My state of things. ATTN: equilugubrium is defunct. Stephen Fraser now maintains Tenebris (www.salutor.com), a blog about independent publishing.
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Friday
Had dinner and drinks last night at Breadmen's with a collection of people I knew in Chapel Hill back in 1992-93. Fun. I still feel disoriented sometimes being back here.

'Shadow of the Vampire' is a new movie that depicts the making of the classic silent film, Nosferatu. Willem Dafoe plays the monster himself, John Malkovich the preening director, and Eddie Izzard the dense, powdered leading man. Sounds really interesting, to me. Hope it comes to Durham. Here's the trailer (requires RealPlayer).

Link to Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire homepage. This is a great band, and the website will offer an .MP3 file each month in January, February, and March of three songs that will NOT appear on the next album. Go see them when they go on tour in Spring.

From the stupid e-mailed jokes category:

How to Satisfy a Woman Every Time

Caress, praise, pamper, relish, savor, massage, make plans with, fix for, empathize, serenade, compliment, support, feed, tantalize, bathe, humor, placate, stimulate, jiffylube, stroke, console, purr, hug, coddle, excite, pacify, protect, phone, correspond with, anticipate, nuzzle, smooch, toast, minister to, forgive, sacrifice for, ply, accessorize, leave, return to, beseech, entertain, charm, tug, drag, crawl, respect, spackle, oblige, fascinate, attend, implore, cry for, shower, shave, trust, grovel, ignore, defend, coax, clothe, brag about, acquiesce to, fuse, fizz, detoxify, sanctify, help, acknowledge, polish, upgrade, spoil, embrace, accept, butter-up, hear, understand, jitterbug with, beg, plead, borrow, steal, climb, swim, nurse, resuscitate, repair, patch, entertain, calm, allay fears of, kill for, die for, dream of, promise, deliver, tease, flirt, commit, pine, cajole, murmur to, snuggle with, elevate, spotweld, serve, rub, rib, salve, bite, taste, nibble, gratify, take her places, scuttle like a crab on the ocean floor of her existence, ball, diddle, doodle, hokey-pokey, hanky-panky, sweet-talk, persuade, flip, flop, fly, don't care if I die, swing, slip, slide, slather, mollycoddle, squeeze, moisturize, humidify, lather, tingle, wetten, slicken, wriggle, gelatinize, brush, tingle, dribble, drip, dry, knead, fluff, fold, wax, ingratiate, indulge, wow, dazzle, amaze, flabbergast, enchant, idolize and worship . . . then go back, Jack, and DO IT AGAIN.

How to Satisfy a Man Every Time

Show up naked.

Like that? (unlikely) Check out the Ages of Women and Men.


Thursday
 

Just in: A photo of me finishing the Raleigh marathon, a strained grin cracking my pasty, salt-encrusted face. 3 hours, 13 minutes, 12 seconds. My teeth are not that bad. It's just that the shirt was really white.

WWW Virtual Library, another good reference portal. Thanks to L.

I can't believe that I just spent 30 minutes tracking down the details of this stupid British e-mail scandal. How disappointing.

 

This struck me as a funny site, stumbled upon at random: a survey to determine what sort of man you are on the postmodern spectrum. Excerpt:
Subject: What kind of a man are you?
. . . a. An Unreconstructed Male
. . . b. A Right-on Male
. . . c. A Rogue Male or
. . . d. A Delivery Boy of the New Male Order?

Find Out Below.

1. A woman whispers "Do me now, big boy..." in your ear. She is
obviously
:
. . . a)Short sighted.
. . . b) Attempting to overcome a lack of self-esteem through
meaningless sexual gratification.
. . . c) Begging for it.
. . . d) A recording.

2. In the company of feminists, coitus should be referred to as:
. . . a) Sex.
. . . b) Fucking.
. . . c) Enclosure.
. . . d) The pigskin bus pulling into tuna town.

3. You should make love to a woman for the first time only after
you've both shared
:
. . . a) Your views about what you expect from a sexual relationship.
. . . b) Blood-test results.
. . . c) A cab.
. . . d) Five tequila slammers.

