Happy 5773!

Happy 5773 everybody! No, I'm not drunk (well, not in any serious way), it's just that sundown tonight marks the beginning of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

The 58th Century? You're soaking in it!

Nice calendar, idiot...

So if it's 5773, shouldn't we be flying around in hover cars or trying to outrun net-wielding super-intelligent apes? No, of course not, that's crazy talk. It's not actually the future, the Hebrew calendar is just different from the one we're all used to. It's based on the phases of the moon and begins more or less with 'let there be light.' Also, since the lunar year is slightly different from the solar year, leap months have to be added seven times in a span of nineteen years in order to keep the months and seasons in line. If that sounds insane to you, just keep in mind that the standard calendar we all use had to be completely rebooted in 1582 because a certain ancient Roman dictator-for-life screwed up the leap years.

Carbon dating of this cake has
proven inconclusive, but delicious.

Speaking of the standard calendar, hope you're not too attached to 2012, because there's some debate as to exactly what year we're living in now. Introduced by Pope Gregory, who was, you know, a Pope, the Gregorian calendar pegs year one as the birth of Jesus. The problem is no one's really sure when (or if) he was actually born. We could be living in 2012, 2017, 2030 or who the crap knows? It looks like time is a really just a completely arbitrary construct, devoid of objective meaning and we are all adrift in a sea of temporal uncertainty. So, uh, Happy New Year!

So what year is it really? Take your pick. It's 1433 on the Islamic Calendar, 2555 in Thailand and we only have about 97 days left until the Mayan calendar rolls over to the next b'ak'tun and nothing at all happens. Oh, and it's also Year of the Dragon because in China a calendar and a See N' Say are the same thing. 5773's looking pretty reasonable now, huh?

"Hey Steve, how's the calendar coming?"
"Ok I guess, hey, if you wanted to keep track of what year it is, what would you use? Numbers or something?"
"Yeah, numbers or maybe a bunch of random animals that repeat every 12 years..."

No, actually it's nothing like that.

Arizona: The Racial Profiling State

"It's like the judge telling the woman who got raped, 'You asked for it because of the way you dressed' OK? That's the same thing."

Yeah, that's Arizona Senator Jon Kyl bringing to bear the years of diplomatic experience he gained representing a state that will pull you over on suspicion of being Hispanic...in the southwest...to the current situation in the Middle East. 

You're not going out to
build a coalition dressed
like that are you?

Anyway, he and a bunch of other Republicans (including Mitt 'Who Let the Dogs Out?' Romney) have been critical of the U.S. State Department's official response to the recent Mideast violence which they feel was too, you know, diplomatic. Ok, fair enough, every one's got a right to their opinion. Even the White House has been a little hot and cold on the subject. But Kyl's statement contains a pretty subtle analogy that you might have missed, so I'll try to explain it. You see, America is like a rape victim and the judge is the State Department...and I think the last fifty years of U.S. foreign policy is a tube top and those shorts with 'juicy' written across the butt. Anyway, the Senator feels that the State Department's comments didn't include enough phrases like Bring it on! and Don't mess with Texas! and it didn't do nearly enough to incite further mayhem. And you know what? I totally see his point.

Assuming of course that his point is that he's really bad at analogies and that a guy who once made up bullshit statistics on the Senate floor as part of an effort to de-fund Planned Parenthood should really shut the hell up about rape.

Here's an analogy: Jon Kyl talking about the Middle East is like rich
white Republicans chiming in on women's reproductive rights.

Pat Robertson: Marriage Counselor

"Well, you could become a Muslim and then you could beat her."

-Pat Crazy Eyes Robertson

"No, it's ok, we kinda
do hate women."

-Mitt Romney*

I'm not making that up, that shit came out of his mouth. He really and for true said that, and then he and his co-host laughed at his funny, funny joke. For realsies. Check out the clip. Now remind me again, how long did we have to listen to Fox News complain about Jeremiah Wright? I mean, Pat Robertson campaigned for Mitt Romney on Saturday and then on Monday hilariously suggested that a man move to Saudi Arabia and convert to Islam so he can legally beat his wife. Holy shit. If only he could have found a way to insult gay people with that joke, he could have achieved a douchefecta. Look, I'm not suggesting that all Republicans hate women, but the GOP sure doesn't mind courting the misogynist vote. 

