CHULIUS CAESAR

Quitter

2007-08-28T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am now officially a grad school dropout.

I've lived in DC for six years. I've had two internships and two real jobs. I'm halfway through a masters program at Georgetown University.

Naturally, I've changed quite a bit since I first arrived, wet behind the ears and right out of college, naive to the cruel ways of the real world. I'm older, heavier, even more cynical than I was before, been married to the same woman in two ceremonies on as many continents, made new friends and lost touch with old ones.

Things I've learned:
-The political class of this country consists of two kinds of people: those who read Orwell's 1984 and thought to themselves, "You know, that Newspeak's not a bad idea," and those who rail against the first group and are listened to by practically no one.
-I hate, HATE, being told what to do and how to do it.
-What to look for when you're interviewing someone.
-I perform best when doing a multitude of things during the day, not doing one thing all the time.
-A Chulius without a creative outlet is an unpleasant Chulius.
-Working full time and going to school at night part time sucks ass.
-Republicans love to cruise public restrooms for dick.

After much careful thought, I've decided that my future is going to take me away from here at some point in the relatively near future. Money need be saved, stock taken, and then it's off to do my own (as yet, undecided) thing before I dig myself deeper into student loan debt for a degree I don't want and really can't imagine myself using.

So, adios, G'town. I can't really say it's been fun.

The Worst Enemy

2007-01-24T20:33:00.000-08:00

Ryszard Kapuscinski, in my opinion one of the greatest journalists of the 20th Century, died yesterday at the age of 74. His writing and reporting, usually about subjects and places that the West had little interest in, revealed much about the human condition, about the ways that people survive hardships and war. That his works maintain such impact even when translated from the original speaks to his skill.

I recommend his works to everyone. I've read both The Soccer War and Another Day of Life, and both are truly incredible. For anyone who's interested, I've included a passage from The Soccer War below.

SILENCE. People who write history devote too much attention to so-called events heard round the world, while neglecting the periods of silence. This neglect reveals the absence of that infallible intuition that every mother has when her child falls suddenly silent in its room. A mother knows that this silence signifies something bad. That the silence is hiding something. She runs to intervene because she can feel evil hanging in the air. Silence fulfills the same role in history and politics. Silence is a signal of unhappiness and, often, of crime. It is the same sort of political instrument as the chatter of weapons or a speech at a rally. Silence is necessary to tyrants and occupiers, who take pains to have their actions accompanied by quiet. Look at how colonialism has always fostered silence; at how discreetly the Holy Inquisition functioned...

Today one hears of noise pollution, but silence pollution is worse. Noise pollution affects the nerves; silence pollution is a matter of human lives. No one defends the maker of a loud noise, whereas those who establish silence in their own states are protected by an apparatus of repression. That is why the battle against silence is so difficult.

Mischief

2006-10-26T11:48:00.000-07:00

The Samness explains all.

--AZ-Sen: Jon Kyl

--AZ-01: Rick Renzi

--AZ-05: J.D. Hayworth

--CA-04: John Doolittle

--CA-11: Richard Pombo

--CA-50: Brian Bilbray

--CO-04: Marilyn Musgrave

--CO-05: Doug Lamborn

--CO-07: Rick O'Donnell

--CT-04: Christopher Shays

--FL-13: Vernon Buchanan

--FL-16: Joe Negron

--FL-22: Clay Shaw

--ID-01: Bill Sali

--IL-06: Peter Roskam

--IL-10: Mark Kirk

--IL-14: Dennis Hastert

--IN-02: Chris Chocola

--IN-08: John Hostettler

--IA-01: Mike Whalen

--KS-02: Jim Ryun

--KY-03: Anne Northup

--KY-04: Geoff Davis

--MD-Sen: Michael Steele

--MN-01: Gil Gutknecht

--MN-06: Michele Bachmann

--MO-Sen: Jim Talent

--MT-Sen: Conrad Burns

--NV-03: Jon Porter

--NH-02: Charlie Bass

--NJ-07: Mike Ferguson

--NM-01: Heather Wilson

--NY-03: Peter King

--NY-20: John Sweeney

--NY-26: Tom Reynolds

--NY-29: Randy Kuhl

--NC-08: Robin Hayes

--NC-11: Charles Taylor

--OH-01: Steve Chabot

--OH-02: Jean Schmidt

--OH-15: Deborah Pryce

--OH-18: Joy Padgett

--PA-04: Melissa Hart

--PA-07: Curt Weldon

--PA-08: Mike Fitzpatrick

--PA-10: Don Sherwood

--RI-Sen: Lincoln Chafee

--TN-Sen: Bob Corker

--VA-Sen: George Allen

--VA-10: Frank Wolf

--WA-Sen: Mike McGavick

--WA-08: Dave Reichert

I just hope he doesn't tell his fans to kill me

2005-11-02T17:49:00.000-08:00

The power of Warren Ellis is truly awe-inspiring. Or is it the power of Katie West?

There's only one way to settle it, of course, and this way involves high voltage electrical cables, Tabasco, a `68 Mustang fastback (forest green), and a special edition copy of Visitor Q. Time and place to be announced.

(Some links not necessarily sfw)

Back after a long hiatus

2005-10-20T22:49:00.000-07:00

L8r Sk8r
Originally uploaded by Chulius Caesar.

So, now I'm married. NonScarlett GF is now officially NonScarlett Wife. It was a really nice ceremony, family and friends were in abundance, the food looked pretty good. There's so much to report, I hardly know where to start.

Jackie the Mick fulfilled his duties as best man with aplomb. Aplomb I say. If ever you're in need of someone to throw you a batchelor party, I can certainly recommend you ask him to be your best man.

Alas, there has been and likely will not be any honeymoon, at least for the foreseeable future. Back to work and school for me, and the missus has to play Suzie Homemaker until the federal government decides it's okay for her to work.

There will be another post in the near future, with further details once they return to my scattered little brain.

Oh, we also got a BIG ASS TV. And you didn't.

The Time For Retardation Has Passed

2005-09-01T18:45:00.000-07:00

Antennae
Originally uploaded by Chulius Caesar.

Enough time has elapsed that I am now able to post the pictures from my most recent sojourn to the Old World on the old flickr. Sally forth and enjoy.

So I was watching "Fellowship of the Ring" again...

2005-08-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

and it gets to the point where Frodo's been stabbed by the badasses in black and he's all "ooh I'm hurt wahwahwah" and then Liv Tyler comes along and runs away (like a girl, natch) with the wee one. She's looking foxy in her elf-ears and semi-transparent clothes and a light goes off in my head. Wasn't she pregnant recently? And didn't she say that she'd pose naked after she had the baby? The answers, of course, are yes and yes.

Time to pay the piper, sweetheart.

Moving along...

Not a whole lot up with your beloved Imperator. I had gradschool orientation a few days ago. And it felt really, really weird. It's been four years since I was in school, and a lot of the people in my program are of the super-motivated variety. As most of you know, I am not one of those people. Then they start sounding off about how they went to Columbia and Stanford and so on. And then I feel like someone with a blazer is going to take me aside (they always wear blazers...fuckers) and say: "Mr. Caesar, I'm sure you understand we find this very embarassing, but it seems there's been a bit of a mistake. You actually should not be here and I'm afraid these two burly gentlemen with barcodes tattoed on their necks will have to 'escort' you off the property. Oh, and we're keeping your money too. Ta!" That feeling makes me want to set something on fire.

The day of my wedding approaches evermore close. That's a bright light in an otherwise pretty dim corner of the world. NonScarlett GF will arrive in all her glory, goats will be sacrificied, and linens will be bought. Speaking of linens, should anyone be of a mind to buy something as a contribution to NonScarlett GF's dowry, may I suggest something from here (bwo boing boing). I haven't passed this by the future missus yet, but I have a feeling she'd approve. And that feeling also makes me want to set something on fire.

Revisiting this earlier post: Fox has fucked me again. Not only do they have a show starring Carrot Top's less endearing cousin, they moved the best program to grace broadcast television in many many years to Monday night. Why is that so bad? Because Monday night is the ONLY NIGHT OF THE WEEK I HAVE CLASS. Maybe the memo about the world stopping and starting at my convenience got lost. But you and I know that's not what happened. Rupert Murdoch thinks I'll just bend over and take it like a prag in gen-pop. That's why I'm saying this now: I'll see you in Thunderdome, motherfucker. You know the rule. Two men enter, one man leaves. Seriously, I need to get tivo or something.

And Natalie Portman has a mohawk. She hasn't been this hot since she was ten years old. As Dennis Leary said, "I'm going to hell for that bit...and you're all coming with me."

Finally, here's a few bits of goodness from screenhead:

Commercial adveritizing as it should be.
A LOTR remix that one could put on European radio and absolutely no one on the continent would think you are making a joke.
Finally, a flash-animation retelling of Star Wars Episode IV. Words can't accurately describe this one, but suffice it to say I have a huge kill-boner right now.

That is all.