Here's a link I've been meaning to set up for some time as a separate page. Two e-mail chain letters, side-by-side. One is from McSweeney's, the other is real. Can you tell which is which?


Sunday
Merry Christmas, everyone.

Xmas karaoke
Long-term memories are surprisingly unstable.
An article on flirting, if you're bored.

As it turns out, one of the criteria for those to whom we are attracted appears at least partly to be the degree of genetic difference. Hmmmm.
These startling results suggested that animals might somehow be able to detect prospective mates whose MHC genes are more or less similar to their own and then to choose mates accordingly. They may have evolved such an ability because of MHC's importance in the immune system or simply because MHC sensibility is a way to distinguish relatives from nonrelatives and thus to avoid inbreeding. To find out, scientists have shifted their studies of mate choice from the more traditional variables of outward appearance to the realm of genetics.


I'm off to play Santa. Jingle, jingle.


Thursday
Well, the blog has been down for days and days and boy has it been annoying. Anyway, it's back up at least for the moment, and I am going to mass mail my friends to let them know it's working. I know that this may be an irritation to some. Let it be known that if you would prefer never to hear about the blog, just email me and I will remove you from my list with apologies.

I find the following article to be kind of funny and, since I spoke to Holly yesterday for the first time in a while and suggested that she check out the blog, this is for her: O.K., You're Gay. So? Where's My Grandchild? Once the shock wears off, parents will be parents.

Meteor shower will be visible from the US at 2:29am on Friday. Am I going to stay up that late? Not likely.

Here's one for Hashers: Brewing Company Plans 'Healthy Beer'. A little pick-me-up at mile 20?

Michael, Lauren, and whirlagirl may be amused by this: FuckedCompany.com - The Dot-com Deadpool
What is it?
Your classic deadpool is a game of picking celebrity deaths. Points are generally earned based on odds (which are usually based on the age of the celebrity).
FuckedCompany.com is a game based on the classic deadpool, but instead of betting for (or against) people, you're betting on companies. The lines are a little blurred when dealing with companies because there is rarely a clean-cut death. To make up for this, FuckedCompany.com rates different levels of a company's demise and awards points based on the level of severity. See official rules for more information on scoring.
FuckedCompany.com has also pretty much turned into the source for news about dot-com companies. Bad news, that is.

Tuesday
Survey Shows Sex Practices of Boys. Excerpt (good god):
According to the findings, more than 1 in 10 boys had engaged in anal intercourse, half had received oral sex from a girl, and slightly more than a third had performed oral sex on a girl.
The national survey found significant differences among racial and ethnic groups: black and Hispanic boys were almost twice as likely as whites to have had anal intercourse. White and Hispanic boys were about twice as likely as blacks to have performed oral sex on a girl. The study also found that while the percentage of black boys receiving oral sex more than doubled, to 56.9 percent, from 1988 to 1995, the percentage stayed relatively stable among white boys — at 50.3 percent — and among Hispanic boys, at 45.4 percent.
. . . .
And in an earlier survey of college freshmen and sophomores in the South, a quarter considered anal intercourse as abstinence, and more than a third thought the same of oral sex.

And they give the president a hard time. Former president. Near-former president. Ahhhh, school days.

This is odd news: suburban sprawl appears to date back 1,500 years, at least among the Mayans. I wonder if the kids in Mayan suburbs just cruised aimlessly (on foot) around Mayan markets (likened in the article to modern strip malls)?


Sunday

Saturday
Trying to learn to use HTML. Please excuse the mess.
A web site for globetrotters that describes events worth crashing all over the world. (for T.)
I am so pleased with my newly acquired skills that I am going to repost something from a couple of weeks ago along with a whistle:
I am making a standing suggestion that any friends who bear male children in the year 2001 consider naming the child Hal. All the cards at the baby shower will say, "Something wonderful is going to happen."


Friday
Matt sends this article, explaining that he has been spending his time delivering "fire and brimstone speeches to the working class" in the service of a "class war in Moab".

The Salt Lake Tribune: Moab Residents Fear Posh Housing Project Would Bring Headaches

Are you being treated like the great unwashed, Matt? Well, is there a reason for that?

