Closet Theist: House, MD

The eponymous character of “House” recurrently, vehemently rants about religion and faith.

Nothing a little Oxycontin won’t fix
The bad doctor’s atheism is so adamant we perceive the doubt in it. Occasionally an episode pits him against a “miracle” that thwarts his wizardry, giving us a glimpse into his tortured, brilliant heart; a small, satisfying insight into the limits of empirical logic. We like seeing his cynical god-like façade peeled back and the possibility of an upper-case God being suggested.

House’s unspoken gift and dirty secret is intuition. On strict percentages, there’s a one in a trillion chance of him consistently zeroing in among near-infinite causalities to find a cure every damn show. There’s always that tinkling music moment when he connects disparate, inspired puzzle parts.

The breakthrough is always the supra-logic of intuition. It’s his shadow ally, his unacknowledged partner, it’s his M.O. and S.O. It attends him faithfully, but while he’ll own to Vicodin addiction, he’d sooner shoot his piano than admit dependence upon something so ineffable as a higher power. That could lead to eleven other steps; that could lead to liberation from his addiction, that could result in the show being lame.

House is cool because he is lame on his own resolute terms. God love him.

The Real Immigration Problem

We booted them out 230 years ago, but Brits resurface with annoying frequency. They have no proper sense of having been conquered, least so in the past century having their asses saved from being conquered—they just keep showing up and interfering.

The 60s British Invasion was cute until the Beatles got the whole country on pot, playing sitars, marching on Birmingham and protesting our war. That other goat-worshiping Brit band refuses to die despite decomposing, thanks botox. What’s even more irritating, they freely admit that they got their music from our negroes. Ours.

Recently, Brits interfered with national security— that guy from the Guardian lands a nice young NSA employee in exile by revealing surveillance secrets no respectable US publication would touch, since obviously spying on everyone is the only way to prevent totalitarian doom and the paranoia it breeds...a limey comedian on Comedy Central goes on fierce, comprehensible rants explaining finely crafted American propaganda—how is that funny?—and this hairy, feral tattooed one with an accent thicker than Eliza Doolittle on thorazine picks fights with Sean Hannity and Bill O’Reilly since obviously the Irish must be suppressed if they can afford 25-hundred dollar suits. Why the hell aren’t they over in their own damn country giving Maggie Thatcher a hard time?

It just doesn’t figure why Congress is obsessed with immigrants on the wrong border.

Physicist Knows What Matters

Richard Feynman, father of quantum mechanics, describes how 
to elude complexity in order to understand it. Or something.












 



Learning curve shortcut:




How To Hypnotize Sea Monkeys

You’re nine and you’ve figured out there’s a lot of stuff being kept secret from you. There’s also a ton of stuff you know for an absolute fact that everybody else is ignoring. You’re surrounded by so much mystery, opportunity and stupidity it’s maddening.
Like a map to Narnia via a suburb of Hades
You know they’re awesome
Your first subject is that girl with the braids

Nine is the threshold of metaphysical awakening, and into your desperate need for mystical knowledge comes the Johnson Smith Company. Their novelty catalog ads are in the back of every super hero comic; unimpugnable proof of honorable business dealings.

The ads have teasers for x-ray glasses and radio pens and your head knows this stuff’s shit but your heart senses there’s something deeper going on. After some brief soul-searching you spring for the fifty cents and wait by the mailbox.

When the catalog arrives, you know you’ve found a map to the grail. On each page of deep, rich, studied chaos are gadgets, gizmos, books and lore that stir profound feelings. You still know the stuff is shit, but it is so forthrightly declared, vastly varied, lavishly illustrated and reasonably priced it’s like an obligation to reward them with your patronage.

Of COURSE they won’t work. That’s not the point.
In so doing, you enter the revealed world of consumerism. Transactional awareness is born; each dime has a newly distinct meaning and each carefully chosen purchase is weighed against the complicit bullshit that commanded your attention versus the intrinsic value of the object itself. Full awareness you’re being gulled is measured in token for the materialized evidence of your need to be gulled. Johnson Smith and Company knew every inch of the gullibility terrain, and they took you straight to it, like Oz cheerfully yanking open the curtain.

