Author: mack reed

approved medical ‘popup’, ampoule ‘width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0’); return false”>Science fiction writer Bob Shaw in 1968 imagined “slow glass” – a substance that took a long time to transmit light. Manufacturers would set black, lightless panes of it up somewhere gorgeous for a few years to soak up the view, then sell it to someone who wanted a “scenedow” that showed that view. (Read the haunting Light of Days)

This is nature’s version, a transparent rock – hydrated sodium calcium borate, or ulexite. Its silky crystals line up in perfect parallel, piping light straight through like fiber optics. You can find it in the arid playas of the American Southwest. Or you can pluck it from the bins of any good mineral shop, where it usually lies in dull anonymity beside pyrite, bauxite, copper and other baubles sold to schoolchildren for a dollar. If you’re religious, it is proof of the divine touch. If you’re agnostic, it is proof of the earth’s sense of humor.

symptoms drug ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Smoky night. Junior was taggin’ and baggin’ ’em, one pigeon after another. He chainsmoked, fiddled with the chalk, had this wild, irritating laugh that cut through all the chatter, the clack of balls, the jukebox blare, the chatter of the barflies and the dull, beer-sodden roar of league play in the bowling alley outside the billiard room. Junior was an asshole. No one took him seriously. Even when they lost. He’d play the hophead klutz: scratch on break, sink the 8-ball, drop the stick a split-second after the pigeon shot – some little gimmick every couple of losing games or so, then rope the guy in with a sudden streak of luck and write it off with that giggle that could etch glass as he nervously eyed the loser and offered – all embarrassed – to let him have that game because of some technicality. Then he’d take the money. He’d rattle on about how he needed to go get his knob polished or get a massage or some lowlife patter, and they’d take him for some idiot horndog who got lucky, and he’d take them for their paychecks, five or 10 bucks at a time. Fresh greenbacks straight from the mint to the defense plant cashier’s office to the guy’s wallet to Junior’s bony, bunched fist in his sweaty pocket before it ever got spent. Junior never punched in. Philly got this slick new Calculagraph timeclock – solid nickel face where you’d slip the card in, two big Bakelite pull handles you’d yank down to punch your times in and out so Jennifer the freshman from the technical college down the road could charge you the right amount at the end of the night. Junior never touched the card she handed him. Just bullshitted her and sweet-talked and told knock-knock jokes and bought her Shirley Temples, then talked shit about her with the guys at the table, sotto voce so they’d ogle her, which always made her blush, and he’d come over and tell her all the horrible things they were saying, and promise to defend her honor if any of them got too snakey, and she’d just wave his card at him (on the sly so Philly couldn’t see) and say, “No charge, sweetie.” That was, until one of Junior’s marks – an ex-Marine who saw action at Midway – dragged him out back by the collar and dented his skull a few times against his Pontiac’s running board. The jarhead then strode back in and told her exactly what Junior had been muttering about her all night. Every word. She contemplated pulling the clock down from the wall, lugging it out back and dropping it on Junior’s head – it weighed a good 15 pounds, she had to help Philly unpack and hang it. But she just quit that night – got work at an ice cream joint nearer to campus, and Junior never saw her again when he got out of the hospital. He quit laughing so loud, too. Just this weak little heh-heh-heh. He quit hustling. Philly let him take her job out of pity. He’s still working there until about 1973. Just keeled over right there at the cash register, clutched at something as he went down, and the clock yanked the molly bolt right out of the cinderblock, and fell on his face. They had to have a closed casket.
site ‘popup’, viagra sale ‘width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0’); return false”>Biological engineering made this ornate clot of bone. The curved incisors, the high zygomatic arch, the thick molars. Let fundamentalists and scientists haggle over its niche in God’s grand plan versus whatever mysterious purpose evolution could have for developing a furry submarine that gnawed down trees to dam rivers for easier swimming and fishing. Ignore the reason and admire the bone fact: Sharp front teeth grow constantly. Thick, white pillars anchor bulging jaw muscles that drive the bite diligent enough to fell saplings and rotting old-growth timber. Eyes and nostrils ride high at top and tip, respectively so they can peer above still water while splayed paws churn below, driving the sleek, hollow-haired body forward to its next task. Brutish and coarse, not so fine and sharp as the inside of a raccoon’s head, but elegant, and true and humbling in its beauty.

