Category Archives: Culture

PSA: “Sloppy Seconds With Opal Mehta” Fake Writing Contest

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Via Gawker. Ruth Shalit, Old Skool Cut 'n Paster!

Inspired by the need for quality plagiarism, the Morning News announces its “Sloppy Seconds With Opal Mehta” contest. This is not for the recreational copy-cat: using no less than five different books, your entry must total 750 words, none of which are your own. You may not plagiarize single words, but actual phrases, sentences, or passages, and all your material must be cited.

To remind them that this was “the moment ethics in writing died,” winners will have their story published on TMN and will receive a TMN mug, t-shirt, and a $500,000 two-book deal.

Steal This Book, and That Book, and That Book [TMN]

Classical Criticism: Football Edition

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The OdysseyThere are some few things in this world that remind me of the late Hunter S. Thompson. There are very few things indeed in this world that remind me both of Hunter S. Thompson and Homer's Odyssey. There is only ONE thing in this world that reminds me of Hunter S. Thompson, Homer's Odyssey, and that 300-pound bundle of muscle, fat, tattoos and leather who got on the bus and sat his wide, Harley-ridin' ass down beside my English professor, who happened to be reading The Iliad at the time and expecting the worst from his new seatmate, poked a chubby, dirty finger into my prof's Penguin paperback and chuckled, "Da Iliad! I love dat book! Rumble in Troy! Ah, man, war's all about chicks, eh? Fuckin' chicks, man."

This is that thing.

Carroll apologizes to Poseidon with burnt offering, three flocks of cattle, Reggie Bush shaped golden idol
May 1st, 2006

Los Angeles, Calif. – Taking his cue from Homer's Odyssey, University of Southern California head football coach Pete Carroll attempted to appease the legendary anger of Poseidon with an offer of burnt lamb, approximately seventy heads of cattle and an 8 ft. high statue of USC running back Reggie Bush made entirely from gold…

Few critics, however, are willing to predict what will happen even if Poseidon is satisfied.

"I am of the opinion that Carroll will eventually succeed in metaphorically returning home and triumphing over adversary," Addison said. "Much like [Alfred Lord] Tennyson's Ulysses, I see in him a man whose passion for life and exploration will never allow him full rest – and though he may now appear to be 'an idle king' he will inevitably seek to 'sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the western stars' by recruiting a class of twenty Scout and Rivals rated five star players. It seems obvious even to these British eyes that [Carroll] is a man determined 'to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'"

"Then again, much like Odysseus, he could opt to shoot everyone who so much as looked at Penelope the wrong way. I would probably expect a mixture of 'one equal temper of heroic hearts' and good old fashioned fairly indiscriminate slaying."

Homer...standup

Record oil prices bring organized crime!!!!!

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Oil Barrels, now sadly empty. Don't cry for me, Barcelona! 

From the Times of London, via their special correspondent in Barcelona. Seems that record oil prices have brought out the worst in some Russian gangsters, who are raiding, robbing, and reaping profits of up to $25 a barrel!

…at least 300,000 litres of one of Spain’s most valuable products were stolen. In the latest, thieves used saws at the weekend to cut pipes and siphon off 100,000 litres into lorries at El Olivo plant in Vilches, near Jaén, Andalusia.

Similar raids have been carried out in Málaga and Oil Can, don't cry for me, Barcelona!Córdoba. Police believe that the oil is diluted, bottled and sold elsewhere in Spain or sent to Japan or Russia…

Julián Logroño, the president of the co-operative, said: “It is incredible. It had to be the work of a well-organised gang…”

The Russian mafia sure loves its olive oil, eh?

PSA: May Day

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May Day! May Day! I'm Not Sure What Constitutes a Proper Celebration of Beltane Anymore!In memory of John Kenneth Galbraith, I suggest that everyone wear black on May 1, May Day, International Worker's Day.

If you want to hold ribbons and dance around a maypole too I suppose that's okay, but try to look dour while doing it, all right? And make them black ribbons, grosgrain if you have it, something matte. I'm really feeling the matte. And maybe you could sing something from the Bruce Cockburn songbook? "they call it democracy" would be perfect!

