This pretty well sums up what the whole hipster-on-a-fix trend is all about. Lovely. Go get a job.

Looks like I’m the big winner. Say it with me… bacterial pneumonia. Very good!

Yesterday I won a nifty pack of fancy antibiotics and a trip to Jefferson for chest x-rays. Tomorrow I get to see what the doc says about my pictures. I sure would like not to feel like an emphysema victim sometime soon.

Oh, and we really need to do something about health care in America. Watching the various departments I dealt with communicate with each other was like watching boy manatees butt-fuck each other on dry land. Slow, sloppy and lots of grunting and wheezing.

1. slobs standing next to doorways smoking cigarettes.
2. pickup trucks.
3. self-imposed loneliness.

The Starbucks Company can kiss my pale white ass. Every other coffee shop in te universe knows that a little cup of coffee is called a “short” and a big one is called a “tall.” If there were coffee shops on Mars, you could walk in, order a tall americano, and enjoy a nice, big cuppa cuppa. It’s standard. Grande, venti, et. al. are pretentions posturing. Also, when I preface my order with the word “double,” don’t ask me how many shots I want. I just told you.

Starbucks — can we get with the program, please?!

Better late than never. I’ve only now discovered an article in the Atlantic (circa 1998) that discusses climate change in great depth. It’s a fascinating — and rather frightening — read if you have the time.

[Thanks to WorldChanging’s “Terriblisma” entry for the heads-up.]

This is amazing. Elena has a motorcycle and likes to ride it through the involuntary park created by the Chernobyl accident. Her commentary and photos remind us just how big a catastrope this was. Why do we not hear more about this huge chunk of land that has been rendered useless for the next 48000 years? I guess we could consider this a little peek at how ugly things could have gotten 25 years ago at three Mile Island. I grew up seven miles from TMI. If TMI had made Chernobyl the second massive accident at a nuclear power plant, I’d be like the guy she mentions with his fishing gear proped up by the doorway — not around to enjoy it.

(P.S. Mr, Bush, please note: it’s n-u-c-l-e-a-r, not n-u-c-u-l-a-r. Okay?)

[Update: Turns out this whole site is bogus. Elena owns a motorcycle, but neither she anor anyone else blasts through the Chrenobyl wastelands: they’re strictly off limits. All these pictures are from a guided tour which is the only way to get in there. Bummer. It was a cool story.]