Like, seriously, let's talk about 'Michael,' the dude that's writing in to Robertson's show for marital advice. Check out his email, at least I think it's an email. It's possible that Michael doesn't believe in the internet. Or dinosaurs. Or a spherical Earth.

What country would I have to move to in order to
legally beat the shit out of Michael for being a prick?

In Ricky's defense, Lucy
did burn the eggs.

I'm no psychologist, but I suspect that Michael's wife doesn't respect him as the 'head of the house' because we don't live in the 1800's and a good divorce attorney is a google search away. And what's up with Robertson immediately leaping to Michael's defense? He has no information to go on other than Michael's serial killer-esque (can I make that an '-esque?') assertion that she's become a real problem, but that doesn't stop him from coming up with this whole psych profile about how she was a rebellious child whose parents didn't beat her nearly often enough. So, what's a 'head of the house' supposed to do? Just in case you thought maybe Pat was joking, he reiterates his suggestion that Michael move to Saudi Arabia. You know, where they're cool with wife beating. Ha. What a card, that Pat Robertson.

Oh, and Pat's co-host? I'm no expert when it comes to evangelicals, but she herself appears to be a woman. What's up with that?

Above: Terry Meeusen, 700 Club co-host. Like any good baby-machine/food preparer,
Terry knows to keep her eyes respectfully lowered in Robertson's presence or else
risk being sent on 'special assignment' to Saudi Arabia. See what I did there?

*what? He said it with his eyes.

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Star 2rek: Heart of Dorkness

Relax, colons are
nothing to be afraid of.

Hold on to your crochet Dalek hats internet, this nerd's about to express a nit-picky opinion about Star Trek. Specifically about the title for the new Star Trek movie. It's just been unofficially announced. Ready? Here it is: Star Trek Into Darkness. Wait, wuh? Yeah. No number, no colon, just Star Trek Into Darkness. Like it's a thing you go do. "Hey Tim, wanna go star trek into some darkness?" Star Trek Into Darkness. Really. Roll it around in your mouth for a minute. Taste that? No, it's not just you, it is kind of terrible, like objectively terrible. It's a terrible title, there's just no way around it.

Incidentally, Star Trek: The Colorform set
did have better pacing and was downright
action-packed compared to ST: TMP.

That's not to say the twenty or thirty previous Star Trek movies have all had great titles. I mean, the first one was slapped with the generic Star Trek: The Motion Picture, presumably to avoid confusion with Star Trek: The Colorform Set. The third movie was The Search for Spock, even though they just sort of stumbled upon him 5 minutes in. Hell, part nine was called Star Trek: Insurrection and if your juvenile brain didn't just replace the word 'insurrection' with 'erection' I don't think we have anything left to discuss. The point is it's not like screenwriters Robert Orci and Alex Kurtzman had a tough act to follow.

There's still time to come up with something better, although they did register a bunch of websites for the name, so it's pretty for sure. Sigh. Oh well, I guess if it's a decent movie then it doesn't really matter what the title is. Some really good movies have had really bad titles...right? On the other hand for every The Dark Knight Rises there's like a half dozen X-Files: I Want To Believe's. Anyway, fingers crossed.

"Hey Alex, pass me the blow will ya?
We've got a title to come up with."

Hey, I know it's probably too late for this, but here's a couple of title suggestions which, while not good, are all better than Star Trek Into Darkness. Please feel free to add your own:

Star Trek 2: Trek Harder
Star Trek: The Rise of Taj
Star Trek 2: Electric Tribbeloo

Oh, and here's an old chestnut from way back:

And lo, I beheld the power of cheese...

Without Pat, how would we know God
votes Republican and hates gay people?

I'm not usually one to believe in signs. I mean, yeah traffic signs sure, but not so much the mystical or portentous kind. I'm no theologian, but I always felt that if God or the Gods or the universe or whatever had something to tell me, he/she/they or it would just come out and say it. Besides, isn't there something a little...you know...pretentious, or what's the word? Dickish? About saying that God talks only to you? I think that's what separates the rest of us from Pat Robertson. Well, that and 80 years of cholesterol build-up (don't look at me like that, he's a douche).

I've always assumed that if there is a divine will, it's happy to, for reasons beyond our ken, let us muddle through our lives without clear instructions, sort of like the people who write the Lego manuals.