Thursday
I am too conscious of the morons around me--the driver failing to use a turn signal, the swaggering idiot tossing a beer can out his car window, the mother spewing cigarette smoke into the face of her infant as she pulls him from the car--but the truth is that the world is equally full of courageous and capable people, whose efforts go largely unobserved until disaster strikes.

As it turns out, long-distance running depresses testosterone levels, which in turn increases one's likelihood of siring female offspring. As male offspring are determined by the relative speediness of the winning sperm, one can observe in this phenomenon a reverse correlation between a man's racing speed and the swiftness of his seed. This quirky article outlines some of the factors that influence whether one will produce male or female progeny. Here's an excerpt:
. . . humans have been doing crazy things to determine offspring gender for centuries. French noblemen of the 18th century pinched their left testicle during ejaculation, believing that the practice helped produce male heirs. At other times in human history, women wore men's clothing while having sex, men wore boots during coitus, couples copulated at midnight in the open air, and clothing was hung on a particular side of the bed, all in hopes of engendering a male. In Austria, midwives actually buried the placenta under a nut tree - to 'ensure' that the next child would have a penis.

I guess I'd rather have her dress up in men's clothing than pinch my left testicle during ejaculation.

On the to-do list when Kim and I visit London this spring, an excursion to the banks of the Thames to spend a day as mudlarks.

Pottery fragments, for example, blanket the tidal foreshore. Pipes, which were cheap and common from the introduction of tobacco in the 16th century, also litter the flats. They can often be dated by size and shape, or by makers' marks, and a single visit can yield an example from every century since Sir Walter Raleigh brought tobacco to the country.


I have no idea who, if anyone, looks at this blog, but let it be known that I am still looking for work here in the Triangle Area of North Carolina, preferably as a copywriter or creative project manager of some sort. But bagging groceries is starting to look pretty good, too.

Tuesday

Monday
Finally back. Well, yesterday I ran a marathon, or damn close to one. Sunday morning in Raleigh-Durham arrived amid rain, with temperatures in the thirties and every prospect of a miserable race. But the rain stopped as the sun rose, and while it warmed briefly as we started at 7:30, within the first hour a sharp wind brought the temperature down again near freezing. Bleak and gray and dull from the night's rain, the city was indifferent to the runners trotting through its streets. I tried briefly to persuade myself that I was running through Prague, an illusion that lasted exactly a mile. I ran alongside members of my track club who had set out to achieve a similar time, and was immeasurably aided by their company. Rachel, fiery and sardonic, was bound and determined to break 3:15, and Scott--a much more experienced and faster runner than either Rachel or I--accompanied us on the first twelve miles. After the first half, Scott was replaced by his relay-mate, the gruffer, but equally swift, Ralph, who kept Rachel and I on pace for the remainder of the course. Around mile twenty, Ralph effectively managed to divert my attention from the growing pain in my hips, ankles, and feet with a story about his father, who commanded a B-17 squadron in WWII, and who was shot down and spent the last year and a half of the war in a German POW camp. As the war ended, the Germans running this camp sought to evade capture by the Russians by abandoning the camp and force-marching the prisoners something like 120 miles through ice and snow to get to American territory. Many POWs, Ralph explained, died en route. Ralph's father carried one friend part of the way on his back. The man later became godfather to one of Ralph's brothers, in a family of seven children from San Anselmo, California. And all we had to do was finish the damn marathon. Anyway, were it not for this story, those few miles between 19 and 23 would have been unbearable. At 24, I began to feel as if the race was effectively over with and finally stopped worrying. At 25 I felt a burden lift and was able to speed up considerably, finishing strongly at 3:13:12, which was a very satisfying time. The results--if anyone is interested--are online. I came in 54th in a field of 1059 marathon runners. Kim put in a very cold shift as my support person, handed me a bottle of goop at the halfway point, then met me at the end. After getting my senses back, I observed runners in varying states of deterioration--Jim, the best of our club's runners participating in the race--ran an astounding 2:53, but was hypothermic for a couple of hours after the race. One stern looking fellow wandering around the finishers' area had bloody streaks where his nipples should be (see the "nipguards" from Dave Barry's Christmas list, by the way), and another sported blood-soaked socks from his resting place on one of the sports-massage tables. All in all, I felt surprisingly good. And I could even walk today, albeit barely. I say that I ran "damn close to a marathon" because there was an error on the part of the course marshals and some of us were diverted down the wrong street at one point, which may have trimmed up to .4 mile off the overall course, which makes my final time slightly less pleasing, but not much.

