Non-flagship Florida State University is considering a school for chiropractics (via Fark). Maybe too many of their football players couldn't hack the rigorous sociology curriculum? (Rimshot, anyone!) And I'd joke about how FSU is next going to open a school to study crop circles, but their own professors already beat me to it.
Compared to this, I'll gladly suffer my alma mater doing a little sasquatch research.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
At least she's still stacked
Just not as much in the financial sense of the word.
One of my best Halloween costumes ever: J. Howard Marshall, with the girlfriend of the time as Anna Nicole. The biomedical waste bag and urinary catheter taped to my waist really completed the outfit.
One of my best Halloween costumes ever: J. Howard Marshall, with the girlfriend of the time as Anna Nicole. The biomedical waste bag and urinary catheter taped to my waist really completed the outfit.
Mission: Impressionable
I have, I think, a pretty modest goal for this place: To claim the number-one result in Google for the search term "alex wayne." (Current rank: #13.)
My opponents include:
Update (1/2/05): My feeble competition could not resist the overwhelming traffic, links and pure muscle of alexwayne.com for even a week. Ha!
My opponents include:
- Some hack.
- Two goofy dudes.
- A memorial. (Aside: I hope someone loves me enough to do something like this for me some day in the distant future. And I hope the author can avoid the terms "tsunami," "eaten" or "hemorrhagic fever."
- A dentist who not only insists on using his full middle name but also would be amazed that I can even eat given my horrible crossbite.
Update (1/2/05): My feeble competition could not resist the overwhelming traffic, links and pure muscle of alexwayne.com for even a week. Ha!
Changes
I've added a nifty Sitemeter, and, after a dozen attempts or so, seem to have gotten HaloScan to stick. I'm not sure what it's for exactly, but all the cool kids are doing it. Sorry about the unintentional deletion of comments -- even the weird ones.
Any common blogger tools I'm missing?
Update: My first technical issue. Joy. There seem to be considerable differences between the depictions of this site in Explorer and Firefox, possibly thanks to HaloScan. I'll work on it later.
Double update: HaloScan and Firefox seem to be playing nice. Sidebar rewritten; see bottom for legal niceties. Now for those permalinks...
Triple and, we hope, last update: Permalinks fixed. I think.
Any common blogger tools I'm missing?
Update: My first technical issue. Joy. There seem to be considerable differences between the depictions of this site in Explorer and Firefox, possibly thanks to HaloScan. I'll work on it later.
Double update: HaloScan and Firefox seem to be playing nice. Sidebar rewritten; see bottom for legal niceties. Now for those permalinks...
Triple and, we hope, last update: Permalinks fixed. I think.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Mother Nature's a wicked bitch
Let's get this out of the way right up front: I feel really, really bad for the xx-thousands of families who lost people in the Indian Ocean tsunami. A tragedy of epic proportions.
But if my sympathy sounds a little perfunctory to you, then you might know me too well. Because good Lord help me, I love a natural disaster.
Volcanoes, earthquakes, asteroids -- hell, even hurricanes ravaging my home state and threatening my family. I can't get enough. I'm like an idiot buying tickets to a Jerry Bruckheimer movie -- again and again and again.
This particular disaster has resulted in 50,000 deaths and counting, untold thousands of injuries, and billions of dollars in damages. Awful? Yes. Am I sympathetic? Sure. Really. Would I want it to happen to my family? No way. But is it totally awesome? You're damn right it is.
Let's be honest, folks. It's just us talking. And I say it is more than a just a little bit dazzling and humbling and awe-inspiring and -- hell, I'm gonna use the word -- entertaining when Mother Nature rears back and sucker-punches humanity. This is way different from 19 assholes flying planes into buildings, or untold thousands of deaths from a foreign war we might not support. If you die from an act of man -- well, that could have and probably should have been avoided, and that makes me angry. But this here is nature. When you die from an act of God -- well, mister, it was damn sure your time to go. No way around it, and no one to blame.