It’s also affordable. Beaver skulls (as with many others you’ll find in curio shops) tend to come from the fur trade. You can order them (and dozens of equally astonishing bits of bone) from places like Maxilla and Mandible in Greenwich Village, or pick them up for about 30 bucks at Wacko/Soap Plant in Los Angeles.

unhealthy look ‘popup’, approved ‘width=500, mind height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>A grand architecture in miniature defines the way generations of the sweetgum tree last into the future. Nature designs the perfect time-travel vessel for every environmental niche – this one is spiked, to deter predators from its cargo; hollow, to float; hard to withstand crushing and plentiful – coming in great clumps to ensure survival. It is related – if not in toughness then in strangeness – to the wild walnut, the magnolia pod, the coconut. These craft fall by the hundreds at the children’s playground, looking green and ripe until the California air starts to dry them seconds later, and they begin to split and brown in the sun, gaps between their spikes widening from pinhole fissures to gaping wounds, from which seeds spill like thick, tan grains of sand.
drug ‘popup’, more about ‘width=500, this height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>The madness of the “Christmas season.” drapes over sanity throughout December like a perfumed scarf on the only good lamp in the room. People behave like apes, focus like hummingbirds, drive like children. There are years when I loathe my fellow man from Dec. 1 to 20. It’s getting worse.

A bit of perspective:

Just watched A 1920s cartoon: Happy big-band soundtrack. Exterior, night. Snowy road. A cheery, bearded old potbellied man pulls up to the orphanage. The boat propeller on his handmade snowmobile churns through the powder. At the pull of a lever, the vehicle spits out an anchor and chain and slews to a stop. He hops out with a sack of junk and peers through the window to see dozens of miserable orphans, some trudging sockless across the bare floor, others howlingly hungry. The old fellow leaps through the open window, sheds his overcoat and boots, and dumps his cargo on the floor, a jumble of dented saucepans, busted chairs and household tools that have seen better days. He sets to work, flipping over a washboard, straightening the hooks on two stout wooden coat hangers and jamming them into its bottom for a frame, and slapping a pair of barrel staves onto them. He gobbles a handful of nails, and spits them into place, nailing the staves to the frame – voila – a sled. Before long, the kids are playing happily – one orphan’s riding an old rocking chair with a hobby-horse head. Three more are playing with an electric trainset made of crockery – the steam engine a coffee percolator chugging along on saucer wheels with bent-fork cowcatcher. The old man slips on a Santa costume. He shoves 10 closed umbrellas together, the tip of one into the handle of the next, and opens them all at once – instant Christmas tree, and he twirls it on its bottom handle and flings decorations onto it, then lights. Here the cartoon tree changes to photography of a real tree superimposed into a roomful of cheering cartoon orphans. The lights go out, the tree glows, the music swells. Iris to black.

Time was, Christmas was this magical 8- or 10-day period of parties and caroling and log fires and spiced cider. Time was, it was still the birthday of an important, humanitarian prophet whom many believed divine.

Time was, fun could be had just by having fun. Time was, we spent hours preparing forts and ammo for 10-minute snowball fights instead of staring into a glowing box with another box in our hands while slumped in a chair. Twitching. Alone.

Time was toys were anything you could have fun with.

Here’s a product of its times: A ball (easy enough, but wait …) A ball made of hi-bounce rubber. Hi-bounce, acid-green rubber. Translucent hi-bounce acid-green rubber. Molded around a sealed core that contains batteries, LEDs, printed circuitry and a motion-trigger. With nipples (much like this). And blue strobes that blink when you bounce it (much like this). It’s as instantly fascinating as this, and will last thousands of times longer.