I find your lack of deodorant disturbing

2005-08-09T20:12:00.000-07:00

It's now a week since I returned from the Old World. I had a very nice time, to say the least, in various Germanic and Slavic countries with NonScarlett GF. I got twelve stamps in my passport, which makes me much more excited than it should. And I've been to a hot spring in Hungary, a first for me.

I can say without reservation Hungarian is the strangest language I've ever heard. Normally, when I go to a country that doesn't speak English like God intended, there are at least a few words that are familiar. Not so in Hungary. Even pronunciation is a complete mystery. For example, we passed through a village that the sign describes as "Becsehely Ujmajor" (with a peculiar umlaut or two thrown in). Now, to my mind, that would probably be pronounced "betchyahelly oomayor" or something. However, I can guarantee you it is not. It probably sounds like "reginald weatherbottom the third." You think I'm joking.

Another thing I noticed: Hungarians tend to be, shall we say, a stocky people. Not fat, just... broad.

Otherwise, most of our time was spent with NonScarlett GF's folks in North Croatia. No trips to the coast this year, so no eurotitties to be seen. However, a few young lasses at the previously mentioned hot spring were wearing thongs, so that was okay. They didn't really have the goods to pull off that particular piece of swimwear, but "A" for effort.

Soon after I got back, I posted pics from the trip to my flickr page. In my infinite wisdom, I posted the highest resolution pictures I could, and since I have a free account, that totaled five. In an attempt to fortify these meager photographic scraps, I deleted the huge pictures, hoping to replace them with a larger quantity of relatively smaller pictures. Alas, it was not to be. Once you've maxed out your free monthly uploads, they're gone for good. So now there's one picture from the trip on there, and the rest will have to wait. But next month, oh the wonders you will see! They include the pizzeria of the DEVIL and a town called "bitch."

I suppose the big news is that sometime next month NonScarlett GF is coming to our United States so that she and I can be married on the first of October. So if any of you think you really deserve an invitation, send the relevant details to the e-mail address in the blogger profile.

And many belated congratulations and salutations to Briantologist and his special lady friend on their new addition. I hear they go great with barbecue sauce.

I'm not a stabbin' hobo, I'm a singin' hobo

2005-07-10T21:36:00.000-07:00

I've been pretty busy lately, so this post is going to be more a random collection of things than a coherent bit of prose.

For those who haven't been to my flickr lately, or indeed, ever, photos from NonScarlett GF's recent trip to Croatia with her amiga Braun Bear are up. Two cute girls, ancient architecture, and brides of Christ: there's something for everyone.

Since I don't have cable, my Sunday night viewing habits are pretty restricted. Usually, the Fox network is my salvation. However, tonight was the premiere of the Douchebags of Malibu. Jesus H. Christ. Where are the fucking Jacobins when you need them? Never was Arrested Development missed so acutely. And are the masses clamoring for a family-based situation comedy with Michael Rapaport as the star? I hope not.

I hate Michael Rapaport soooooooooooooo much.

The saving grace of tonight's Fox line-up was the full hour of the Family Guy. Oh man. Stewie's monologue about the nature of fratboydom was Socratic in its clarity and beauty. And I have a feeling I'm in the minority in this opinion, but I thought the ipecac contest between Peter, Brian, Stewie, and Chris was one of the funniest animated sequences I've seen in a while.

I'm almost finished with Accelerando by Charles Stross. It's really good scifi. It's also available as a free download. So, if you are a nerd and/or just don't like to pay for books (like some people I could name) you should check it out.

The Island. I'm not sure what to think, to be honest. The Logan's Run-meets-Matrix premise doesn't exactly knock me over. And it's PG-13, indicating that neither my celebrity exemption nor Mr. MacGregor will be putting the goods on display for either the fellas or the ladies, respectively. I guess I'm saying it looks like a pass. So apparently I do know what to think.

I don't know if Natalie Portman is still bald or not, but for this commentator's money, she's pretty hot when she is.

To continue on with this theme: if these pictures are indicative of the future arc of Cyborg Squirrel's career, then he will do very well. All that practice molesting developmentally challenged children really paid off.

Oh, the Sleater Kinney show I mentioned a while back? Fucking awesome. How awesome was it? During the encore, they did a cover of "Mother" by Danzig, that's how awesome it was. And Carrie Brownstein can thrash like nobody's business. I've got a total guy-groupie crush on her. Had I been wearing underwear, I might've thrown them at her.

Enough of my jibber-jabber.

L8r.

mmmm.

2005-06-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

headshot
Originally uploaded by Chulius Caesar.

I was inspired by the folks at preshrunk. I have taken pictures of all my t-shirts. They're mostly either band shirts or shirts from Chuy's in Houston. Go forth and enjoy.

They are shitty pictures. You have been forewarned.

I have not forsaken thee

2005-06-19T22:00:00.000-07:00

Don't worry my pretties. I'll think of something to say eventually.

You mean I'm gonna STAY this color???

2005-05-23T21:53:00.000-07:00

I have a ticket to the Sleater-Kinney show next month. Many many many thanks to DCeiver for bringing this to my attention. Your kung fu is mighty. I let several other people know about the show, but apparently they'd all rather stay in Virginia listening to their Randy Travis cassettes than come to the big scary city and rock out with their cocks out. Fair enough.

As most of you know, I am recently returned from the state north of Louisiana and all the activities therein. Foremost amongst said activities was the Annual Imperial Crawfish Boil, which was delicious as always. It was also Roscoe the Furious Mick's christening in the cayenne-soaked ways of his swarthy semi-Latin uncle's people, Les Acadiens.

Please note the bitchin' kicks Roscoe is sportin', courtesy of his Uncle Chulius.

Something Jackie said during today's e-mail correspondence caused me to google my old roommate Brady, and what should I discover? His blog. Investigating a bit further and I find the blog coauthored by, among others, his loving wife Mary and his former lead singer John Murry. Since our time together, Brady has moved to Los Angeles, where apparently he spends a lot of time being rescued by transvestites. And John Murry has a daughter, so many congratulations and best wishes to him and his.

This is the part where Don Chulius gets a bit emo, so if you don't care to see me this way it's best you go back to looking for the porn you so desperately crave...

The combination of hanging out with the homies last weekend and finding my old roomie's blog today has given rise to my more melancholic humours. I'm thinking back to my days in Memphis where I had an appartment twice the size of the one I'm in now at half the rent, my lady friend was a hop skip and a jump away, and my best friends weren't at least a fourteen hour drive distant.

Don't get me wrong: I loves me the DC. Having spent my formative years in the Hole on the Border, any place with somewhat functional mass transit seems wondrous and magical to my bumpkin-like eyes. "I'm just a caveman..." and all that. I'm probably engaging in some level of romanticizing the past, I suppose. Memphis was a fun place to be most of the time and I miss it. But I don't miss it enough to give up the line of work I enjoy and wouldn't be able to pursue were I there. So, as Robert Plant said, "Nobody's fault but mine." Actually, some old bluesman probably said it first and Plant later stole it, if Zep's similar opa are any guide, but so it goes.

Alright, enough of that business.

Here: here's a link to some titties. And one for some guns.

There. I feel better.

Please excuse me while I go slaughter some Christians as "minnows" nible at my loins.

Babylon's burnin', y'all.

imageshack (is ghey)

Cover your balls, `cause We know kung fu

2005-04-16T23:05:00.000-07:00

Hello hello, one and all. Things have been a bit busy for me the past week and a half or so. I'm actually getting to carry some water around the workplace, which is interesting. Maybe one day I'll even get a cost-of-living increase to my paycheck. Who knows? We can dream.

Big happy fun time news: I went to the first MLB game played in DC in 34 years. One of the veeps where I work was kind enough to share one of his season tickets. It was quite a good game, the hometeam won 5-3, and with their win tonight remain uncontested #1 in the National Leage-East. Cheerio and all that.

Here's what the game looked like from where I was sitting:

Not bad, eh? First row of the deck, directly behind home plate.

The Prez-o-dent threw out the ceremonial first pitch. A fair number of those in the bleachers were booing, the guy behind me especially. From where I was sitting I could see the presidential box, and who should be observing our national pasttime but one of the filiae casae blancae. Yes, ladies and gents, Jenna. She did no butt-dancing as far as I could see, but I must admit, I'd poke `er. You know you would too.

I hope you remember kids: This is what Cyborg Squirrel looks like.

And Czech girls love sausage.

Last but not least: I am going to hell for linking to this. And you're all coming with me.

imageshack blah blah blah

Lollipop

2005-04-06T11:30:00.000-07:00

Who loves ya, baby?

Diatribe

2005-04-04T21:35:00.000-07:00

Springtime in la District. One of the two times of the year this city is a bearable place to be, climatologically speaking. The warm, yet not too warm, sun shines bright. A cool breeze from the northwest blows gently by. Trees bud, flowers bloom. The cuts of the ladies' blouses get lower and the hemlines get higher. The dudes are by and large still the same khaki-pantsed buttondowns they always are, but for a time it's forgivable. ("Dude, where we going tonight? McFaddens? Oh, fuck yeah. They let chicks dance on the bar for like two whole songs! Wha? Oh ya know it's gotta be Brooks Bros, bra! Gotta look fierce for the ladiez." Definitely the only place I've ever been where chinos and a buttoncollar dress shirt are considered the uniform for a night on the town. But I digress...) Birds sing, windows open, people are out and about. The city is utopian, bucolic, even the suburbs become bearable for a fleeting instant.