Wait, what? For real guys? Holy shit... 

This Florida woman sold her Virgin Mary
cheese sandwich for $28,000. Now who's crazy?

That said, I think I have joined the I see Jesus in a piece of toast club. No, I didn't see the face of The Lord in a slice of toasted rye, that would be completely insane. But I did see the State of Maine (and parts of Vermont and New Hampshire) is some cheese. Does that make me crazy? No, really, be honest. Oh, I think I should take a moment and point out that I'm not calling people who see Jesus or the Virgin Mary in their bread products crazy. I mean, we can't prove that the omniscient and omnipotent creator of all that is doesn't choose to communicate through toast.

And hey, if seeing the face of God staring up at you from your breakfast gives you hope then who am I to judge? I'm just saying that for me, as a devout Vulcantologist with little to no belief in the supernatural, seeing messages in my quesadilla is bordering on batty.

Clearly this cheesy chunk of New England is trying to tell me something...but what?

Goddamnit, that's Pennsylvania, isn't it?

Pardon my skepticism, but I've always kind of assumed that whenever the faithful have a vision, or see a sign or whatever, it's because they want to see it. Like, it's just their brain working through whatever it needs to work through and putting it into a context they're comfortable with. A rational explanation doesn't make a religious experience any less valid, it's just a way of explaining it to the rest of us. They're not crazy or stupid for believing (well, some people are), they're just looking at the world differently, and that's cool. Up 'till now, this sort of thing just hasn't really been my bag...but then the cheese happened. Why am I seeing things in cheese?

Is it just some cosmic coincidence that as I broke up the pre-sliced cheddar and dropped the bits into the pan one just happened to resemble the 23rd State to enter the Union? Or is this a message from my subconscious? Or could it be that God is telling you to send me money to start my cheese-ministry? Hmmm, that's probably it, you should send me money...for the ministry. Yes, uh...praise Cheesus!

Message from God, or cheesy Rorschach test?

But for real, what is up with Judge Judy?

Apparently sexual assault isn't nearly
as hilarious as cartoons make it out to be.

Sweet mother of Christmas, can you believe what this judge said? No? You don't know what the hell I'm talking about? Well, back in July an off-duty police officer named Robb Gary (of course he's got a middle name) Evans was convicted of sexual assault for groping a woman in a bar. For whatever reason he thought it would be totally cool if he walked up to the un-named victim (no, of course she has a name, it's just not being released) and stuck his hand up her skirt. Turns out there's a law against that. Who knew? Oh, right, everybody fucking knew.

What is it with her and pee?

Anyway, believe it or not, that's actually not the worst part. The worst part was when Judge Jacqueline Hatch decided to dispense some wisdom from the bench, sort of like Judge Judy if Judge Judy was a horrible person and less fixated on people peeing on her. Anyway, here's a gem Flagstaff, Arizona residents will be hearing a lot when Judge Hatch is up for re-election in 2014:

"If you wouldn't have been there that night, none of this would have happened to you."

-Jacqueline Hatch, Cococino County Judge

and horrible person

Pscht, probably be alive today if his head
hadn't gotten in the way of that bullet.

On the one hand I appreciate Judge Hatch's grasp of temporal causality. If the victim hadn't gone to the bar, then she wouldn't have been assaulted in said bar. I mean, she has a point. Among the infinite variations of the multi-verse there is almost certainly an alternate reality where she wasn't groped, the Star Wars prequels didn't suck and Biff Tannen runs Hill Valley. Great. On the other hand, since the victim doesn't have access to a goddamn time machine, Judge Hatch's observation is not so much common sense wisdom as it is condescending hindsight.

"Let me get this straight, you're me from the year 2015, and they still
haven't found a cure for unconvincing age makeup?"

Hey, sex-offender! Yeah, I'm talking to you.

On a side note, the sexual assailant, Robb Gary Evans, could have been sentenced to two years in prison, but instead got two years probation, treatment and community service. Ok, fine, but he also doesn't have to register as a sex offender despite the fact that he sex offended. What's up with that? I'm usually a live and let live kind of guy, but isn't this why there's a sex offender database? Can we all agree, like as a planet, that Robb Gary Evans is a sex-offender?

Flamenado!

