Morton Malaise

I put a couple new sets up on my Flickr page today. You may all view them at your leisure. Or don’t. Whatever. I would like to know the history behind the big red house, if anyone knows.

This article appeared on Techdirt today, and I know at least two readers who will have something to say about it:

GPS Will Now Tell You You’re In A ‘Bad’ Neighborhood
from the now-that’s-a-point-of-interest dept
While various GPS systems are competing to provide better, more interesting or more detailed “points of interest,” it appears that Honda is going even further. Its new GPS system will also warn drivers when they’re in a “bad neighborhood” where there’s a high crime rate, and where their cars may be more likely to be vandalized or stolen. Right now, the product is only targeted at the Japanese market, but it’s likely to eventually make it to the US. What will be worth watching is how communities respond if they’re listed in GPS systems as being bad neighborhoods. These days, such designations are usually made by random people — but having it in a GPS system (especially given how slavishly some listen to what their GPS tells them) may make it seem more “official.” While I can imagine some communities getting angry about the designation, some might try to improve their reputations, which could have a very positive end result. Of course, when talking about American communities, that’s probably not the case. They’ll probably just sue, claiming defamation.

Now, I’m not going to name any neighborhoods in Peoria, but, well…I guess the Bottoms in East Peoria could be included. And the area southeast of Dairy Queen in Morton is getting a bit scary.

Does anyone know a place in the Peoria/EP/Morton area to get kudzu root, in pill form or otherwise? I can’t seem to find it on the GNC website, which would lead me to believe it’s hard to come by.

This is another list from McSweeney’s. I think it fits quite well with the EB.

If Horton
Lived in My
Neighborhood.
BY WENDI AARONS

- – - -

Horton Hears a Leaf Blower

Horton Hears a Car Alarm

Horton Hears a Teenager, Who Apparently Doesn’t Believe in Car Mufflers, Driving Way Too Damn Fast

Horton Hears an Ambulance

Horton Hopes It’s for the Teenager

Horton Hears a Basketball Bouncing

Horton Always Hears a Basketball Bouncing

Horton Hears a Basketball Bouncing So Fucking Much That Horton Now Feels Like He’s Living in a Real-Life Version of Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”

Horton Hears an Inner Voice Telling Him to Grab the Basketball

Horton Hears a Middle-Aged Woman Sprinting Down the Street Desperately Clutching Onto the Basketball and Laughing Maniacally

Horton Hears the Basketball Being Angrily Stuffed Down the Neighborhood Storm Drain

Horton Hears Rumors of a Lawsuit

It has come to my attention that a certain someone may have avoided the Backyard Tire Fire show because they thought that I would be there, which I was. If this certain someone reads this, they should know that Eamon Patrick’s is a public venue, and just because I was there doesn’t mean you can’t be there. This certain someone should also let me know if they are going to be at Eamon’s tonight, because I was planning on stopping by but won’t if it will make said person uncomfortable in any way.

Unfortunately, it’s windy enough to blow the clothes off my back. Pfft.

There comes a time when we all have to hit the Reset Button.
There comes a time when the rivers cried for the Death of the American Dream dry up.
There comes a time when we all have to stand up as human beings, and decide that none of this bullshit is worth a God damned thing.
There comes a day when the air is so warm and thick that the entirety of our respiratory fills with this pure hot air, and we stare down the banks of our respective rivers and realize that all we can do is be the best person we know how to be.
There comes a day when all of Mankind has to grab onto this little, frail branch that we all spend our entire lives searching for, pull ourselves off our knees, and quit our fucking whining. At the end, when all the bombs have fallen, and all our tears and words have rushed through the floodplains like a hard West Texas rain, we’ve got to say ENOUGH.

You, me, all of us, have sat in a chair, or stood somewhere, when it all becomes clear. The entire irony of it is, we’re all so fucking scared to admit that we’ve hit this moment of frailty. You all know when you hit it. The time when you stare across the horizon, smell the air, and the tears well up. Maybe you’re sitting on the Illinois River, maybe you’re sitting on a canal in South Florida, maybe you’re in an above-ground pool in the middle of Forgotten Upper Central Illinois when the moon and the water and the joyous voices of the people around you hit just right.

There’s no place we’ve created that stands for anything truly real, for fear of everyone else discovering our fright or uncertainty.
Everyone has “My Position” and “My Politics”. Why the fuck are we so God damned afraid that we’re all the same species, and we’re all on the same spiral into the singularity that we’ve created?

I don’t have the answer. Nor do any of the men and women amongst whom I live. After all the syntax and diction and clever phrases and sarcasm we all create, it’s still so petty. All of our Fathers and Mothers, all of the sights and smells, all of the rivers of words that make all of us feel so separate from the stench and the glare of our cities and the sounds of the music we call our own, still there stands a compromise we just can’t find.

I really don’t know what I’m trying to say. I just know that there has to be a Reset Button. There has to be a place that, as Mankind, we can meet in the middle. And that’s what scares the Living Shit out of me.

Ever wake up in the morning, realize you really can’t stand any of the people you work with and dread getting to work, then sit among them all day thinking how much better burning to death would be than listening to them talk about all the retarded shit they talk about?

Me too.

I came home from the Backyard Tire Fire show at 330 this morning, walked in the door, turned on the television, and saw that the Grapes of Wrath, one of my top 3 or 5 favorite movies ever, was on Cinemax 5. So much for a good night’s sleep.

Oh, and Ang, Mindy found me. The backwards hat gave me away.

The wonderful Jen has challenged me to write an autobiography in 6 words or less. A few things come immediately to mind:

“Happy? Drink! Sad? Drink! Bored? Drink!”

“What the Fuck is Going On?”

“Jesus Christ, What a Fucking Mess.”