Update: A Sports Illustrated swimsuit model with whom I had a brief, torrid affair -- even if she wasn't actually, y'know, physically present for it -- survived the tsunami by clinging to a palm tree for eight hours. Man is that sexy. Her boyfriend, however, is missing. Her boyfriend is a 33-year-old British fashion photographer. I'm thinking the Devil may have just collected on a certain transaction. No hard feelings, chap -- I'd have happily made the same Nemcovian bargain.
Special update: I felt so guilty about having fun at the expense of more than 115,000 lives that I made a contribution -- albeit a small one -- to the Red Cross. Man do I feel better. And I'm officially Better Than You. Bonus!
But if my sympathy sounds a little perfunctory to you, then you might know me too well. Because good Lord help me, I love a natural disaster.
Volcanoes, earthquakes, asteroids -- hell, even hurricanes ravaging my home state and threatening my family. I can't get enough. I'm like an idiot buying tickets to a Jerry Bruckheimer movie -- again and again and again.
This particular disaster has resulted in 50,000 deaths and counting, untold thousands of injuries, and billions of dollars in damages. Awful? Yes. Am I sympathetic? Sure. Really. Would I want it to happen to my family? No way. But is it totally awesome? You're damn right it is.
Let's be honest, folks. It's just us talking. And I say it is more than a just a little bit dazzling and humbling and awe-inspiring and -- hell, I'm gonna use the word -- entertaining when Mother Nature rears back and sucker-punches humanity. This is way different from 19 assholes flying planes into buildings, or untold thousands of deaths from a foreign war we might not support. If you die from an act of man -- well, that could have and probably should have been avoided, and that makes me angry. But this here is nature. When you die from an act of God -- well, mister, it was damn sure your time to go. No way around it, and no one to blame.
Update: A Sports Illustrated swimsuit model with whom I had a brief, torrid affair -- even if she wasn't actually, y'know, physically present for it -- survived the tsunami by clinging to a palm tree for eight hours. Man is that sexy. Her boyfriend, however, is missing. Her boyfriend is a 33-year-old British fashion photographer. I'm thinking the Devil may have just collected on a certain transaction. No hard feelings, chap -- I'd have happily made the same Nemcovian bargain.
Special update: I felt so guilty about having fun at the expense of more than 115,000 lives that I made a contribution -- albeit a small one -- to the Red Cross. Man do I feel better. And I'm officially Better Than You. Bonus!
Monday, December 27, 2004
Are we still accredited?
My alma mater is researching Bigfoot (via Mr. Sun).
Now, I'll grant you that since my graduation, I've contributed not one penny -- other than some football-related purchases of scalped tickets, booze and tchotchkes -- toward the advancement of this fine institute of higher learning.
I have, however, dedicated much of my spare time -- at least during football season -- toward ridiculing and rooting against the non-flagship "university" found in Tallahassee. The premise has always been that it is a lesser college.
You're putting me on shaky ground here, UF.
Now, I'll grant you that since my graduation, I've contributed not one penny -- other than some football-related purchases of scalped tickets, booze and tchotchkes -- toward the advancement of this fine institute of higher learning.
I have, however, dedicated much of my spare time -- at least during football season -- toward ridiculing and rooting against the non-flagship "university" found in Tallahassee. The premise has always been that it is a lesser college.
You're putting me on shaky ground here, UF.
I'm your huckleberry
This being the holidays, and me being not working, I've watched the movie Tombstone twice in the past 72 hours or so. And I have one question: How did Val Kilmer not win an Oscar?
Also, there's not much better than Hot Older Women, and they don't come a lot hotter than Dana DeLaney. Google her yourself, pervs -- Lord knows I've about worn out my popup blocker.
Also, there's not much better than Hot Older Women, and they don't come a lot hotter than Dana DeLaney. Google her yourself, pervs -- Lord knows I've about worn out my popup blocker.
