So you know about the siege on Russian theater-goers, right? Don’t need to provide a summary, right?

You know, of course, this shit is going to happen here…soon. The demands will not be met and many will die. Why? Because demands are NEVER met and people ALWAYS die. If anything, the ransoming terrorists are not seeking the concession of their terms by those under siege. They merely want to get their cause brought to the front page of PRAVDA. They know they’re going to die. We know they’re going to die. They know there is no way Russia will withdraw troops from Chechnya and then let them walk out of the theater. This is all obvious to everyone involved.

What I don’t understand is why the ransomers/hostage-takers sometimes let the women and children go, or in this case, the Muslims. Or they let the children go and then keep the parents.

“Go on little one, you don’t deserve this, but we’re going to murder your parents.”

And now the international community is rallying for non-Russian hostages to be freed!

“You, are you Russian or French?”

“French!”

“You may go then.”

“Just kidding! I’m really Russian!”

Here’s a thought: most of those Russians probably don’t endorse any unfair occupation in Chechnya, most are just there to enjoy a night at the theater.

So what’s the difference between a rebel and a terrorist. A simplistic comparison would be that rebels fight the status quo directly while terrorist fight it indirectly. Both are willing to fight, but the terrorist is, by my divided American logic, less honorable than the rebel. So what happens when the terrorist spares what are commonly considered “the innocents?” Hell if I know. I’m asking YOU! What’s that? Yes, I realize it’s complicated.

Perhaps the honorable terrorist, such as seen in the Russian theater siege, is more politically savvy that your run-of-the-mill fly-planes-into-buildings-and-kill-everyone terrorist. The latter terrorist only becomes a martyr to a select group of people who already feel the same. The honorable terrorist may be able to elicit sympathy from the enemy which would be more important for the cause than just receiving praise from the family.

Last night I dreamed that I was Junior Soprano. I sat in a large room about to be incinerated by rocket engines, and I was pissed. Not the kind of pissed that leads to ranting, though. This was more of a muttering under the breath kind of pissed. So I sat still in the doorless room and waited for the inevitable firing of the engines. A little fuel touched my face just before the engines let loose, and I thought it felt cool and dry. Heat came on me like an idea, but my death came so quickly after the heat that it dissipated like ideas do, quickly and with no trace.

I fell through the floor and into air that felt thick and slow like water. When I landed, I noticed a sudden lack of senses. For a moment, I marveled in the years I spent not appreciating the senses. Stories of the deaf and dumb are common, and we know well that the loss of one sense will often enhance the abilities of another, but to lose all senses leaves the brain with an enormous task, the chore of imagining how everything must feel, taste, smell, look and sound. I couldn’t see or hear shit, let alone feel, taste or smell anything. But I knew I was standing, and I began to imagine what must be surrounding me.

The light of the world slowly came on like it was on a dimmer switch. I was on my street but it looked like the one that Donnie Darko lives on, with green grass in front of every house and eighties bands playing electronically in the distance. At first I couldn’t walk, just fly. I flew all around the neighborhood, looking for Heidi, calling for her. I learned to walk by simply flying from one step to another. Not as easy as it sounds when you can’t feel the ground.

The neighborhood began to look more and more like ours here in Woodland, with the brown lawns, RVs and older people scooting around in their Larks. I found my house and the lawn was completely dead, the paint was pealing off of the rotting eaves and my truck sat in the driveway with flat tires, a busted windshield and a thick layer of dirt all over. I flew-walked to the door and there was a note. It read: You went to the store and will be back in a moment unless you are already here.

I tried to decide which store Heidi would have gone to. I flew to the Nugget and rush threw the aisles. I flew to the Raley’s but still could not find her. I was flying so fast I couldn’t even see the street. I flew back home and it was gone, demolished and replaced by another housing development.

And then I woke up, scratched my head and went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror. It was me, not Junior, and I realized that I was late for work. On the way I had to stop at a street light after making a turn. The light was already yellow as I turned and seemed to take forever to go red, so long in fact that several cars were able to zoom by me and get through. I thought that it was strange how the light seemed so slow when you aren’t moving, yet it was a mere second when you were trying to beat it, attempting to get through before it changed.

I figured that this sensation must have been the case in my dream. I was flying so fast that time was accelerating just as it does when one approaches the speed of light. The same principal must apply to our earthly level of speed too, and the faster we go in our cars, the less time we really have. If this is true, the older people on their Larks must feel like they have all the time in the world.

Today I found a loaded water balloon in the men’s bathroom at the In-n-Out Burger in Davis. The white corian counter surrounding the sink was wet as well as the balloon sitting on top of the counter. Wet and slippery. I began the ritual of hand washing. Water ran warm, hands splashed, soap lathered, hands rinsed. Right after hands rinsed, I couldn’t help myself. I had to touch it. So I squashed it quickly and forcefully, felt its fleshy resistance. The bouncy tension of the balloon satisfied me momentarily while the wetness of my hand and of the balloon adding a dash of sensuality to the experience.

You must know my next urge. There, in front of me, is a water balloon left unclaimed like a grenade without a pin. No one else was in the bathroom. I could just pick it up and smash it on the nearest wall. SPLOOSH! It would issue forth a miniature tidal wave of splashy goodness. My mind predicted the exact movement and explosion in slow motion. The hairs on my arm stood erect. Or I could pocket the jiggly treasure and huck it from the window of the car at a helmeted Davis biker. Watch it saturate their newly made tie-die tshirt. WHAT FUN IT WOULD BE! A scream and cloud of dust as their bike would skid out of control and into the eventual endo.

Then I considered for a moment just why someone would leave a perfectly swell water balloon perched on the counter of an In-n-Out Burger. Was it filled with three boy’s worth of urine, cooled in the crystal waters of the toilet, washed in the sink to throw off the scent and left as a prank on the counter? The latex of the balloon was a deep purple, so there was no way to tell. The culprits would surely know that someone, probably some suited drone who’d lost his youth would not be able to stop himself from hurling it immediately! And then to be confronted with a mist of urine upon impact! What a wicked twist!

Of course, the contents of the balloon could be much more sinister than mere urine. As I rolled the wet balloon around the counter with the palm of my hand I thought that a terrorist could have filled it with a deadly, super-concentrated biological agent that would immediately rush down the drain of the bathroom and infect the entire water supply of this sleepy college town, eradicate the massive population of students and professors, put every Volvo mechanic within 30 miles out of business, force all of us Woodlanders to go to Sacramento for Thai food.

So I left it on the counter, released my palm from the top of the balloon and watched it hop back into its original shape. As I ate my double-double with cheese, all I could think about was how the damned terrorists had won again.

Here’s a few silly photoshops made from the Apple.com site. Don’t worry, Stephan, I’m not including yours! If you are an Apple lawyer, please read the following disclaimer.

Dear Apple:

These are parodies, not defamations. I think your products are good and healthy for people. I would never say an unkind word against you. You are not a big, evil company like Microsoft.

Love,
Dave

On with the pictures….

• Porn Switch
• Switch Bitch
• Hip Switch
• Small Switch
• Hitler Switch

I’m back from Montana and working on some new blahgs. For now though, please enjoy…

Five haiku for The Cripes

The Roadhouse is where
The Cripes came to kick some ass
Indeed, ass was kicked

Nigel is on bass
So bearded so rugged so
Not Influenza’s

Chris beats on his drums
Until the snare breaks apart
Sweat seeps through his shirt

Bob dominates me
Whipping fingers and stern voice
I must crap my pants

Mark’s voice is so soft
Like the two-ply tissue that
Wipes blood from my ass