Then the idyll is shattered by the arrival of the tourorists.

Matching t-shirts, white sneakers, ambling along and wondering why the McDonalds don't have drivethroughs (I shit you not). To quote DCeiver: "They'll waddle up to the FareCard machines, and you can see their flyover brains erupt in a Ring of Fire stop-error as they collapse puddling like in a ridiculous display of melodrama and confusion."

I'm not pointing any fingers but people like him and him get a rise out of misdirecting our more centrally-located bretheren. Because I love my people, Our Imperial Majesty is not so callous. If I'm outside, partaking of the love the RJ Reynolds company shares with me, and I'm interrupted with an "excuse me, but could you tell me..." or a "pardon me" and our interchange concludes with a "thank you," then I'll do my best to get you where you're going. I like to travel. Travel to cities. And invariably at some point I get lost, so the help of a kindly native is always appreciated. Golden Rule and all that bullshit.

HOWEVER, if I even get a whiff of a "you owe it to me for some reason to give me all the information I should've gotten myself before I left the hotel" kinda vibe, in the very near future your ass is gonna be reading a sign that says:

Welcome to Prince Georges County...hope you brought a lot of ammunition

Just because I live in DC don't mean I work for you, motherfucker. Take a look around. Your tax dollars ain't payin' for shit.

Ahhhhh, that was refreshing.

Here's something else refreshing (by way of Warren Ellis) : The Perry Bible Fellowship. Must be seen to be believed. "This has been a blessed day, brother. We are truly free now that father is dead."

One last thought for all making their way to Districtus Columbianus. When you're on the Metro escalators, musing on how this whole concept of "mass transit" is a communist plot on par with fluoridation of drinking water and how it makes Baby Jesus cry, stand to the fucking right. We're coming for your fat ass. Just you wait. Some ex-linebacker lobbyist typing away on a Blackberry is gonna connect like a freight train and knock your ass clear from 19th Street to the platform, and believe you me, that's a long way to fall.

You have been warned.

Bow to your sensei BOW TO YOUR SENSEI

2005-03-29T22:11:00.000-08:00

I thought I was going to be out having a cold one or two with Cyborgsquirrel right now. Apparently, I thought wrong. That's alright though. I'm still going to help him comply with the court order he received that requires him to post this picture as many places as is humanly possible. Said court order was prompted by the conflagration of a shortbus, a secluded park, and a "bathing suit area." I'll let you paint your own picture.

The government of my fine city says I owe them several hundred dollars. Naturally, the DC bureaucracy, gold standard of efficiency and paragon of precision that it is, is absolutely fucking wrong. And I have the cleared checks to prove it. Repeated calls to the examiner assigned to my case: unanswered. Repeated calls to the examiner's supervisor: unanswered. This year's tax refund: applied towards the money that I don't owe. No wonder everyone moves to Virginia. At least there you can pack twice the heat when you go to the Office of Tax and Revenue to discuss your case.

This picture of FJ has been driving me absolutely fucking insane. I know, I KNOW that she looks exactly like a specific actress or model or subject of a painting or curiously shaped rock formation or something that I have seen sometime in my life. I just cannot for the life of me figure out who/what it is I'm thinking of. My initial response, that it was somehow related to film classic The Ice Pirates, turned out to be inaccurate. Although to answer FJ's question, Robert Ulrich was not the only A-lister in the film: Anjelica Huston also made a major contribution. But you don't look like her either.

How about some music? You like music, don't you? Thought so. This song has been in heavy rotation in the Chulius' juke. This one's damn good too. One of them's a bit dirty, but it's still nothing compared to this. All links ripped straight from webjay, just so you know.

That's it for me, I guess. Before I leave, I want to make sure you remember: shortbus + park + bad touch = cyborgsquirrel.

"N" is for Neville, who died of ennui.

2005-03-08T15:29:00.000-08:00

A boring day at the broom factory for your beloved emperor. There are all of three people in the office today, including me. Can I go home, there being so little to do? Oh, what folly that would be. So, here I am, updating my shrine to narcissism.

If you'll direct your attention to your left, you'll see that a number of links have been added and/or updated. High on the list is the blog of comedian Patton Oswalt (of "King of Queens" fame). One post of his in particular much of my readership will identify with. It has to do with his stay in Charleston, West Virginia, and the large number of meth kitchens exploding as reported by the local news. Having spent some formative years in West-Northwestern Arkansas, this is a very familiar phenomenon. He also makes one of the best analyses of the condition of our great unstoppable nation I've seen so far:

It's weird—I feel like me and my friends have been mockingly lip-synching to Kelly Clarkson, showing each other how hip and above it we are, while outside the whole country turned into one giant meth lab, run by people who believe in angels.

Also new is The Superficial (the content of which is occasionally not safe for the working). Mr. Superficial is basically the male (and hetero, far as I can tell) equivalent of the ladies at go fug yourself. The evidence I cite is this: he is my competition for the hand of Miss Scarlett Johansson. I see a cage match to the death sometime in our future. As happens so often, a quote from Christopher Lambert is appropriate: "There can be only one."

Warren Ellis once again offers something extremely disturbing.

In local news:

The Washington Post has been running commercials featuring resident Washingtonians talking about their favorite parts of the newspaper. In one, there is a slightly pudgy man with very suspect facial hair who LOVES the obituaries. Like, wants to marry them. I'm puzzled as to why the Post thought that this person, with his latent necrophilia, would entice people to purchase their periodical.

Alliteration is fun.

More fun facts: almost everyday, as I'm walking towards the Metro on my way home, I pass by a middle-aged Latino gentleman with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. I had thought that Hitler had put the kibosh on the moustachaplin as a fashion option, but I guess I was wrong.

Ode to the Umlaut

2005-02-27T20:36:00.000-08:00

I just recently returned from a visit to Non-Scarlett GF's residence in Germany. Everything was nice (except for the weather) and the old socialist-democratic system of governance is sputtering along. So, yay for them.

The visit did remind me how much I wish the English language had embraced the umlaut (Ä, Ö, and Ü) back in its formative days. As of now, the only real examples of umlaut usage in our collective mother tongue are "Motörhead" and "Crüe." This is a damn shame. Let us all embrace the double-dotted wonder that is the umlaut.

I must emphasize, however, that I am not advocating that we go apeshit with umlauts like the Finns. The Finns, bless their pseudo-nordic souls, don't know when to stop. Take this example from the Mäntsälä-lehti newspaper:

Näin totesivat luennoitsijat limnologi Juha Keto ja ympäristösihteeri Katariina Serenius Sälinkään kylätoimintaryhmän järjestämässä teemaillassa viime tiistaina.

Jesus H. Christ. Multiple flags on the play: excessive umlaut usage; absurdly long verbage with improper consonant-to-vowel ratio. Fifteen yard penalty, still second down.

Two Examples Of Why Warren Ellis Gets Paid To Write Things And I Do Not

2005-02-08T17:49:00.000-08:00

Warren Ellis, formerly of diepunyhumans, is a funny, funny man. I cite two examples:

Example 1:

The story begins:

So I’m reading this argument against GM crops over here in Little Britain ...

And continues on:

So this thing says, "Don’t we want our food to have stories?"

First off, someone who examines their own turds for anything has no place talking to me about food. Let’s make that clear. People who make things out of wicker and weave their own underwear out of dog fur dyed with cabbage juice do not have a vote here.

He goes on to describe a number of the possible stories food might have and concludes:

I’ve got a food with a story for you. Soylent fucking Green. It’s got a story, a soundtrack and Charlton fucking Heston. Soylent Green is made out of people, and thank Christ for that because I bastard hate lentils. All the books say that people taste like pork.

Yeah, that’s the story I want to hear. Organically-reared hippie, humanely slaughtered while making wicker basket. Presented to you freshly washed of all weak-minded bullshit intended to annoy the living fuck out of fragile writers first thing on a Thursday morning.

The peoples of Great Britain and the United States, united in the Anglo-Saxonic tradition of hippie-hatred. Truly heartwarming.

Example 2:

A somewhat interesting essay about the unremarkable change of millenia and the similarities between modern-day America and Weimar Germany. Here is the special awesomeness from this particular piece:

And certainly we’re in a time where anger in art has largely gone away. This isn’t the cool detachment of post-modernism, so much as just a turning inward. The kind of stuttery lurching rise of emo over the last couple of years is a case in point: a total defanging of pretty much any working definition of punk in service of whining about how you’ve got no fucking girlfriend. “Emotional punk” = Crying Ugly Kid Music.

Mr. Ellis is also cool because he posts things like this

Rock Ayuss.

