I’ve always been a fan of corrections. I think my all-time fave is from the formerly-amusing, now rather sad Tatler, and being the oldest magazine in existence it has, over the years, had to issue some doozies.
I think my favorite was the one that apologized for “errors” in a celeb schooldays reminiscence…one that characterized two boys as the sons of a “Costa del Sol gangster” and who entered said celeb’s room greasing a baseball bat with Vaseline and yelling words to the effect of “Who’s first? Bend over!”
And who were actually named by said celeb. Said later apologetic and corrective celeb. Rupert Everett, I think? If so, a much more promising debut in fiction than his subsequent unendurable novel. Everett is at his best doing straightforwardly hallucinogenic nonfiction, as some of his work for VF proves.
In any case, one of my longtime favorite sites is Regret the Error, which publishes corrections with a particularly good eye for the amusing. Amusing crow-eating warms the bitter, shrivelled cockles of my heart, and so I am going to give you an example of their choice choices in the correction field.
A correction from The Orange County Register, Sept 23:
Cannabis is a synonym for marijuana. Because of a reporter’s error, the word was misspelled in an article on Page 15 of the News section in the Sept. 22 edition of the Register.
The original sentence:
The pot growers had tapped into an irrigation line for landscaping around the gated community of Stoneridge, and had rigged up a network of white, 3/4-inch PVC piping to grow the cannibals.
Ah, Japan. Land of the Rising Sun, the cherry blossom, mystical Mount Fuji, and blithely flaunted sexual perversions that would curl the toes of a back street dominatrix.
How I love you.
Yesterday I finally took a long-delayed trip around Japanprobe, and was not disappointed. There I found delights such as the lonelygirl15 of the East, the video blog of an inflatable sex doll’s day-to-day life in the booths (account now unaccountably suspended, whodathunkit?).
Among the gems to be found on the site was this, and for it I am truly grateful. Not that I own one. No, no, no, perish the thought.
Besides, I don’t have a credit card.
I remember with fondness the old Spy article about what Hollywood stars will get up to for money as long as they think none of their real fanbase will ever see it; Peter Fonda as an alien whose ejaculations are so powerful they blow the head off his partners comes to mind (so to speak). Yet, somehow, I suspect that this not-so-little beauty wasn’t exactly approved by the man whose image is being used to sell it to legions of Orientals of both sexes who rationalize, not without some justification, that this is as close as they’re ever gonna get to that cowboy from Thelma and Louise.
The possibility exists that the Metropolitan Police are way ahead of me on this one, but the possibility also exists that they do not read Fark in London and thus have no clue.
So to speak.
Situation: the Guardian reports that the British police are looking for a sexual predator who specializes in the attacks on the elderly. They’ve got DNA, and they’ve traced it to a black guy from the Windward Isles of the Caribbean, although no specific black guy.
“We believe there may be links down the generations between our suspect and countries of the Caribbean. We know the offender has periods of non-offending that may suggest he is not always in the UK.”
The majority of those targeted were in their 80s – the oldest was 93. Most of the victims were women, although police revealed yesterday that 10 of those burgled were elderly men, one of whom was sexually assaulted.
The first offence linked to the attacker was in 1990, the latest in February 2005, and there could be more victims who have not come forward. In some cases, detectives only found out from family members after the deaths of elderly relatives that they may have been attacked years earlier.
Sordid and nasty enough, but there’s more.
All of the victims were emotionally scarred, of course, as victims of rape and other sexual assaults always are, but some were physically severely injured as well, and at least one has died as a result of the injuries. The police are now trying to – get this – pluck at the shrivelled heartstrings of the perpetrator, in hopes that the guilt burden will force him to confess, perhaps by blinding him to the fact that a cop isn’t the same as a priest.
Detective Superintendent Simon Morgan said, “I would appeal to this man directly and say ‘Give yourself up. Your crimes have caused so much pain and misery to so many people. You know who you are. You know you need help. You know you have to stop’.”
Yeah. You know that’s gonna work.
Not to give up on the Oprah Strategy employed by the Brits, but I’d suggest trolling Fark once in awhile, because sometimes you can find some pretty useful stuff there.
Stuff like this:
A man convicted of trying to rape an 83-year-old woman was sentenced to eight lashes with a cat-o’-nine-tails, a punishment used by the British Navy in the 18th century and reinstated in the Bahamas 15 years ago.
Altulus Newbold, 34, was sentenced on Friday to 16 years in prison after being found guilty of burglary, attempted rape and causing harm…
Newbold was accused of breaking into a woman’s home on Cat Island in July 2004 and trying to have sexual intercourse with her. The woman told the court that she grabbed Newbold‘s genitals and “mashed” them. He bit her to make her let go and then fled the scene.
No thanks necessary. Although donations, particularly of chocolate, won’t be turned back.
Pretty sweet, eh?
It’s just not Halloween if you don’t freak a few wusses out. In fact, the little kiddies might feel a tad ripped off and bored (not that these are not their default emotions nowadays) if you don’t come up with something especially spooktacular for the big night.
My personal best was the time I went as Munch‘s painting The Scream (this was before it got stolen, so I was at no risk of being carted off mid-trick-or-treat by Interpol). It must be admitted that I didn’t, in fact, go anywhere, I just stayed home and handed out candy, but still, my costume did not go unnoticed.
For one thing, I know how to make an entrance. When the doorbell rang, I hid behind the door and dragged it open a crack. Then I crawled my surgical-gloved fingers over the edge and slowly drew it open, revealing my misshapen head (it was a MASK, smartass) and black-robed, slightly beefier than emaciated, but what can you do eh? body, clad in the abaya that my mother had brought back from Saudi.
I was a menacing figure.
So, no change there.
One wee Superman‘s knees gave out completely at the sight of me. If he hadn’t been holding his parents’ hands on both sides, he’d have hit the floor. As it was, he swung limply for a moment before skittering, crablike, away as I silently brandished KitKats, Goobers and Nerds.
Half the time the rugrats wouldn’t come near me and I ended up throwing it at them.
Anyway, I promised you a how-to lesson on making the coolest jack o’lantern ever. And I shall deliver, with the help of Ray, from Villafane Studios, which I found via Fark. God forbid I should teach you how to carve punkins like mine; they always look like the guy in the head-on collision who didn’t make it, and who had to be identified through DNA. So give thanks, here are your instructions for creating a far cooler, far gruesomier, jack o’lantern than I could ever make for you.
If you have yet to try and carve a pumpkin in a 3-D manner you need to. Its fun and everybody enjoys a cool pumpkin. Unfortunately they begin to rot less than a week after carving so be sure to take plenty of pictures. You can experiment with ways of preserving them but I find nothing works better than a nice photo. Some chefs that I have carved for put lemon juice on the faces to help slow down the natural molding process that will occur.
raincoaster 