Apes and evolution

Something is happening which is not happening.
Something is happening that is not happening at all.

Exams are coming up next week and of course it's one of the most beautiful weeks we've had here in a while. Thanks, Justice-delivering Weather Gods. (Dicks.) He kicks himself in the now fairly-well-dented-from-kicking region for not using some of that long-gone "free time" to do a better job of preparing for exams gradually. When will he learn? "Probably never," he whispers to himself under his breath and laughs a mocking laugh thinking, "How could such a self-destructive personality be the result of thousands of years of evolution?" He proceeds to wonder how he might have been as an ancient ape and falls into a deep reverie, failing to make any progress on the mountain of 17th and 18th century Spanish poetry books he has yet to scale. Coming back to himself a long while later, he thinks "If the above were more than a just a bad metaphor for “a lot of work,” it would probably be quite helpful to have an ape-like physique to climb said mountain of books. Climbing books might even be fun. You could build some really cool obstacles with books. Suddenly receiving a neural message from his more others-focused side (that is to say, his less egocentric side), he mulls “Maybe there is some way to blend the activities of climbing and reading books that could be designed into a low-cost, after-school activity and implemented in underfunded school districts to encourage kids to read. Leaving that puzzle for another time the ape scratches his head and tries to understand this habit he's developed of going on epic mental journeys of late. He remembers the mountain of books and proceeds to ask himself (rhetorically) why he is so averse to sitting down and doing as much of the work in front of him that he can in the time he has left, like any reasonable ape would do. But before he can move forward with that train of thought, he finds himself overwhelmed by a craving for potassium, so he leaves his room, pulling himself along on his knuckles and starts on his way to the nearest banana grove, which is somewhere in Africa. He was never very good at thinking things through before acting. Upon arriving at the spot where his landmass meets the indifferent and bananaless ocean, he sighs deeply, sits on a rock, and wonders why he can’t ever seem to get to where he’s going.

HIDING THE BALL

clipped from www.mcsweeneys.net HIDING THE BALL IN PRESIDENTIAL INTERVIEWS: HOW THE LIBERAL MEDIA CAN FINALLY ASK THE QUESTIONS THEY'RE DYING TO ASK. BY JASON KELLETT Mr. President, we have all heard the reports that you are extremely health-conscious—exercising daily, eating right, and making sure you get to bed at a decent hour. But with all the stress that comes along with being the leader of the free world, I imagine there must be days when you find yourself hard-pressed to find time to run. And as for healthy sleep patterns, I know when I'm under a great deal of stress I sometimes lie in bed tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning. I've tried Ambien, warm milk, sheep-counting. Nothing seems to help. So tell me, Mr. President, how do you sleep at night?

Liberal Media ask President questions they've been burning to ask

clipped from www.mcsweeneys.net A while back, a wire story on the contents of your personal iPod reported that you were listening to the Knack, Credence Clearwater Revival, and Van Morrison. Noticeably absent from the reported playlist at that time were any classic '70s soul-music artists such as Al Green or James Brown. Perhaps you have added some Marvin Gaye to the rotation since that story. I wonder if you'd like to update us on your current iPod selections. Have you no soul, Mr. President? On my tour of the White House, I noticed that the hall leading from the Oval Office to the press room is devoid of mirrors or reflective surfaces of any kind. Now, surely you sometimes want to make sure your tie is straight or your hair is fixed before a press conference. How do you even look at yourself in the mirror?

Borowitz Shouts and Murmers on NYC Real-estate

clipped from www.newyorker.com RARELY AVAILABLE corner unit in circular building. Dramatic floor-to-ceiling walls. Breathtaking, massively proportioned mortgage. This one won’t last: moisture-drenched BR was formerly home to one of New York’s oldest families of termites. Original mold throughout. Architect-designed, carpenter-built, and painter-painted, this 400 sq. ft. jewel box has been lovingly overpriced at $2.8M. Specious! ,

Geece Pictures

I just added a new Picasa Web Gallery of what I think are the best of my Greece pictures. Feel free to take a look if the disposition strikes you. I think they're pretty decent for the most part.

http://picasaweb.google.com/aaron8008/Spetses

Comments welcome

Politicial Mudslinging and a nice reader response

Nicely put. I'm a fan of the ending

clipped from andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com A reader writes: Is it wrong for me to want to smack the shit out of the Clinton advisor who provided that quote?  You would think by the way Hillary barely won in New Hampshire, she'd go the extra mile to make sure that no one in her staff says some asinine comment that can only serve to alienate the very same voters that cost her Iowa.  Oh, I forgot, she's become inevitable again. I'm a 29 year old third generation veteran with plenty of real hip black friends.  I pay out the ass in medical insurance.  My father died from exposure to Agent Orange.  There are plenty of causes for which HRC could latch her boat onto with people like me.  Instead, the vile hubris that flows like a river in her camp from the top down has sickened me beyond belief.  Hey campaign adviser, I support Obama for his real, tangible principles, you pompous dick.

The Spetses Adventure, First Installment

We were on the Flying Dolphin and halfway to the island when she looked over and said, "I should probably call my Mum."

"Mum, hi. Yes, it's Katerina, your daughter. Yes, Mum, I'm coming today. Mum, I have a friend with me and he's staying for Christmas. What should I do?"

Needless to say, this is not exactly the conversation I was expecting to overhear.

"Well," said Margaret, "I suppose you should bring him here and tell your father that he's a friend of yours from school who had no where to go for Christmas. That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

So here I am in the middle of some Greek ocean waters, unspecial--I would come to learn that Katerina always brings someone home with her when she decides to come home because she has a rocky relationship with her father who simply doesn't understand why she insists on running off to live on other land masses when she could just stay on Spetes, take over one of the hotels and lead a happy Greek life like her younger sister Kristiana, who never struck me as being particularly happy--AND unexpected. Surprise! Another stranger will be dining with us on Christmas! Naturally I felt a little uneasy. "I told you I wasn't very organized," she said. I smiled a smile, laughed a confused laugh, and sat nursing my bruised ego while drifting in and out of sleep with the little Greek waves until we arrived at Spetses.


(More to come)