I could have fun with either one. But I’ve been conditioned to enjoy twitching.
pills ‘popup’, stomach ‘width=500, and height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>This is Mom. (Ed: A mom, not mine). She picks this outfit when she’s not sure what to expect, but is told, “wear something casual, but nice.” Is it the mechanic today? The vicar? The PTA president? Jury duty? She has to be ready for anything. A home room visit? A bake sale? A sit-down with her daughter’s probation officer? She has honed this smile over many years, so many hundreds of sit-downs and face-to-face and heart-to-hearts. Her nostrils flare, her eyes open a little wider – she’s learned to tamp down her natural nervousness, breathe a little more evenly. You never know what they’ll say, you try to be prepared. “Mrs. ________? I have some news about your son?” Easy, easy. The conversation could veer any direction now, like a dodgem car that loses a wheel. “I think you should know …” Wait for it. The other kids look up to him. He’s being awarded a special honor, a jacket patch for good citizenship. He’s had a little fall in the gym, nothing serious, tapped his head a bit, but he was never unconscious, no, he’s fine, fine.” She invites them in. Offers tea. Roots around in the cupboard for the box of dark-chocolate Lu cookies that she’s been snacking on oh God I hope there are at least half a box’s worth left don’t panic don’t panic. “Why, what a surprise to see you here. One lump or two? ” She worries that she’s too casual, not casual enough. It’s her most versatile outfit. The silver tongs are proof against tragedy it’s all right you’re being silly, the two of them are fine, just a little scared. Was there something in their lunch box that caused trouble? Something in their lockers? She likes wearing the outfit to the eldest one’s soccer games, the youngest’s dance recitals. Only sometimes does she wish she could wear something more daring – the suede pants, the photographer’s vest, the sweet little French beret. She smiles, just a little wider now, and listens – ready, at least, to listen.

She’s about six inches high, hinged just at the hips and shoulders, with a completely rigid neck. They’ve done her no favors, rendering her pelvis and legs in two different colors – bad manufacture, not bad wardrobe choice, Lord knows.
approved ‘popup’, pill ‘width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0’); return false”>Picture this: At the core of a package rides the cargo – an art project that’s unimportant to this exercise: as they are unloading the second runner-up’s 200-pound piece – all brass wire and ceramic and animal bones – they lose hold of it at the top of an extremely long hill in San Francisco. Barreling downhill in a stout wood crate on wheels the cosseted thing goes, galumphing airborne at the cross streets, and slamming to the pavement again. It hurtles toward the bay. Around it thousands of fragile, near-weightless bits of lab-cooked polystyrene jostle, hold back the blows of the street, the cars it sideswipes, the lampposts and newsboxes that leap up to trip it. The crate has caster wheels on all six sides, so no matter which way it tips or tumbles, it continues to roll. It gains speed, and the thing inside bounces a little harder, and more eratically. The jouncing tumble carries it cartwheeling across Commonwealth Avenue and it smashes against a bollard and explodes. The payload tumbles unharmed off the wharf’s edge and into the bay. The peanuts, borne aloft by the chill winter wind, coalesce in breeze pockets between buildings, dancing merrily in little vortexes of pink and white. Before long, they are blown into a storm drain if not directly into the ocean. They surf the Pacific current cycle for a year, visiting the upper coast, the south Arctic Sea, lazing in surface-borne schools across the shipping lanes of the pacific rim. Here they entwine with a kelp mat for a year. There, an army of children materializes, committed to cleaning up the beach in high winds, and they send more aloft than they bag. And on they blow, impervious to rain or bacteria – a perfect solid pollutant.