It’s good to see the Johnson Smith Company still thriving, with a robust website and a Better Business Bureau A+ rating. They still carry stuff they had 50 years ago but have shed their formerly demure prurient offerings for borderline porn and feature the like of infomercial gadgetry and Star Trek phasers. “Live long and prosper” suits this iconic company. Metaphysics of this order shouldn’t be left to amateurs.


Oh, No He Dih-int.

This doesn’t seem to fall into the fiction category.
Grisham writes law fictions.
Since it doesn’t look like fiction, the author attribution must be a hoax.
And anyway, if it’s factual, it’s probably just a yawn.

Art Imitates Death

The gallery was a makeshift affair on a desolate lower west side block; the enormous paintings had been craned in through the loft building’s half demolished roof and no provisions had been made for their subsequent removal after roof repairs were hastily completed and the interior prepped for the opening. The paintings were effectively entombed.
The artist’s will had stipulated the works for display, all with prices so obscene that their purchase and need for removal was remote anyway. But the will also landed a upon the noted promoter a sum commensurate with his formidable guest list.
Gallery opening prior to evacuation and destruction
The opening announcement’s absurd scheduled seance attracted a crowd of young trust fund goths but less predictable were small groups of outlaw bikers, glitterati and inscrutable Silicon Alley billionaire types who smirked their respective amusement when the cheesy occult proceedings were busted by an obviously staged raid.
Then the whole cast was suddenly busted by what appeared to be an actual raid by NYPD undercover cops, simultaneous with urgent demands to immediately evacuate the premises. Doubtful stragglers were caught desperately racing for exits when the place shuddered with the first explosions.
Only when the adjacent building’s wall collapsed onto it in a grim cloud of dust did the gallery’s last lights fade on its huge doomed canvases.
The stunned crowd was ordered back and cordoned off, eventually dispersing into the night, away from the flashing emergency lights and sirens.
No one later interviewed had any recollection of the artist’s name or cause of death. No paintings were reported sold.
The promoter, following legal machinations and fines was besieged by pleas for representation, predominantly by a new wave of suicidal deconstructionists.

Chuck Croll — Internet Jedi

Found a chat site for beleaguered bloggers and a dude named “nitecruzr,” aka Chuck Croll posted a remedy that seemed to fix my pirate problem.

He just came out of nowhere and fixed it.

So I’m putting a link here to Chuck the internet Jedi. Because whitehat heroes are good to know.
Plus he’s a nut for cats. I borrowed the gif from his site.

Google Blogspot Harbors Hackers

Blogspot runs this site and about a million others, for free. At those prices, get in line if your blog is overrun by pirate sites. This site has been hacked into for months—if you’re even reading this, it’s likely because you pushed “back” a dozen times until this pirate phishing site stopped force- loading over the real page.
There are a couple other competing cockroach URL redirects that force-load over this blog... including, predictably, porn stuff. Since Blogspot is for code-illiterate laymen, surely Google has remedies for such cyber evil-doing?

Google’s “Send Feedback” is supposed to help bloggers with problems. It doesn’t. Dozens of problem reports= zero responses. Zero help, zero support, zero concern.
 Zero precisely correlates to my cost (absent countless hours of content creation)—but it also sums up Google’s value to customers—unless you count hackers, pirates and porn purveyors.

Schwa de Vivre

Since cursive handwriting is disappearing, all finer points of written or spoken English are doubtless soon doomed too, so sticking up for the schwa is like rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers, but I’m going for it.

The schwa (ə) is the most common vowel sound. A, E, I, O, U and Y vowels are all frequently pronounced with a short, neutral schwa sound. The e in “vowel” is a schwa, so’s the a in “local,” the i in “pencil”— so forth—just in case you’re recently born or were sick that day in English studies.

Increasingly, this seemingly irrelevant yet ubiquitous sound has morphed. In the mouths of more and more young women, all vowels are now pronounced “oah,” so the schwa becomes a pronounced and drawn-out “ah.”

As schwas occur often, the valleygirl speech affect causes their mouths to take on a perpetual aspect of awaiting a surprise insertion. And the unassuming schwa is embarrassed no end. Please have pity.

Meanwhile, Just Use Some Spit


Humans had a fourteen hundred year brainfart.

R.D. Laing Walks Into a Bar with Ayn Rand


“Palavers?” said the skeptical bartender.

