problem
**The Rocker was a two person, teeter-totter-like apparatus that was marginally safer, being much shorter and equipped with a carpeted surface to stand on (though when wet it was just as slippery as metal)

Not having a yard to bury your money in is marbles

Over the years I've complained about various aspects of apartment living, but as the market continues to tank I'm becoming convinced that the worst aspect of apartment life is not having a yard of my own in which I can safely bury my money. As it stands, I'm forced to choose between hiding my money under my mattress (and finding another place to hide my pornography) and hiding it in several hundred of those fake shaving cream cans (and finding another place to hide several hundred cans worth of shaving cream). There's just no good solution. The subprime housing market is down, but what about the subprime yard market? That's all I need, really.

The FDA is marbles

From a good but uncitable source:

The American Red Cross's policies regarding who is able to donate blood, much to many people's surprise, do not allow gay men or transgendered women to donate blood, even if they are HIV negative. Other "high risk" groups may donate, but for any man or transgendered woman who has had sex with a man since 1977, the answer is no. Those individuals are banned from donating blood for life. The problems with this policy are multiple, but one of the most pressing is the urgent need for blood. Indeed, the Red Cross and the American Association of Blood Banks have of late attempted to move toward a non-discriminatory policy, but the ultimate arbiter is the Food and Drug Administration, a governmental administrative agency that has thus far been resistant to change. The FDA's stance is counterintuitive insofar as it excludes hundreds of thousands of healthy individuals, while the organization is in dire need of blood.

Further reading.

BEHIND THE MARBLES: Stealing someone else's made up expletive is marbles

From my first potential litigant:

I love it when my friends put stuff on the internet for me to read all day while I pretend to be working, I just like getting proper attributions. Seems like someone would be getting off on the wrong foot in the fast pace world of published legal documents if they were remiss in their obligations to give credit where it was due. Just don't use my real name, I don't want my good name coming up on Google attached to this filth when people are checking my background for future work (filthy Palin cornfield!). So, how about all due credit to my friend [redacted] for the blog name. I'm watching you.

Okay, so maybe I didn't coin the phrase, but neither did this asshole. He said something boring, and I misheard it as something awesome. I did him a favor. And then the redacted asshole rode our coattails by pointing out that "that's marbles" would make a perfect exclamation/expletive. Nonetheless, under the applicable law of this jurisdiction, the first to blog has priority.

Using tax dollars to feed squirrels is marbles

Walking through the park today I noticed some lovely seasonal decoration, presumably installed by the city. Mostly hay bales and pumpkins, but also some corn stalks, which were tied to lamp posts and, to my startled surprise, teeming with squirrels. The thing is, they put up corn stalks with the corn still attached (Indian corn, so it was especially seasonal), and every squirrel apparently called every other squirrel in a 10 block radius to come and go to town on this stuff.

Note that omitted from the picture are three of four other critters on the ground waiting their turn.

Urban tumble wigs are marbles

It's definitely a Philly phenomenon, and perhaps has wider scope. The urban tumble weave is the random tuft of hair that accumulates on sidewalks outside of nightclubs, probably the result of girl fights, and often in the vicinity of broken Hennessey bottles. Its existence is remarkably well documented. But only on rare occasions is one lucky enough to find an entire wig, i.e., an urban tumble wig. I present said wig here.

Carpal tunnel syndrome is marbles

I've spent most of my life belittling those claiming silly injuries like carpal tunnel syndrome, but I think I'm becoming a believer. Whatever this is, it freaking hurts. It especially hurts when I type. It hurts even more when I type about how much it hurts to type. And the only thing that hurts worse than typing about how much it hurts is typing an inane blog entry about typing about how much it hurts to type.

It's devastating when forces of nature completely beyond my control conspire to make my life marginally more difficult.