Images hosted by Imageshack

durrrrrrrrrr the second

2005-01-28T23:21:00.000-08:00

A is for age: 25
B is for booze: Yes please. Bourbon if you have it.
C is for carreer: World Dominator
D is for Dad's name: Ronald; Ronnie P.
E is for essential items to bring to party: Camels and a condescending attitude.
F is for favorite song at the moment: Big Youth-Waterhouse Rock.
G is for girlfriend: Non-Scarlett GF
H is for Hometown: Le Bayou
I is for instruments I play: Saxophone, I suppose, but it's more making unpleasant noises while remembering how much I hated Ms. Buchanan than "playing."
J is for jam or jelly: I prefer syrup. Wait, what?
K is for Kids: None that I know of.
L is for living arrangements: All by my lonesome.
M is for mom's name: Betty. Not Elizabeth. Betty.
N is for name of friend: ShovelJackie the FuriousNon-ScarlettBitterBlatzyHok Squirrel.
O is for overnight hospital stays: One.
P is for Phobias: Mayonnaise. I hate and fear mayonnaise.
Q is for quotes you like: "Mistah Kurtz, he dead."
R is for longest Relationship: 4+years and counting.
S is for sexual position: I ain't picky, I likes `em all.
T is for time you wake up: Way too fucking early.
U is for unique traits and features: I'm equal parts coon ass and white trash. And this time yesterday I was running a fever of 102 degrees.
V is for vegetable you love: Not such a fan of the veg. I'll eat them, I just don't enjoy them all that much.
W is for worst trait/feature: My crippling fear of mayonnaise.
X is for x-rays you've had: At least ten, the coolest of which depicts my kneecap being quite far from where it should have been. Not cool at the time, but cool in retrospect.
Y is for yummy food I can make: I make a mean roast chicken.
Z is for zodiac sign: Gemini. Two Chulii for the price of one.

durrrrrrrrrrrrr

2005-01-18T22:42:00.000-08:00

Right now I'm appartment-sitting for my boss. Lemme tell ya, folks, this place is swank. My appartment is nice. I like it. It has "charm." But this place...it has a balcony. Right now it's too cold to enjoy the balcony, but it's there nonetheless. It has a rad kitchen, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and of course all the accoutrements of a couple who spent over thirty years in the foreign service. It's so nice that it would take six years of me saving every penny of my net income to afford the down payment.

Of course, I'm not here for the appartment's sake. I'm here for the sake of a sixteen year-old miniature poodle. She must be walked, she must be fed, she must be medicated. I'm sure it cuts quite the funny picture in Northwest DC to see Chulius, that strapping bit of manflesh, walking an elderly miniature poodle around. Quite funny indeed.

Did I mention it's cold? Because it is. Very cold. Dick-freezing-to-my-thigh cold. I am not built for cold weather. I'm designed for peak performance in a climate just shy of tropical.

Today, on the way home from work, I got a little taste of what the next few days are going to be like. It took approximately thirty-five minutes for the bus I was riding to go one city block. All because some jackass said he had a bomb somewhere or something. This wasn't even a fun thing to scare the squares, like learning where little baby subway trains come from or the tractor man. This was just lame. (The inauguration is in a couple of days, in case anyone doesn't know. One hundred square blocks of downtown DC are being closed off. Snipers, plainclothes policemen, identity checks and metal detectors: basically all the cliches associated with living in a free society.)

The dog just vomited.

Another item of note: Jaden finally posted some actual porno in the porno section of her site. Umbrellas and buildings and old Japanese women are nice, I suppose, but when a young man sees something labeled "porno" certain expectations are sure to follow. Unfortunately said porno isn't some first person "Night in the Life of Jaden" material, but one day perhaps. Maybe one day soon...

And finally, a plea: There are people in this world who are in dire need of our assistance. People who struggle valiantly against the shackles of quote-un-quote normal society.

The people I'm talking about are the young ladies of roller derby.

These women are working under horrifying work conditions and suffering grave bodily harm. Sometimes not even that is enough. This wee lass has been reduced to candystriping to make ends meet. The horror.

There's so much you can do to help. Volunteer to be a referree. Join a league so you can learn firsthand their trials and tribulations. Just showing up at one of their meets shows them that you know they're there and that you respect and love them as the beautiful children of God that they are.

Please, look deep in your heart and give`til it hurts.

Without further ado...

2005-01-04T14:01:00.001-08:00

That's right, me droogies, Our Imperial Majesty has returned. Fresh from holiday feasting and rocking out with the homeez. The Fourth Annual PBall, the "Gods and Goddesseses" bacchanal, while not necessarily a resounding success, was still quite a good time.

What?

You say you want proof?

Well then, proof you shall have.

(Keeping in mind that the streets will run with the blood of the unbelievers.)

Odin (aka Shovelhead)

Mme Marie Laveau (the ignorant should look her up)(aka Non-Scarlett GF)

Dionysus (bartender of the gods)(aka St. Adam)

Ganymede (aka BigZach Attackh) suckling at the teat of Ares (aka Dark Wombat) as Odin looks on with lust in his eyes... errr... eye

Loki (aka Jackie the Mick)

Jehovah (aka Hokmayen)

Your humble narrator Chulius Caesar Imperator as Pan

And finally, the piece de resistance, the crowning glory, she who took the "rock out with your cock out" title that night, Furious Jessy as Hel:

It looks like she went Hannibal Lector on a clown.

And that is fucking awesome.

_______UPDATE_______________________________

The above picture is not an accurate representation of how FJ's night started. This is how she started the evening:

Pretty foxy, no? That was before she started saying things like "Where the slutzes cuz I wanna gidinna FIGHT!!!"

Special thanks to ImageShack for Free Image Hosting

A Post Designed Expressly to Piss Furious Jessy Off

2004-12-09T14:58:00.000-08:00

I'm tough because I love.

Neil Young: "Like the poor and Pauline Fowler, Neil Young is always with us, a reminder of the drearier things of life. Venerated by paunchy Mojo-reading types, Young - whose reedy voice is the exact timbre of a continental dial tone - has changed neither his riffs nor his plaid shirt since he left Buffalo Springfield in 1968. Forever droning on about a mythical, moral America, Young has even-handedly bored three generations equally thoroughly, and unleashed some unspeakable musical atrocities. His last record, Greendale, was a concept album apparently scripted by William McGonagall, the anti-communist dirge Rockin' In The Free World remains one of the direst songs ever penned, and so relentlessly maudlin is Young that poor, impressionable Kurt Cobain quoted him in his suicide note. The apologists who boast that Neil Young has "never sold out" forget the main reason things don't sell out: people don't want to buy them."

The Beatles: "Thanks to these four, Britain's high watermark of musical creativity is still considered to be pub rock made by white idiots. As if polluting the 1960s with their safe, insipid music wasn't bad enough, they've exerted a stranglehold on culture since, inspiring generations of terrible bands and being feted by Chris Evans and Alan Partridge. Between their toe-curling rhyming couplets, tax-dodging, horseshit "spirituality" and Octopus's Garden, the Beatles embody everything wrong with the 60s in general and hippies in particular."

Both of these little tidbits from here.

To show I'm not completely mean-spirited (all of the time), I'll give myself some of my own business.

The Rolling Stones: "For years the debate raged - who's best: the Beatles or the Stones? Well, the debate raged between cretins, anyhow. Anyone with an ounce of sense and a pair of functioning ears knew there was no contest: the Beatles were better by a factor of 15,000. The Stones recorded some undeniably great tracks. But they also shat out a load of dull, ugly, clumsy rock. And don't start protesting that Mick Jagger is the most charismatic frontman the rock world has ever seen - he's a hideous, tulip-mouthed cadaver with nothing interesting to say, and the most grating voice this side of Sybil Fawlty (ed. note: ???). The most interesting thing about the Rolling Stones is the amount of drugs they took - and there's nothing more boring than that."

The Clash: "They had white jeans and big gums and they went "WEUUUURRRGH " because they were punks. Only, unlike the Sex Pistols, who turned punk's musical limitations into a corking art-school pantomime, the Clash were beholden to cliche, their every discount riff, "spontaneous " guitar demolition and mucus-filled roar plucked from the lichen betwixt the flagstones of 60s rock. What's more, Sandinista! - a triple album of rubbish reggae, children's choirs and rub-a-dub dub - proved they were as prone to self-indulgence as the prog-rock braggards they had avowed to overthrow. "But," bleat the apologists, "they were political." The only sensible response to which being: "So was Enoch Powell (ed. note: once again, ???), but even he'd have drawn the line at white jeans."

To conclude, something with which I think we all can agree:

Jim Morrison: "Only a blowhard stockbroker's son like Oliver Stone could fall in love with a boorish, spoiled admiral's brat like Jim Morrison. He styled himself "the Lizard King - I can do anything". This lizard didn't even survive a strenuous wank in a hotel bathtub, but he popped his alligator boots just in time to secure unwarranted legend status. If he'd lived another two years they'd have found him out - as they would James Dean. Cool band, though, for two albums (out of seven) and a couple of singles; pity about the pretentious name and the ridiculous high-school revolutionary lyrics. I cite the album Waiting For The Sun and the alleged poetry on the RIP-exploitation disc, An American Prayer, as evidence of Jim's profound inch-deepness. The one time it all came together, on LA Woman, he had to screw it up with all that "Mr Mojo Rising" crap in the middle. Always the knob with Morrison. Arthur Lee's Love is the real 1967 LA band. Who are those fools at his grave?"

