This blog covers everything except sports and gardening, unless we find a really good link about using dead professional bowlers for mulch. The author is a StarTribune columnist, has been passing off fiction and hyperbole as insight since 1997, has run his own website since the Jurassic era of AOL, and was online when today’s college sophomores were a year away from being born. So get off his lawn.

City to require clothes

Posted by: James Lileks under Gripes, Outstate Updated: October 3, 2012 - 12:04 PM

Nothing gives a day a little extra zing! like t-boning a police car. So I’m glad I didn’t. Almost happened, though. Here’s how it went down, as people who think they sound cool because they’re quoting “street” lingo from a 70s cop show.

Location: exit ramp off 35W into downtown. Situation: four lanes of cars patiently waiting for the light to change; no one’s going to jump the gun or screech out of the blocks, because there’s a squad car in lane #1. I’m in lane #3. The light changes to green . .

. . . and a BIDvac ambles across the street. That’s right! A BIDvac! Couldn’t believe it myself! Note: I just made up that term, because I don’t know what the thing is actually called. BID is Business Improvement District, though - they hire the greenshirts who wander around cleaning things, giving directions, and making downtown incrementally better. The vac was the vehicle, painted bright BID green, with a huge hose coming out the back, curling over the top. Picture a forklift without the tines. They use the hose to gather up garbage, or set the motor in reverse and blow it all towards St. Paul. Anyway, the guy is driving on the sidewalk . . . goes through the red . . . at forklift speed . . . looking at us, the cars, waiting in the gate . . . and he’s talking on his cellphone.

I don’t know what the other drivers did, but I gave him the upraised palm, the universally understood symbol for “Dude! What? Seriously?” I advanced into the intersection to continue to the office, and HOLY WHOA braaaakes because the squad car had swung around from lane one at high speed through a very limited window of time and space, cut across our paths and initiated a pursuit Mr. BIDvac. The cop was not happy, and I half-expected him to jump the curb and PIT the guy

So Mr. BIDvac got a ticket for driving a vacuum cleaner. Not the sort of thing that makes you feel like the manliest man on the planet.

 

 

EWWWW San Francisco, IIRC, passed a law a while ago that banned nudity in restaurants. At the very least you had to put a towel down. People warned that this was just the start - why, the next thing you know these fascists will ban the altogether altogether. Fears of such Comstockery were not misplaced:

 

Citing a sizable and inappropriate rise in public nudity in San Francisco’s Castro district, Supervisor Scott Wiener introduced legislation Tuesday to expand restrictions on what he called an “ad hoc nudist colony” cavorting around The City’s streets and plazas.

This presupposes that there’s an appropriaterise in public nudity. Another only-in-SF moment:

Earlier this month, Wiener expressed annoyance at the increased prevalence of genital-stimulating jewelry designed to maintain an erection and draw looks from others.

Annoyance at the jewelry? At its prevalence? At its increased prevalence? Not to say that we should return to the era where men were required by society to wear sixteen layers of wool on the hottest day of the year, but if you’re dancing down the boulevard all nagoy and panhandled, that ought to get you arrested. Nudism is on thing; pathological exhibitionism is another.

Ah, but I’m just all hung up on self-image issues. As one comment says:

We are so freaked out by our own bodies. I applaud those brave souls who are able to move beyond the self hatred we have been taught.

Oh, they’ve moved beyond self-hatred, I think. Quite a distance. 

NERD It never ends. More pointless Star Wars art. This time, bunnies are involved. 

 

 

Art by Kelly Kerrigan, via i09.

I am so sick of Star Wars, especially trying to convince people that Episode II is better than VI. I don’t know why this is in dispute. Perhaps because everyone loves to pour hate on the prequels, and for good reason: Ep 1 is a movie for 12-year-olds, Ep 3 is a brain-boiling assault of empty CGI ending in an interminable and preposterous fight on The Molten Lava Planet (every planet has one defining geological / meteorological aspect - obviously Tatooine is nothing but desert, which is why people settled there) and it leaves you with Vader shouting DO NOT WANT. But 2 was okay. Certainly better than 6.

Ep 2: Actual views of the Republic’s culture, with lots of scenes set in Trantor. (Sorry, Coruscant.) (Which is a stupid name.) Backstore revelations: the creation of the Clone Army, based on Papa Fett; the plans for the Death Star revealed on the Chittery Insect Planet; one of John Williams’ most complex scores; awesome battle at the end, with Yoda as some sort of Mini-Churchill. Best sound effect of the prequel: the sonic torpedo, or whatever it was called, loosed by Fett pere as they zipped through an asteroid belt. Actual moment of Vaderism in the otherwise dull character of Annakin: I killed them all! Even the children! Well, he’d get good at that.

Ep 6: Bleepin’ Ewoks; rote family-connection plot point; Ewoks; another Death Star; unconvincing Force Lightning FX; that long yes-yes-feel-the-hate-flow-through-you stuff; Darth Vader’s redemption, which is cheap, unearned, and happens only because the writer said it had to happen. This is the problem with the entire Star Wars movie series. It’s basically about the #2 Nazi in the Galaxy, and because he throws Hitler down a hole before he dies, ALL IS FORGIVEN. He gets to go to blue sparkly Jedi heaven at the end. Yes, he played an integral role in the deaths of billions, but hey, in the end he just couldn’t stand there while his boss wailed on his son.

That’s all. Stop reading! Go outside. It might not be the last warm day of the year, but it’s the last one this week, and it’s nothing but 50s in the future. See you around.

 

 

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