Yuppy goodness
So the woman I'm dating and I have this running joke about avoiding hellish yuppie chain restaurants like The Cheesecake Factory. (True story: at one intersection in Arlington, Virginia you can find, caddycorner to each other: a The Cheesecake Factory; a Pottery Barn; a Crate and Barrel; and a Whole Foods Market. Yes, of course there's a Starbucks next door. Every time I drive by I'm struck by this creepy impulse to buy a minivan, a cardigan sweater and a riding lawnmower.)
Anyway, I come home Sunday night from a long day of drinking, flying, drinking, football and more drinking, and what's waiting on my doorstep but a large styrofoam box from The Cheesecake Factory.
It's addressed to the girl who apparently used to live in my apartment. I get her mail all the time. There's a mailing slip, and so I open it. Inside the box, the slip says, is a 10-inch Oreo cheesecake. Courtesy of some company that I presume the girl work(ed?)s for.
What to do. I could have, I suppose, written "Return to Sender" on the top of the box and lugged it down to the post office this morning. But for one, I'm just not that nice. For another, I love cheesecake. For yet another, I was pretty drunk.
So as it turns out, there are two morals to this tale. One, this is some goddamn good cheesecake.
And two, always send in that change-of-address form. I'm talking to you, Andree Louapre, wherever you are.
Anyway, I come home Sunday night from a long day of drinking, flying, drinking, football and more drinking, and what's waiting on my doorstep but a large styrofoam box from The Cheesecake Factory.
It's addressed to the girl who apparently used to live in my apartment. I get her mail all the time. There's a mailing slip, and so I open it. Inside the box, the slip says, is a 10-inch Oreo cheesecake. Courtesy of some company that I presume the girl work(ed?)s for.
What to do. I could have, I suppose, written "Return to Sender" on the top of the box and lugged it down to the post office this morning. But for one, I'm just not that nice. For another, I love cheesecake. For yet another, I was pretty drunk.
So as it turns out, there are two morals to this tale. One, this is some goddamn good cheesecake.
And two, always send in that change-of-address form. I'm talking to you, Andree Louapre, wherever you are.
Wordiness
I realize that blog posts are best done short and will strive for brevity in the future. Almost makes me regret criticizing Franzen for his 172-word sentence. Almost.
Recommended reading, vol. 1
As a child, I was a voracious reader. I repeatedly plowed through The Chronicles of Narnia, Battlefield Earth (yeah, the movie sucked, and Hubbard's a crackpot, but man the book kicked ass), Choose-Your-Own-Adventures, Judy Blume (who taught me everything I needed to know then or now about girls), the complete works of Tom Clancy ... pretty much anything that came over the transom and didn't smell of literature.
These days, I'm more of a voracious drinker. But when I happen across a good book -- a surprisingly good book -- I'm gonna plug it here. Most of them will be what's known as literature, or non-fiction, as fun stuff that everybody reads doesn't merit discussion here.
Today's selection is The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen. A Christmas present from the woman I'm dating, along with tickets to a live performance of The Graduate during which the star, Morgan Fairchild, apparently gets naked. (Man, do I love those Old Navy ads.) And yes, as a matter of fact I do know how to pick 'em. But I digress.
The Corrections, a definite work of literature, is a National Book Award winner from a couple years ago, so I'm way behind the curve on this one and most of you have already read it. But hey, I didn't read The Grapes of Wrath until a couple years ago either. You'd be sick, the great fiction I've never read.
First of all, some caveats. Franzen is a Yankee Asshole in the worst kind of way. You may remember him as the dude who didn't want Oprah to include his book in her book club because he didn't want it to be lumped together with some of the "popular" crap she's picked, or something. To be fair, he's not the only author I like who turns up his nose on "popular" fiction -- one of them even lives in my fine southern home town. You ask me, anything that gets people reading rather than watching TV -- especially if they're kids -- is a Good Thing.
But for Christ's sake, to turn your nose up on Oprah's book club ... only a Yankee Asshole would have misgivings about selling shitloads of books to housewives all across America. Yeah, he apologized, apparently profusely -- but still.