`Tis the Season to Shop Walmart

2004-12-01T21:26:00.000-08:00

That's right kids, it's the second annual Gifts that Chulius Caesar would give were he richer and/or omnipotent-er than he currently is Christmas list. Friends, family, and people whose blogs have pleased me shall all reap the spoils of my largesse. So, without further ado:

Non-Scarlett GF: A fully refurbished Diocletian's Palace (i.e., less "churchy" than it currently is) for use as her personal summer retreat.

Maw Caesar: The original cast of Les Miserables at her beck and call.

Paw Caesar: The ability to tune out the original cast of Les Miserables completely.

Sistah Caesar: It involves a plane going down over Afghanistan, with one particular person being the only casualty. That's all I'll say.

Jackie the Mick: May his foist child be a masculine child...What? Already did that, you say? Okay. Hmm. How's this: Wes Anderson shoots all the nipper's significant life events, Lemmy Kilmister does the soundtrack.

Furious Mama: A monster truck and a license to kill. And another dragon. (I gave her a dragon last year.)

Roscoe the Furious Mick: A Flying V forged in the fires of Mount Doom with which he may slay his pre-k enemies.

Its name?

Son of HammerSlammer.

Saint Adam: St. Adam will be designated successor to Kim Jong Il of North Korea, thereby fulfilling his dream of becoming a Communist dictator.

Hokmayen: For one whole year, Hok is possessed (moreso than he already is) by the spirit of Keith Moon. Many a car shall be driven into many a Holiday Inn lobby.

Blatz: A mohawk of such magnificence it can be seen from SPACE.

Bitter Neko: The body of Elliott Smith, preserved Lenin-style. She'll be the envy of all her emo friends.

Cyborg Squirrel: He gets to manage the Meatmen's worldwide reunion tour.

Cyborg Squirrel's SSO: The Victoria's Secrets modelship she's always craved.

Manny: A record collection that does not include any Steely Dan albums. For fuck's sake, man. Steely Dan?

Big Zach Attach(k): No matter what happens, nothing Wayne Damage can ever do will result in Zach going to prison.

Dark Wombat: If memory serves, I gave Dark Wombat a Tokyo appartment filled to the brim with Japanese schoolgirls last year. I really can't think of a present to top that, so I guess I'll just replace what/whomever he might have broken in the past year.

Shovelhead: His interpretive dance performance earns him NEA funding and a Tony.

Briantology: Sole ownership of the Glenfiddich distillery.

Jaden: A lifetime supply of Prince-flavored blowpops.

WIHDC: Ummm....He gets to move out of Virginia?

Brian Wanamaker: He gets his wish. "Too bad he has to DIE," says Oderus Urungus.

DCeiver: Local sports commentator George Michael (heh) conducts an interview with Mark Brunell completely in Aramaic. At the end of the interview, Brunell is flayed and crucified.

Zzzzzoe: All the yoga-friendly bondage gear her heart desires.

Knats: A cape that will flutter magnificently as he rides his horse across the Texas plains. I haven't the faintest idea what Knats would want. I guess he can share the Glenfiddich distillery with Briantologist.

That took entirely too long. If I left you out, let me know. I probably did it on purpose, but the memory isn't what it used to be, so you never know.

And if you don't like your present I have two things to say to you.

Tough.

Titties.

T Minus 29 And Counting

2004-11-19T20:06:00.000-08:00

A big happy birfday to Jackie the Mick. At the quarter-century mark he has a kid and a wife who's way out of his league.

Kudos!

Twenty-nine days to go `til it's time for the Ball. Four years and still going strong. Theme: Gods and Goddessesses. Let's take a moment to remember PBalls gone by, shall we?

Andy

The ever-sociable Blatz

That's one sexy lady

Francesco getting down

See something you like, fella? Me and him's gonna have some words this time round. She's my propertah!

Hot shit. Not technically PBall, but why quibble?

Thanks to FJ for letting me snake some of her pitters. Once again she proves herself to be the awesome.

And because it's his birfday, here's a pic of Jackie with a boner. As he stands next to a redneck.

Yearning for ink yet again

2004-11-13T13:27:00.000-08:00

Me want new tattoo.

So, I've been looking around on the Al Gore Memorial Superhighway, and I've found some pretty cool pieces.

Given my predeliction for the nekkid/near-nekkid ladies, I wouldn't mind something like this:

(by Rodney Raines at ACE Custom Tattoo)

or this

(also by Rodney Raines)

But Jackie has made the point, and it's well-taken, that I probably don't want to be a walking nudie mag. Unless I start landing interviews with important people and A-list authors start submitting their original fiction. Then it'd be okay to be a nudie mag. Then I'd be "classy."

So looking around some more, I found these, which are rad but in a less skeezy way:

(by Chris Stuart at ACE Custom Tattoo)

(by Rodney Raines)

As I've mentioned before, I really like the updated-classical style of tattooing. Not exclusively by any means, it's just in the top five. Styles not in the top five include tribal, Asian pictographs (link via my.bicycle), celtic, and tribal. And yes, tribal does need to be said twice.

And to show I'm not only thinking of myself, here's something for Jackie:

(by Joe Capobianco)

And something for Neko:

(also by Joe Capobianco)

I'm still working on stuff for Non-Scarlett GF, FJ, and Cyborg Squirrel, but worry not, something will be found.

I've also seen some cool things that aren't all that practical for me. For example, "Cat Fight" by Mr. Capobianco:

A very cool concept, but a little too much for me.

So, yeah, that's all I have to say, really. I wish I knew of some inkers in the greater DC area, but my friends around here don't seem to be much for permanent body modification. Pity, really.

Quiz Posts Are Ghey

2004-11-11T14:28:00.000-08:00

That being said:

You are StrongBad. You hate everyone, especially
HomeStar. Your e-mails and prank calls are
hilarious. You're my favorite character.
Don't worry what everone else thinks because hey, they are
all "crap for brains".

What HomeStarRunner Character are you? (pictures)
brought to you by Quizilla

This quiz from Sangria Is Satan's Sauce. SiSS is a hot chick who types dirty. And does Homestar quizzes.

I'd like to take a moment to thank all the men and women who served in America's many wars and "police actions" and had the good sense not to die. Because of you, I have the day off today.

You are True American Heroes.

What Does It Look Like When Two Subway Trains Collide?

2004-11-04T13:35:00.000-08:00

This is what it looks like.

Those few nonexistent readers of mine in the DC area know all about this, but the three other people who read this don't. So here we go.

There I was, covered in motoroil...

Oops, wrong story.

There I was, riding the train, minding my own business, checking out the AU student wearing the fuck-me boots. All of the sudden: CRASH, BANG, CRUNCH. Pandemonium. Tourists running everywhere, sure that our nefariously dark-skinned foes, the Freedom Haters, had delivered more of their freedom-hating wrath just to ruin their trip from Buttfuck, Nebraska, to the seat of all that is French. I mean Free.

What did Chulius do? Did he panic, screaming like a four-year-old with a skinned knee? Hell naw. I ripped open my Brooks Brothers knock-off shirt, tore away the pack of Camel non-filters I keep taped to my chest at all times, and fired not one but two of them sumbitches up. In situations like these, the oldest wisdom is still the best:

Smoke `em if you got `em.

Actually, I was at work. But I've been telling people that story all day.

Getting home was fun, though. Waited for the L2 bus that never came. A bus that said "Out of Service" eventually stopped, and I got the distinct impression that the bus driver just decided that she was one of the shuttles going from Farragut North to Van Ness, and therefore would pick some people up and tell others that she wasn't picking up in a completely random fashion. I'm certainly not complaining since I got where I was going. Still, it all seemed rather haphazard.

All of yesterday's and this morning's mass transit related events have led me to one conclusion: If some sort of disaster, natural or otherwise, were to befall the Metro, we are all well-fucked. Hope you told your wife and kids you loved them this morning `cause Daddy ain't making it home. There should be a big arch over every Metro station entrance that says "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here" just so everyone fully appreciates what they're getting themselves into.

Probability-wise, it's unlikely that an accident resulting in death or dismemberment will occur in the Metro. But if it does, at least it'll make for an awesome story involving fuck-me boots and Camel non-filters.

You Heard It Here First!

2004-11-03T08:34:00.000-08:00

from gizmodo

Taxi Driver(s)

2004-10-31T21:52:00.000-08:00

Recently I've had the (subsidized) opportunity to take a number of taxis from downtown DC to Georgetown *shudder* and back again. I've observed that Defensive Driving is not a required subject in whatever coursework is necessary to earn a taxi license. Maybe it's just me getting old, but 60mph heading down K Street in the middle of the afternoon seems a bit much.

I know some of you out there are saying: "But Oh Mighty Caesar, when you were seventeen you wound up in a ditch crawling through broken glass to get away from the torn wreckage that was your motor vehicle...Are you really qualified to be casting stones when it comes to this particular subject?" The answer is probably not, but that has certainly never stopped me before.