If I had a time-traveling spaceship,
I'd take it to Burning Man too.

I'm sun burnt, sore, exhausted and coughing up a week's worth of alkali silica dust. Yup, it's that time of the year again. Time for you to sit back, stifle a yawn and pretend to be interested in my blurry vacation photos. This year's Burning Man seemed a little smaller than last year's, probably due to the well-intentioned but kind of disastrous ticket lottery system, but there was still plenty of booze, art cars and gratuitous nudity. The Man burned and it was fantastic. Oh and also there were flaming tornados. Yes, I said flaming tornados, but I'll get to that.

Pictured: the titular man, pre-burn. He's the reason for the season.

Peace out guys, be back in a week.

I won't try to explain Burning Man other than to say that it's a big festival in the desert and the reason I leave wifi range and disconnect from the collective once a year. It happens in a place called Black Rock City which materializes once a year and then disappears completely after the event is over. It's sort of like Brigadoon, but with shrooms and house music instead of Irish people and I don't know, jigging or whatever.

With 50 thousand people, while it exists it's the third largest city in Nevada behind Las Vegas and Shitty Las Vegas (aka Reno). It's rad and you should totally go someday. It looks like this:

That's last year's Black Rock City from the air. I obviously didn't take this
picture because I consider airplanes a form of sorcery and won't get on one.

Pictured: Not me on stilts. 

Many people who go, go as groups and form theme camps based around some participatory activity like body painting or bacon, or mutual interests like bondage or bacon. There are even a few camps involving bacon. Some camps have bars, others have massage tables and almost all have music. There are surprisingly few things you can't find. This year my friends and I camped with a group of samba playing stilt performers who also juggle fire which is actually not an unusual combination among the BRC population. I myself am into none of these things as I hate fun, am uncomfortable with heights and fear fire, so I was content to sit and drink Tang®-based cocktails. 

Don't have herpes yet? No prob, our camp also had a kissing booth.

It brings the total number of Tina Turner
film references at Burning Man to 1.

The excellently named camp Deathguild even has its own Thunderdome where participants wail on each other with foam-covered baseball bats while suspended from bungee harnesses. Apparently they often draw blood...because that's fun. Anyway, as you can imagine, I didn't go in. Incidentally, the fine print on the tickets to Burning Man absolves the event of any liability in the event of your death due to heatstroke, dehydration or Thunderdome.

"Yeah, fine, whatever, Master Blaster runs Bartertown. Where's the bar?"

Another common sight at Burning Man:
filthy, filthy hippies doing yoga.

In addition to the partying, drinking, and pervasive stilt-related collar-bone injuries there's also a sort of spiritual/hippie component going on. It's easy to understand given the awesome beauty of the desert and the atmosphere of love and inclusiveness that surrounds and penetrates the whole festival. On the other hand the event began with some dude burning an effigy of the guy that was boning his girlfriend (it's sort of America's Guy Fawkes Night), so take it for what you will.

The Temple. People come here between dubstep and
pegging workshops to cry. Don't know what pegging is?
Then don't click on this. What? I did warn you.

Anyway, some of the best stuff at Burning Man happens at night, and much of it involves fire. Here's some shots of things burning:

There was a life-sized pirate wreck you could explore. It was edutaining.
Like all 18th century sailing vessels, this one shoots fire.

Here's a mock-up of Wallstreet. Shortly after it burned, financial institutions
ended predatory loan practices, tax loopholes for the ultra-rich were closed and
corporate personhood was abolished. Social inequality: solved.

Here's the man ablaze. Fuck that guy.

If you didn't need to click on the Puppeteer
link, add +10 to your nerd roll.

Anyway, I mentioned fire tornadoes earlier. Look, I'm not too proud to admit that when confronted by a flaming pillar of smoke and ash heading my way, it's my policy to move in the opposite direction. So when the base of the Man started shooting flamenadoes, I booked it like the Puppeteers from the core explosion. Before you judge me, keep in mind that these were tornadoes made of flame. Here, during my strategic retreat, I managed to snap a couple shots:

They were either the result of updrafts created by the intense heat of the
burning base structure or possibly some sort of hell portal.

Yup, I'm going with hell portal.

After the Man burns down, some people like to run through the
flaming embers and half-molten nails. We call these people idiots.