So Franzen is not my favorite guy, and so I went into this book with some misgivings. And by the time I got through the first page I was pretty sure my misgivings would be borne out. For instance, this sentence:
But this is literature, you say. And I say, okay, I'll allow that there are some instances in fiction when a 172-word sentence is merited. But you better goddamn well sell it to me, and Franzen doesn't do it here. Not to mention that the ringing bell that is the subject of this monstrous sentence is "the alarm bell of anxiety." Really.
It was also disconcerting, at first, that Franzen seemed to hold in contempt every one of his characters, their lives, and in particular the Midwest -- a sure sign of a Yankee Asshole author. Albert was an emotionally abusive father and husband. Enid was a ditzy, nagging, insufferable wife and mother. All of their kids were deeply flawed with no redeeming qualities. The Midwest is full of oblivious, fat suburbanites. I mean, doesn't someone in your story have to be a protagonist?
So by the end of the book, Franzen's dropped a lot more of those 150-word-plus sentences, and his characters are still mostly unlikeable. But it's also hilarious and totally engaging. And at the end, almost everyone, including the Midwest -- except this one particularly despicable Lambert child -- has been redeemed in satisfying fashion.
Recommended.
These days, I'm more of a voracious drinker. But when I happen across a good book -- a surprisingly good book -- I'm gonna plug it here. Most of them will be what's known as literature, or non-fiction, as fun stuff that everybody reads doesn't merit discussion here.
Today's selection is The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen. A Christmas present from the woman I'm dating, along with tickets to a live performance of The Graduate during which the star, Morgan Fairchild, apparently gets naked. (Man, do I love those Old Navy ads.) And yes, as a matter of fact I do know how to pick 'em. But I digress.
The Corrections, a definite work of literature, is a National Book Award winner from a couple years ago, so I'm way behind the curve on this one and most of you have already read it. But hey, I didn't read The Grapes of Wrath until a couple years ago either. You'd be sick, the great fiction I've never read.
First of all, some caveats. Franzen is a Yankee Asshole in the worst kind of way. You may remember him as the dude who didn't want Oprah to include his book in her book club because he didn't want it to be lumped together with some of the "popular" crap she's picked, or something. To be fair, he's not the only author I like who turns up his nose on "popular" fiction -- one of them even lives in my fine southern home town. You ask me, anything that gets people reading rather than watching TV -- especially if they're kids -- is a Good Thing.
But for Christ's sake, to turn your nose up on Oprah's book club ... only a Yankee Asshole would have misgivings about selling shitloads of books to housewives all across America. Yeah, he apologized, apparently profusely -- but still.
So Franzen is not my favorite guy, and so I went into this book with some misgivings. And by the time I got through the first page I was pretty sure my misgivings would be borne out. For instance, this sentence:
By now it had been ringing for so many hours that the Lamberts no longer heard the message of "bell ringing" but, as with any sound that continues for so long that you have the leisure to learn its component sounds (as with any word you stare at until it resolves itself into a string of dead letters), instead heard a clapper rapidly striking a metallic resonator, not a pure tone but a granular sequence of percussions with a keening overlay of overontes; ringing for so many days that it simply blended into the background except at certain early-morning hours when one or the other of them awoke in a sweat and realized that a bell had been ringing in their heads for as long as they could remember; ringing for so many months that the sound had given way to a kind of metasound whose rise and fall was not the beating of compression waves but the much, much slower waxing and waning of their consciousness [inexplicable Italics Franzen's] of the sound.That there is a 172-word sentence. Wanna guess how many 172-word sentences I've written in my journalism career? Exactly ... hmm, carry the one ... zero. Why? Because no good newspaper reader wants to slog through a 172-word sentence.
But this is literature, you say. And I say, okay, I'll allow that there are some instances in fiction when a 172-word sentence is merited. But you better goddamn well sell it to me, and Franzen doesn't do it here. Not to mention that the ringing bell that is the subject of this monstrous sentence is "the alarm bell of anxiety." Really.