And if you ever speak to Our Imperial Majesty like that again I swear to Me that it will be the last thing you ever do.

There also tend to be two types of cabbies: gregarious or taciturn. The gregarious ones can be quite informative: I was told that someone like me (read: as white as the day is long) probably shouldn't wander around Kingston, Jamaica, by myself, but if I know a Jamaican and went with him/her, there'd be no problems. So now you know.

And knowing is half the battle.

Have you ever been sitting at your computer doing whatever it is you do and suddenly you were hit with the intense craving for a smokily delicious combustible confection provided to you by the wonderful people at the R. J. Reynolds Tobbaco Co.? There it was, in your hand, ready to deliver the stimulant of the gods immediately upon ignition...

But there was one problem. The Zippo was allllllllllllllllllllllllllll the way over there, and you were occupied alllllllllllllllllllll the way over here.

Well, friend, never let that happen again with this easy fixit for your personal computer. (Link via hackaday) It's cheap, it's easy to install, and boy-howdy will you impress the deuce/deuce-and-a-half fellas in their mid-30s passing themselves off as very excitable 17-year-old manga-loving girls in the cosplay chatrooms.

Aren't you worth it?

This is a song,

2004-10-20T15:19:00.000-07:00

a song about Santa Claus triumphing over the evil that is Dave Matthews.

This song is by the Monolators (link via die puny humans).

My favorite verse, as far as I can make out:

Gates of Hell have opened wide
Santa pushed Dave Matthews back inside
Now there will be no more tears
Santa's bringing back our toys and beer

I don't have the money to do anything interesting, so here I am

2004-10-16T21:02:00.000-07:00

Saturday night and I'm sitting at home, writing on ye olde blogge. Poverty, the Bitch Goddess.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so debt-averse. I have a credit card. Debtors' prison isn't a concern. Must be how I was raised, I suppose.

Right now I'm listening to a mashup of the Hives and the Monkees by Thriftshop XL (which I found on Get Your Bootleg On), if you're interested. It is good.

If you'll direct your attention to the sidebar to your left, you'll notice that some additions have been made. (And right now I'm listening to "Go Motherfucker Go" by Nashville Pussy.) I'm not going to link to the new stuff here because the links are over there <----. If you're too lazy to the move the mouse yonder about half an inch, then there's precious little I can do to help you. William Gibson, author extraordinaire, is blogging again. There's also a link to East Village Radio. They livestream some of the kind of things that I like to listen to, but not all. So far I haven't heard any Motorhead, it's mostly been post-punk and obscure 80s new wave and underground hiphop and an Ella Fitzgerald song. Should I hear the dulcet tones of Lemmy Kilmister's voice, I swear with both hands on The Good Book that I will listen to nothing else.
(Lemmy Kilmister)

The other new links are mostly DC-centric. It's only fitting, since I've lived here for three years now.

"Fun Things to Do in DC" is extremely well written. The subject matter is self-evident, I hope. I have several complaints about this city, but on its worst day, DC can at least say to me: "I'm not Fort Smith Fucking Arkansas." The one instance where Fort Smith trumps DC, and Jackie can testify, is that the parties in the Fort don't suck baLLz. Admittedly, this is informed by my own very particular experience, but where I'm from, the object of a party is to fuck shit up and have a lot of fun while doing it. A party is not for networking or trying to act sophisticated.

Links to the Black Cat and the 9:30 Club blah blah music blah can't afford blah

And finally, Loosely Couple Activities (not DC) and DCeiver (probably DC). Both of these fine folks have shown Our Imperial Majesty the link love. How long this has been the case, I don't know, as I'm not terribly perceptive, but I've noticed now. I didn't even have to pay them anything.

Gentlemen, for your initiative and good taste, you are hereby awarded the Order of the Snoop Dogg Diamond Shocker.

Anybody Remember the "Busey or Nolte?" Game

2004-10-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

from this post?

Well, Nolte has a blog.

******************************************************

Are you there, God? It's me, Chulius...

If you have any love in your cold, capricious heart, you will move your child Busey to blog as well. And a real blog, not a fake blog. I'm not some pussy Job who's gonna take a whole truckload of bullshit just for your fucking amusement. Mess with me and I assure you there will be consequences. You're not the only deity in town.

*****************************************************

Nolte blog (blolte?) from defamer

Arriving Late to the Musical Party

2004-10-10T22:05:00.000-07:00

First off, I've just said goodbye to the Pater Familiae Caesaris. It was really nice for him to visit, me not having seen him since March or so. Today we made the Gumbo That Conquered A Thousand Nations With Its Awesomenousity. I now have my stockpile ready so that I may survive the bitterly cold Yankee winter.

Onto the subject at hand...

I just got Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes by TV on the Radio. This is a group that Hokmayen was telling me about back when Roscoe the FM was knee-high to a mitochondrion. I finally got around to procuring it, and man-oh-man is it good. As the Diner points out, TVotR tells you up front: "Cover your balls, cause we swing kung fu." It doesn't balls-out rock like I require most of my music to, it's more of a think piece, but don't let that scare you. I seem to recall, but can't for the life of me remember where I saw, someone remark that TVotR is what happens when Williamsburg retro-rockers are weened on Otis Redding. Maybe I didn't see that somewhere and I made it up all by myself. I doubt that, but then again, stranger things have happened. I did call the breakout success of the brazilian cut tanga months before it happened.

Something I've had for a while is Madvillainy by Madvillain, which is itself a collaboration of MF Doom and Madlib. I remember seeing (once again I forget where) this album described as a combination of Jay Z and Pharrell Williams soaked in psychedelic drugs filtered through mud. Let me tell you, this description is total shit. First of all, Jay Z is an absolutely crap MC. Secondly, Pharrell Williams is a sellout bitch. There's a word for people who produce tracks for Britney Spears. That word is "whore." Someone needs to give Pharrell a good choking so he won't forget what happens when Wayne Brady doesn't get what Wayne Brady's due.

Madvillainy is a really good, really weird hiphop album. Madlib is a dj who makes mixing an instrtument capable of complete expression, and MF Doom is a rhymesmyth of the highest caliber. To wit:

"Shots of the scotch from out the square shot glasses
And he won't stop `til he got the masses
And show `em what they know not through flows of hot molasses
Do it like the robot to head spin to boogaloo
Took a few minutes to convince the average bugaboo"

And so on.

Good business.

A couple of things:

2004-10-07T15:08:00.000-07:00

Topic A:

That 70's Show has completely, irrevocably jumped the shark. They could've called it quits: Donna and Eric get married and move away; Hyde shanks Jackie in a drunken rage inspired by the Manson Family and gets 20 to life; Kelso is the first documented case of HIV/AIDS in the continental United States; Fez joins the Jonestown cult and is first in the refreshments line. Done and done. Everything wrapped up in a nice little bow.

But no.

They got greedy.

Eric ditches Donna on the wedding day, but she forgives him and they're patching things back together. Donna's mom, Boobsie or Midge or whatever, returns to the show and gets back together with Bob. Hyde finds his really real father and he's black! Kelso fathers a child with Shannon Elizabeth. The arrivals of new characters and/or the arrival of a baby are the most clear-cut symptoms of shark-jumpdom. Damn you Rupert Murdoch. Damn you all to hell.

(That last bit was done in Chuck Heston's Planet of the Apes voice.)

That being said, Laura Prepon is fucking hot with the blonde hair. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer maybe, certainly an atrocious interior decorator, but damn. Eight ways to Sunday, that's all I'm sayin'.

Topic B:

A few of you may remember way back on the chu_rock xanga blog that I expressed puzzlement regarding the issue of online personal ads. The fact that apparently attractive women felt it necessary to take out ads on the internet made me ask questions. What's wrong with the conventional drunken hookup? Is she alone because she's crazy? These, along with a whole slew of chauvinistic thoughts rifled through my brain. Despite the periodic curiousity, I never explored the issue much further.

However, I'm reasonably certain I can spot one that is doomed to be totally unsuccessful. Case in point:

This guy

"Stresspuppy," as he apparently wants to be called. He's today's featured personal on DCist. A "man" looking for a "woman." For "Friendship, Dating, Serious Relationship." Age 31. So far, not too bad. The "Serious Relationship" I think is a little strong for a personal ad of any sort, but not an error that would necessarily cost him the game.

Of course, pretty much everything goes downhill from there. Places he'd rather be? Vegas or Hawaii. This very well could be the elitist in me, but Christ, man, a little imagination couldn't hurt. "I like strippers and drinks with umbrellas!" probably isn't the message most ladies want to read about in potential hookups. He mentions shoulder rubs and back massages in the "why you should get to know me" section. Yes, those are popular things. In my experience though, that's the kind of thing you want to spring on someone in order to awe them with your mad manual technique. Saying "I'm gonna rub yo stank-ass feet" upfront proclaims your sensitivity to the heavens, which is the very reason why it doesn't (and shouldn't) work.

The kicker, the reason I said to myself "Oh no, this can't possibly really be what this guy said in his profile" and made me look in the first place, is this:

Location: "In my bedroom, you'll find" section

He said: "A blanket my mother just made..."