Cattle Mutilation? Wasn’t Me.

Some mornings are touch and go.

Another Puntoon

The clever self-taught might know what this awful visual pun is scratching at.
(click picture in its own window and answer is revealed)

Moore’s the Pity Law


Gordon Moore predicted that every 18 months or so machines get twice as fast—and get cheaper.

More—for less! It’s worked since Moore made his prediction in 1965. Our labors are fewer, our burdens lighter and our productivity greater than ever in human history.

The power of mind and technology has eclipsed all advancements since the dawn of civilization in 40 short years!

Vast, unstressed leisure time makes for flourishing arts and culture and the charitable milk of human kindness is evident everywhere.

Because we have more! And there is more still—exponentially more!

See Attle

Seattle is a state of don’t mind. It’s where you don’t mind spectacular unseen scenery, don’t mind mossy socks and knickers, don’t mind shaving around prehensile gills and don’t mind perpetual seasonal affect disorder expressed as genial optimism. It is the ultimate getaway for the delusional, with highest per capita sales of sunglasses and your choice of medical or recreational marijuana dispensaries. Catch the buzz. The buzz is Seattle.

And The Poop Disappears, Too!

Family gag—7th grade woodshop—don’t ask.

A Star, a Script— And Funding Cratered

Couldn’t make our Kickstarter nut.

Cat Encouragement Fail

Might've crossed the line on peer pressure.

Think or Sink

Somebody’s still writing philosophy books, wow.
“Brief” is in the title but it’s still about three thousand tweets long.

Here’s a Twitter synopsis:
Money competes with God for our brain. Argue a couple millennia. No clear winner but money’s got the edge since God pays a suckier salary.

Okay, that’s kind of a lie— Luc is actually pretty soft on the idea of higher ideals. He’s for instance not a fan of Nietzsche. Spends a lot of ink going after the “God is dead” guy— which is weird since anybody who claims the death of an Immortal Eternal just plainly craves attention. But in philosophy, you can cover your eyes, smirk and declare “you can’t see me” and it’ll launch a hundred excited egghead arguments.

I’m more a fan of the applied sciences— curing disease, figuring out how to stick up longer bridges and taller buildings, shooting dune buggies onto Mars. I also prefer just drawing conclusions from obvious evidence. Quantum physics is nuts, they’re torturing all logic and sense— look what it’s done to poor Stevie Hawking. The bionic man ain’t what it used to be, any more than the future is.

So I look around me right now to see how that God vs. Money argument’s going and draw my conclusions on the evidence, using tried and true scientific observation:

Talking To My Cat


I bore him to distraction.

Porn Aversion Therapy

Banishing the scourge of smut.
(Caution: aggravates symptoms for the over-60 set)

Reality Isn’t If Untelevised

The only  proof of existence is TV. Being off-camera is being a tree in a forest in Mongolia in a zud. Don’t be irrelevant, be famous. Everyone was promised their fifteen seconds by a mystical, ghostly wizard from Pittsburgh late last century. Okay, rounding errors and sequestration have altered the numbers, but still.

To get on TV you need to have killer connections or surrender all  morality and dignity. Or, less redundantly, you need to be resourceful. Crushing up against the Times Square morning show broadcast windows only counts as being a televised shrub in a zud, think bigger.

Offer to polish Donald Trump’s pinky ring with personal adrenaline fluid while under lethal injection. Juggle burning kittens at a Tea Party rally. Hire a blind, autistic personal stylist, pump up your tattoos with some ’roids and an S&M fitness regime, have a double sex change, create a religion based on incontinence, unionize sperm donors, get busy and get famous!

Remember: the world’s your oyster, and you’re its saliva!

Sorry About That.

A Zud spokesman extended apologies to the residents of Mongolia, where the maiden launch of collaborative missile project with Raytheon went awry.

“Obviously, this is a disappointing setback for our defense systems initiative, and a full investigation is underway to determine the cause. Ongoing talks with the Pentagon promise future interest in the program’s potential as a livestock deterrent.”

The affected residents of Mongolia, an 87 year old farmer and his wife, seven yaks, eleven sheep, nine goats and a dog refused evacuation for medical attention.

Through an interpreter, the farmer, who huddled nearby the burning wreckage remarked that “this is the warmest I’ve been in half a century.”