Wednesday
NASA applet that allows you to figure out when you can see the space station pass over your house.

Interview with the guy who created the "Andre the Giant has a Posse" phenomenon (via Catherine's Pita--this is, by the way, quite a well-known Blog with lots of interesting tidbits, among which I just discovered this little gem, an interview with Marlon Brando by Truman Capote from some time ago. I do love the web.)

Further drama regarding the Rodney Rothman piece from the New Yorker. I don't have much patience for this sort of thing. When making an argument or reporting on a situation, writers should be held to strict standards. What is presented as fact should be documented, and what is arguable should be acknowledged to be so. Just yesterday I ran across yet another story on the alleged illegal trade in body parts between third and first world countries, which is little more than a persistent myth. I have no patience for journalists who make no attempt to be objective and fair, and far too much nonsense is uncritically passed off as fact. That said, a writer who seeks to convey an idea (as opposed to communicating facts) cannot be held to a literal standard. Rothman wrote a "Personal History" piece that was not in the least intended to convey information. He did not even identify the company where he held his "Fake Job". If it is a report on anything, the story is a satiric record of the thought processes of its narrator. I suppose the New Yorker has its reputation to think about, but it mystifies me how anyone could extract an ethical dilemma from the story as it appears.

Tuesday

Sunday
Sunday. 2: 45 pm and not a damn flake of snow. The sun is shining in Durham. But the marathon was postponed and all the folks who drove and flew here to run today are probably gnashing their teeth as they pack their bags. Really, really sad. So much for 100% chance of snow overnight.

Saturday
MARATHON POSTPONED UNTIL NEXT SUNDAY. 8 INCHES ACCUMULATION OF SNOW EXPECTED IN TRIANGLE TOMORROW. Yikes.

Excellent mind-reading site. Imagine that you are either a sit-com character or a dictator, and then answer the questions. I was user number 44 who chose the Professor from Gilligan's Island.


Friday
Good blog day. Michael sends this corollary to Rodney Rothman's New Yorker story, "My Fake Job."

Rafer sends a link to actual video of the fried chicken head that appeared in the news yesterday. I personally don't understand what the big deal is--it looks delicious.

Funky Prehistoric Fish Lives!

On the down side--I spent five hours today doing nothing while a diagnostic program plumbed every cranny in my computer for flaws. This was, by the way, a program that I had been assured would take no more than an hour and ten minutes, at the most. Oh well.

A map of the marathon I will be running on Sunday. It is not a very scenic course. The primary consideration was, apparently, to avoid going past any churches. After briefly contemplating the possibility that runners were in some fashion allied with Satan, I realized that this was to avoid traffic problems on Sunday morning. Turns out we will be going by a prison, though. I woke up this morning feeling like crap and fearing that the cold I came down with last week might be morphing into a sinus infection, but after a day of rigorous rest, chicken soup eating, humidified air breathing, and tea-sipping, I feel great. I think the race, despite some very cold, grim weather predicted for Sunday morning, is going to go well. Let's hope so: my health insurance is not exactly current at the moment. I am gunning for 3:15.

For Lauren: How to tell if Mike starts to come down with Mad Cow Disease. (via Robot Wisdom). Creepy. Also courtesy of Robot Wisdom, a story on how adolescent male elephants require the guidance of their elders. Elephants, as it turns out, are not sexually mature until the age of 30, but they spend the twelve years prior to that getting horny and learning to fight. I didn't really hit my stride until 30, either.

Weekly Notes:

This blog is effectively defunct. But thank you for visiting. Perhaps it will revive one day.