A calamity of this proportion probably hasn't been seen since the firebombing of Dresden in 1945.

When a man is looking for a woman for friendship, dating, or a serious relationship, outside observers should assume that said man wants to see said woman with her clothes off. This is a fact that has been empirically proven many times over the centuries.

I assure you, Stresspuppy, this will
NEVER
EVER
HAPPEN
if you persist in mentioning your mother and your bedroom in even remotely close proximity to one another.

I have a feeling that whatever code the gothamist empire uses to pull its daily personal for its sites is programmed so that once every ten days it will find the single most embarrassing-slash-horrifying thing available and put it front and center for the whole world to see.

Stresspuppy, you poor, dumb bastard.

I welcome my readers' thoughts on this particular subject. I especially welcome the comments of the two or three ladies who are frequent readers floating about out there in the aether, since my outlook on this topic is by nature quite phallocentric. (However, I must ask the ladies to remember that given their gender, their opinions are worth exactly 1/4 those of real people.)

In the unlikely event anyone actually comes to visit me in DC...

2004-10-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

please heed these guidelines governing the use of our underfunded and unreliable system of mass transit, courtesy of the Rock Creek Rambler. He also has helpful tips on dealing with DC's taxis, which is more useful than it should be.

Thank you for your attention.

Happy Sniperversary, Everybody!!!

2004-10-01T11:54:00.001-07:00

The DCeiver points out that, two years ago today, the great Washington Sniper era began. Oh, what heady, heady times. To quote: "The world was exciting and full of possibilities, not the least of which was the possibility that hot, screaming death was on its way to your skull from across the Applebee's parking lot."

Everyone's eyes were peeled for the enraged Arab guy in the white van who hated Jesus or something, not the two black guys in the red Corolla or Buick or whatever it was. Now, I live in the District proper, not in the suburbs where all of the take-downs went-downs. So, to be perfectly honest, I was never all that concerned. The issue of the standard everyday DC armed-robbery-potentially-escalating-to-homicide was much more immediate for me personally. The whole Sniper thing, while tragic for the victims, always struck me as more of a massive scale middle-class suburban mother reading about the gangs and the "hip-hop" coming from the city to her pristine neighborhood and reacting out of all proportion to what is actually happening around her. I say this because, yes, my mother did the very same thing in many, many different contexts.

And despite me being thirteen years older and a nineteen hour drive away, she did not disappoint. "Don't you go outside!" she'd say when she called. I know she had other prepared remarks, but that's the only one I remember, having zoned out of our conversation until I sensed the topic had changed. My friends in Virginia were only slightly better, although that I will admit was somewhat justified. The admonition to only wear dark clothes when I came to visit was said in a half-joking manner.

In summation, I finish with another (long) quote:

"In our opinion, Mohammed clearly used the October 8 release date of Bon Jovi's latest record "Bounce" as a precipitating event. Muhammed was clearly "halfway there" and "living on a prayer." For "love" he gave it a "shot". Repeatedly. It wasn't going to "make a difference if [he] made it or not." He was a "social disease"-one you could "read about in the papers, in some places it [came] in thirty-two flavors." As many innocent people discovered, "you could call 911, but you can't stop the fun." Muhammed was "wanted-dead or alive." Sometimes "he slept", but sometimes "not for days". He "played for keeps" knowing he "might not make it back." He had "a loaded gun." And there was "nowhere to run." It was his life, it's now or never. Nothing was going to last forever. Shit, dude. In the end, he saw about thirteen faces through has scope. And he rocked them all. Finally, when he was arrested, where did his license plate indicate it was from? Jersey. Rest my case."

After work, I will definitely be wearing my Headshot! t-shirt from Child Labor Graphics to commemorate this august day.

Happy Sniperversary

Oh, and happy bday to Furious Mama, too.

I Feel Funny

2004-09-30T15:19:00.000-07:00

I drank my dinner last night. This was possible because I attended an event where the drinks were either A.) free or B.) paid for by someone who wasn't me. I certainly got a good buzz going and I managed, as far as I've been told, not to make a bigger ass out of myself than I normally do.

The unfortunate side effect of the all booze no food was this: it took forever for me to fall asleep and for some godforsaken reason I was wide-awake at 5:30 in the a.m. Since then, I haven't been feeling terribly well. I'm nursing an extremely mild hangover. It's one of those where I just feel kind of achy and out of joint because the vitamins have been leeched from my system, not one of the "ohmygodturnthegoddamnlightsoff wouldyoustopscreamingwaitaminute i'mtheonewho'sscreamingaboutpeoplescreaming" hangovers.

In some ways, I'm proud. A wise man once said "Never be hungover on your own time," and I'm living that dream.

That was Lao Tzu, I believe.

loooong day

2004-09-29T17:36:00.000-07:00

First things first: Napoleon Dynamite is really funny. Imagine Rushmore set in rural Idaho, and Max Fischer as less popular, more spastic, and Mormon, and that gives you the general idea of what ND is like. Well worth the price of a ticket.

I went to see the National Injun Museum on Sunday. It looked nice from the outside, I must say. I've read it's pretty amateurish on the inside, but I wouldn't know, because the line to get in was way too long for this impatient young man. There was a stage for scalping dances and tents with beads and shit outside, so Cyborg Squirrel's SSO (Significant Slavic Other) and I milled about out there. That was nice. The most significant thing I have to report is this: there are some fine ladies from the tribes of the Pacific Northwest. Lord have mercy.

Work sucks again.

This is a great idea for a drunken night out. (from gawker) Not being one that normally goes for empty orchestra (karaoke, for those who only sling the Nihongo) no matter what my level of inebriation happens to be, I think I could belt out "Breaking the Law" or "Bomber" or "Angel of Death" or any number of metal classics. Yeah....I'd definitely be down.

Death to False Metal.

from somethingawful

All Periods Have Been Replaced With "Bebe" In Honor of the Birth of Roscoe the Furious Mick

2004-09-25T16:20:00.000-07:00

I have been so g-damn busy lately I've hardly had time to blink, much less post bebe My readership is obviously less than impressed with link posts, which is okay, since they're cop outs anyway bebe

I won't bore you with the minituae of how and why I've been so busy: it would be boring to type and even more boring for you to read bebe Suffice to say I don't recommend trying to get someone from the African continent a visa to go anywhere bebe It's not a fun process bebe

`Twas not all doom and gloom, fortunately bebe I did get to eat lunch at an Italian restaurant that I couldn't patronize lest I sell the soul of my firstborn to Diner's Club bebe It was on somebody else's dime, as you might imagine, although it would be a much better story if it was a dine-n-dash bebe Actually, the fog has now lifted from my memory and it was a dine-n-dash bebe Very dramatic, car crashes everywhere, innocent bystanders slaughtered bebe bebe bebe In other words, the standard Chulius-Caesar-Escapes-From-His-Adversaries scenario bebe Nothing like a little atrophied baby cow to put the fleet in my feet bebe

Tonight, I'm going to see Napoleon Dynamite, a movie that even if it's no good is worth seeing because the preview uses the original Bon Scott version of "TNT" bebe Bon Scott died for our sins, and our appreciation for his sacrifice must be shown at every possible opportunity bebe

Best Album Review Title Ever

2004-09-21T12:49:00.000-07:00

No Chickens Were Actually Fucked During the Making of This Record

Despite being the best title for an album review, I barely have an idea of what the album is called/sounds like/whether or not it is good.

Life, she gives with one hand and she takes with the other, I guess.

Oh Man Oh Man Oh Man Oh Man

2004-09-15T14:58:00.000-07:00

This is fucking priceless.

(from die puny humans)

Question:

2004-09-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

If I were to get a tattoo that could generally be described as "old skool," for example like this

or like this

...well, would I have to go rockabilly?

I mean, I like rockabilly music well enough, especially the psychobilly of the Rt. Rev. Horton Heat, but I think me wearing biker boots and rolled up 501s and a even greater amount of hair treatment than I already use might be a bit much.

I'd appreciate your thoughts.

(both pictures stolen from Jason Eisenberg's portfolio at Jade Monkey Studios)

streaM OF cOnsciousness but not really when the gimps embrace the sunset

2004-09-13T20:41:00.000-07:00

The fine folks who bring us Defamer and Gawker bring us a blog about John Waters' latest opus, A Dirty Shame. Have you ever wondered what Selma Blair would look like with comically huge grabbies? You can find out there. Or you can wait for the movie. It opens nationwide the 24th of September, with the best rating of them all: No One Under 17 Admitted!!!! Pervasive Sexual Content!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, John Waters, bless your queer little-moustachioed Balmer soul.

I have it on good authority that Jackie is going to get something similar to this on his neck. And you can take my sources to the fuckin' bank! They're gold!!!

The ladies at Go Fug Yourself bring us a game everyone can enjoy, the Busey or Nolte? game. It's fun for the whole family, ages 24 to 33 1/2.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Furious Jessy for sharing in her treasure trove of digital music. Like the Pilgrim freshly landed on Plymouth Rock, I was bereft of auditory enjoyment, alone and starving in this New Jerusalem of ellektrisitee and comepyootrrs. Then Jessy came along like the cowboykiller of yore and shared the bounty of her online harvest.