It was also disconcerting, at first, that Franzen seemed to hold in contempt every one of his characters, their lives, and in particular the Midwest -- a sure sign of a Yankee Asshole author. Albert was an emotionally abusive father and husband. Enid was a ditzy, nagging, insufferable wife and mother. All of their kids were deeply flawed with no redeeming qualities. The Midwest is full of oblivious, fat suburbanites. I mean, doesn't someone in your story have to be a protagonist?
So by the end of the book, Franzen's dropped a lot more of those 150-word-plus sentences, and his characters are still mostly unlikeable. But it's also hilarious and totally engaging. And at the end, almost everyone, including the Midwest -- except this one particularly despicable Lambert child -- has been redeemed in satisfying fashion.
Recommended.
The point
Here goes.
I'm Alex Wayne, and this is my blog. If you're reading this, you're probably a friend. Or you've just been Googling me. And if you've been Googling me, I hope you're an ex-girlfriend. That would be awesome.
Onward: A lot of this is probably going to be nonsense like the above. Most days I'll try to be funny. Some days I might write about something serious, like tsunami. If I'm writing about politics, I'm sticking to the facts as I know them. That's because I work in Washington politics, and as has been well documented, blogging has gotten some dumb Washington political types in trouble.
Blogging has also gotten some dumb journalist types in trouble. So as I mention in my profile (above, right), I'm just going to stay away from the whole area of my employer and people I write about. Unfortunately, that rules out a lot of people and stuff. Fortunately, lots of people already pay good money to read what I publish elsewhere, so I don't need you people and your eyeballs.
About this site: I've had alexwayne.com registered through Dotster for about a year now. Never done anything with it. But a lot of my friends and former co-workers and sources are blogging (see here, here, here and here), sometimes to amusing and even touching effect, and I'm paying $15 a year to register my name, and so.
I went through a couple names for this site, some of them pretty cool -- or so I thought until I Googled them and discovered that I'm not as clever as I think I am. So alex wayne it is. But note that it's in the most hip lower case, and should be cited as such when I inevitably break news here, Drudge style.
Some things will probably change around here, always without notice and maybe even dramatically. Like the look, for starters. Don't know too much HTML, so went with Blogger and this "minima" template, but I'm already finding things I don't like. I hear there are some better blog publication tools out there, and when I have the time and inclination, I'll figure out how to use 'em. (That means suggestions are welcome.)
Cheers,
I'm Alex Wayne, and this is my blog. If you're reading this, you're probably a friend. Or you've just been Googling me. And if you've been Googling me, I hope you're an ex-girlfriend. That would be awesome.
Onward: A lot of this is probably going to be nonsense like the above. Most days I'll try to be funny. Some days I might write about something serious, like tsunami. If I'm writing about politics, I'm sticking to the facts as I know them. That's because I work in Washington politics, and as has been well documented, blogging has gotten some dumb Washington political types in trouble.
Blogging has also gotten some dumb journalist types in trouble. So as I mention in my profile (above, right), I'm just going to stay away from the whole area of my employer and people I write about. Unfortunately, that rules out a lot of people and stuff. Fortunately, lots of people already pay good money to read what I publish elsewhere, so I don't need you people and your eyeballs.
About this site: I've had alexwayne.com registered through Dotster for about a year now. Never done anything with it. But a lot of my friends and former co-workers and sources are blogging (see here, here, here and here), sometimes to amusing and even touching effect, and I'm paying $15 a year to register my name, and so.
I went through a couple names for this site, some of them pretty cool -- or so I thought until I Googled them and discovered that I'm not as clever as I think I am. So alex wayne it is. But note that it's in the most hip lower case, and should be cited as such when I inevitably break news here, Drudge style.
Some things will probably change around here, always without notice and maybe even dramatically. Like the look, for starters. Don't know too much HTML, so went with Blogger and this "minima" template, but I'm already finding things I don't like. I hear there are some better blog publication tools out there, and when I have the time and inclination, I'll figure out how to use 'em. (That means suggestions are welcome.)
Cheers,
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