Here are the lyrics, ideal for happy, full-mourning maypole dancing on International Worker's Day, to commemorate the death of John Kenneth Galbraith:

Padded with power here they come
International loan sharks backed by the guns
Of market hungry military profiteers
Whose word is a swamp and whose brow is smeared
With the blood of the poorWho rob life of its quality
Who render rage a necessity
By turning countries into labour camps
Modern slavers in drag as champions of freedom

Sinister cynical instrument
Who makes the gun into a sacrament —
The only response to the deification
Of tyranny by so-called "developed" nations'
Idolatry of ideology

North South East West
Kill the best and buy the rest
It's just spend a buck to make a buck
You don't really give a flying fuck
About the people in misery

IMF dirty MF
Takes away everything it can get
Always making certain that there's one thing left
Keep them on the hook with insupportable debt

See the paid-off local bottom feeders
Passing themselves off as leaders
Kiss the ladies shake hands with the fellows
Open for business like a cheap bordello

And they call it democracy
And they call it democracy
And they call it democracy
And they call it democracy

See the loaded eyes of the children too
Trying to make the best of it the way kids do
One day you're going to rise from your habitual feast
To find yourself staring down the throat of the beast
They call the revolution

IMF dirty MF
Takes away everything it can get
Always making certain that there's one thing left
Keep them on the hook with insupportable debt

done like dinner

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Prison Food and GourmetsWell-done. There is no pleasure on Earth as satisfying as a well-made, much-needed meal, none! and here I speak from experience. How much? Nunyabidness, but more than enough.

I'm very fortunate to live in Vancouver, home of the greatest pleasure/dining dollar ratio on the planet (with the exception of the dining room of the Weltefaren Homestay…on Pulau Ai…in the Bandas…part of the Moluccas…in the eastern part of Indonesia…not far from Irian Jaya…they've stopped killing the Christians now…ran out…you see why I leave it off the list?). So when I have some cash jingling in my pocket – and God knows the amounts of cash I usually possess jingle rather than rustle, alas – I like to take myself out for a nice meal.

Certainly, I've had some crappy meals in my time, but most of them have been my own fault, rather than a restaurant's. Sure, there was the "Chicken Teri Yucky" in Honolulu, and I've gnawed my way through countless plates of rubbery, tasteless pasta at chain restaurants preferred by the sort of men I used to date. They always said they chose those restaurants because they liked to know what they were getting; as a comedienne once said, the difference between men and women is that when you take us out and you wonder what you're going to get later, we already know. And believe me, TGIFriday's isn't gonna help your cause. I'm not in the realms of the dinner whores, but it had better be at least as good as something I could have made myself, otherwise why would I put up with the ridiculous spaceship-themed drink menu and the oversize, overloud sports tv? Word to the wise: Eighties soft rock does not put us "in the mood." There's only so much Steve Perry can do for ya.

Where was I before I started ranting? Oh yeah, in utero.

Anyway…

I've had my share of craptastic meals on my own. They were largely, I am proud to say, not the result of cuilinary incompetence but rather the result of shall we say catastrophically limited menu options. Like, limited to what the Food Bank put in the bag that day. Just try and whip up something wonderful out of four frozen sweet potatos the size of your calves, a tin of anchovies, and a jar of garlic dills.

Actually the worst on paper wasn't too bad in action: I had heated and quickly snarfed a really quite decent can of beef stew, chock-full of meaty chunks. SCORE! Processed meat, of course, but then any protein that comes in a can is far from its original state; that's a given. I think it all comes from the same animal as acrylic fur; doesn't it live in Russia and Mongolia? But anyway, when you're Food Bank-dependent, any non-bean protein is like manna from heaven. And, curious, I picked up the can to read the calories per serving, for lo even the poor watch their weight. Couldn't find it. No nutritional info except ingredients. Odd. Then I noticed something down near the bottom of the can, a little banner trumpeting some benefits of the nutritional powerhouse that was said Beef Stew.

"Helps maintain a healthy coat."

Oh. Joy.

But I have to admit, it still tasted better than some of the things I've had in restaurants.

And on that note, it's time to throw in a link to the Top 50 Restaurants in the World.

Bon Appetit!