Thus goes the story of the first ever Thanksgiving in the Empire of Chulius.

Jessy, I'll try not to give you smallpox and convert you to the One True Faith.

But I can't make any promises.

Happy Little Trees....And, Ooh, Look, There's a Happy Little Cloud

2004-09-09T22:39:00.000-07:00

During my daily meanderings around the innernet, I managed to come across an interesting and well put together blog on a topic that has captured my interest from time to time, and it's not porn. "Quelle surprise!" you say. I know, it surprised me too.

The site in question is worldchanging (by way of futurismic), a blog about ecological and progressive matters. Some articles I particularly enjoyed include one on how open source software can help developing nations leapfrog from dependence on the primary production of resources into societies independent from the pre-existing developed world proprietary information regime and another on how advocacy networks could replace the non-governmental organization with a more effective method of agitating for change.

The article that most captured my imagination, for reasons I don't think I can entirely explain, is about the various ways vitality and other nice things can return to the rural windswept areas of America (and, one would assume, the rural windswept areas of other countries as well).

In my more wistful moments, I think about how it wouldn't be so bad to get away from it all, move to one of the more remote parts of our great land, go off the grid in some ways, and grow shit...it wouldn't be bad at all if I could download pictures of the nekkid ladies at broadband internet speeds and shoot at shit.

Then the reverie will end, and the realization takes hold... the realization that were I actually to follow through with this little plan, I would become that most hated of woodland creatures: the dirty, dirty hippie. No one likes dirty hippies. That's why dirty-hippie-hunting season lasts all year long, like crow-hunting season.

Still, I'm all about decentralization and anarchy and all that fun stuff. My dislike of The Man is well known, and if these things come to pass, a smile will appear on my hippie-hating lips.

Fun Facts!!!

2004-09-08T13:33:00.000-07:00

--The West Africa correspondent for Agence France Presse (the French wire service) is named Zoom Dosso.

me: Good morning, I'm Chulius Caesar, Imperator Mundi Scripsi.
Zoom D.: Good morning, I'm Zoom Dosso, AFP West Africa correspondent.
me: Muthafuckin' Zooooooooom!!! Irie.

--You and me baby we ain't nuthin' but mammals etc etc etc... (link via my.bicycle)

--SaintAdam's mix, as predicted, pales in comparison to the wonder that is my mix. Pales, I say.

--On the metro this morning, I saw a man who looked exactly like Harlan Pepper of Best in Show fame.

I had just as much fun as anyone else this weekend.

2004-09-06T20:00:00.000-07:00

Ah Labor Day. The day without labor. Bless thee.

So, extended weekend recap. Saw Hero on the Day of Freya. I really, really liked it. The story, from what I've read, means a lot more to the native Chinese audience than it does to us foreign devils. It has to do with how China became one country blah blah blah. The action sequences are good in a Crouching Tiger kind of way. The cinematography, however, is fantastic. Would I go so far as to say it was sumptuous? Yes, I believe I would. The cinematography was sumptuous.

The rest of the weekend I basically did fuck all. Well, that isn't quite true. But to fully appreciate what I did do, a little background is in order.

SaintAdam, Hokmayen, and myself are engaged in a full-on, landwar-in-Asia style battle. Yours truly launched the first volley with my Disco At the End of the World mix. Besides being an absolute masterpiece, it's a collection of remixes and mashups of various pop/hiphop favorites. Highlights include mashes of Kelis' "Milkshakes" and L7's "Shit List," Eminem's "Superman" and the Prodigy's "Firestarter," and Eazy E's "Sippin' on a 40" and the Clash's "Lover's Rock."

Now that the fray has been joined, the Saint and Hokmayen are preparing their counterattacks. Their efforts will pale in comparison to my initial onslaught, but they will look very cute while they're trying. Nonetheless, I must be prepared to distribute the decisive blow that will once and for all cement my authority as Master of All I Survey.

In that spirit, I spent more time than is probably healthy combing the nooks and crannies of the internet, finding the rounds to fill my figurative clip. In the course of so doing, I found the best mashup ever created. Hokmayen and the Saint (along with any innocent bystanders) will shit themselves whilst having epileptic seizures when they hear it. If only I could be there to witness it in person.

See, I had just as much fun as any of you who attended some "tequila night" in buttfuck, arkansas. Much fun just as had I.

Yup.

Because my readers need to know...

2004-09-02T14:20:00.000-07:00

what kind of sex advice tattoo artists have to offer.

Metaphors are by nature misleading. That is why I use so many of them.

2004-09-01T13:46:00.000-07:00

I got a haircut yesterday. If I didn't have facial hair, I would probably be taken as a somewhat suspicious member of society, as opposed to the Level Elmo threat to Mom, Money, and `merica I currently appear to be. At least that's the impression I've been given by the reactions of various security services operating in and around the District, US Customs being top of the list.

Hrmmm...what else?

I watched The Year of Living Dangerously the other night. Mel Gibson, Sigourney Weaver, 1983. It was eh. Okay at best. Fairly heavy-handed for my taste. People say things like: "I thought you were different. I thought you were a person of light!" Earnest plus hackney does not equal quality cinema in the Book of Chulius. Usually. Full frontal nudity makes everything better.

Everything.

Wouldn't it be funny if, right before Furious Jessy's water broke, Jackie for no reason whatsoever yelled at the top of his lungs "Look out! She's gonna blow!"? Maybe he'd be watching Blatz stand too close to an open flame with a bottle of high-octane aperitif in his hands, I dunno. I think it would be funny. Not, like, funniest thing ever funny, but kinda funny.

For anyone slow on the uptake, I'll spell it out for you: I am incredibly bored right now.

__________EVEN MORE!!!!!___________________________________

I think this is a more accurate version of the future than this.

God hates Florida. A lot.

buhleted

2004-09-01T11:40:00.000-07:00

I deleted the previous post because it sucked baLLz. Afraid of historical revision I am not.

Chulius Caesar's Story of Woe and Eventual Triumph

2004-08-31T20:57:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember my previous blog, Chu Rock: he's blogalicious. I know, I know...it was marvelous. It was a shining star in the blog heavens, leading the faithful Zoroastrian astrologers of the internet to the newborn Son. And Chu Rock: he's blogalicious was cut down in its prime.

(That's kind of a funny image: Freddy Mercury riding a camel across Iraq, humming "Fat Bottom Girls" or "Bicycle Race.")

But like the mighty Phoenix, Chu Rock, in His Imperial Incarnation CHULIUS CAESAR, has risen from the smoldering embers of the blogosphere to reclaim the glory and majesty that is His Birthright.

Nonetheless, this is all but distraction. The original intent of this post was to revisit something I said quite some time ago. As you may remember, Hrvatska Senzacija, in all of her benevolence and mercy, allowed me one celebrity exemption to our relationship: Miss Scarlett Johansson. This comes to mind because I recently acquired my own widescreen copy of Lost in Translation. If ever one needed a reason to own a 50 inch plasma screen tv, the opening shot of Lost in Translation would be it.

Miss Johansson has recently admitted that she would have no trouble being "romantically involved" with someone older than herself. Of course, she's demonstrated her disdain for ageism with a rather disturbing episode involving Benicio del Toro and an elevator that never happened no it didn't shut the fuck up before I shank you okay fucker you fucking asked for it. According to the ever so useful innernet movee dater bass, Scarlett was born the Twenty-second of November, 1984, making her a spritely nineteen years old. I was born several years prior to 1984, placing me on the downhill slope to thirty.

19 (Scarlett) < 25 (Chulius Caesar)

I am older than Scarlett Johansson.

Just what she's looking for.

Scarlett: email me, IM me, call me any time day or night.

Let's make the magic happen.

One Sharp Lookin' Muthafucka

2004-08-30T12:03:00.000-07:00

Earlier this morning, whilst standing on the corner suckling at the smokey teat of Our Lorde and Saviour Nicotine, I was approached by a gentleman from the National Coalition for the Homeless who happened to be selling that organization's paper, Street Sense. For those of you in less "urban" climes than your humble narrator, the purveyors of Street Sense are most often homeless people.

He said to me: "Man, I'm gonna tell you this and it ain't no con: you one sharp lookin' muthafucka."

He then asked me for a one dollar donation for a copy his periodical.

Now, one dollar for a paper in the District is pretty frickin' steep. The Washington City Paper is free; the Washington Times is 25 cents (and is, coincidentally, owned lock stock and barrell by the man who crowned himself the Messiah in one of the Senate office buildings); and of course the Washington Post, which is 35 cents.

Despite the excessive cost, I purchased a copy of Street Sense for one dollar. I did this for several reasons. First, it's a worthy cause. Second, the man seemed like a nice enough fellow. Lastly, and most importantly, he appealed to my vanity.

The lesson in this story is that flattering the Imperator can go a long way towards securing Our Imperial Largesse.

Chulius Caesar Crosses the Rubicon

2004-08-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

That's right bitches. Don Chulius has returned.

I've come to crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

Snootch to the motherfuckin' nootch.