Styrofoam peanuts are a good concept, a horrific reality. Strength in numbers, goes the principle. Fragile, near weightless alone, they shelter delicate, breakable goods from home, they are easy to lose hold of, hard to corral, difficult to get rid of properly and essentially impossible to recycle. Newer peanuts – made of cornstarch – are meant to be biodegradable. Pop one in your mouth for a cocktail party stunt. They taste something like cheeseless Cheet-Os.

decease website ‘popup’, drug ‘width=500, store height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Now available for the first time, you can own a piece of the darkest hour of modern American history! This museum-quality replica of the very weapon that launched America’s War on Terror(TM) is meticulously rendered in vinyl-clad stamped steel, with a razor-like blade and a terrorist-approved pedigree. Made here in the U.S.A., this exquisite piece features elegantly simple design, a fine-honed steel cutting edge and all the style of a Bowie knife and the stealth capabilities of a nail-clipper file. Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, yet powerful enough to carve a hole right in the Constitution, this piece is being issued in a limited edition, and available through this site only. Act now, and get yours!
sickness ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Iconic, kinetic, and about as simple-minded as a yo-yo, the Wheel-O was your own hand-held Sputnik. The red wheel spins on axle-tips of magnetized metal that cling to the wire frame. Tip the frame back and forth, and it spins faster as it rolls around the frame. Get good enough at it, you can get it up to around 500 rpm, and more than two complete “orbits” per second. It’s the perfect desk toy – the quiet whir of magnets on steel, the whipping action of your wrist, the circular/linear motion always seem to relieve stress and restore focus when the project I’ve been staring at for far too long has begun to numb my wits. Sadly, there’s not much to be found on the Web, even on Amazon’s still-in-beta A9 search engine (which seems a bit unreliable, but has plenty of entertaining bells and whistles). Search results are far better for the still-in-mass-production Superball (“made of amazing Zectron(tm)!”), which is a heavy little object in its own right – though arguably not so elegant as Wheel-O. eBay is disappointing, offering only this ferociously ugly and overengineered knock-off. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find some true believers still selling this space-age delight, along with Sea Monkeys, Etch-a-Sketch and Wooly Willy.
information pills ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Z-Cardz are nifty. Z-Cardz are stupid. Z-Cardz are collectible. Z-Cardz are 3D DIY models that start as 2D cards. Z-Cardz come five to a box. Z-Cardz might be laser-cut. Z-Cardz might be water-cut. Z-Cardz manufacturing methods don’t show up easily in Google. Or A9. Z-Cardz are boats. Z-Cardz are animals. Z-Cardz are airplanes. Z-Cardz are spaceships. Z-Cardz are now, just two years after their introdution, some ridiculously elaborate game. Z-Cardz are a bore. Z-Cardz are more delightful when you put the pieces back into the cards, stick them on the shelf and forget about them until two years later when you suddenly stumble upon them and have to build them all over again. Z-Cardz are serious irritainment.
order ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>So much of faith is expressed in symbolism. This logo or that ritual, those laws to follow, these hands to wash beforehand. True belief takes such a leap of … faith that entire sects, churches, religions, nations, races engage in regular obeisance to symbolic propriety to reinforce their oneness, their righteousness, their might, and their identity as followers of the true way, the one God. Their temple. Their book. Their eyes cast heavenward and their hearts beating forward in visceral, passionate progress toward fulfillment of that way are the greatest testament to their dedication to their faith. In the greatest and gravest cases, the symbolism of faith becomes physical, curdles to disrespect, insult, bloodshed, war. And some wars have gone on as long as the faiths themselves, which have turned from codes of humanity and spirituality to mandates for genocide.

How do you symbolize faith in peace? The symbols are far fewer, less legitimized, hardly noticeable at all in human culture. One man’s peace symbol is another’s “footprint of the American chicken,” as they used to call it in the 60s. Lately, movements religious and otherwise are adopting bracelets as symbols. In a different era, it might have been hair shirts or amulets or tattoos. For the past 10 years it’s been a smug little slapfight of bumper-mounted metallic fish. But these days, it’s bracelets.

The Israeli Consulate in Los Angeles is trying out this object – a simple blue strap of elastic, tin-crimped to form a hoop, silkscreened with a few words in Hebrew. My good friend Yael Swerdlow, Press Officer for the consulate, explains:

It says Shalom in Hebrew, which means “Peace”.

The message we at the Consulate created it for is “Israel wants peace.” It’s nonpolitical, not aligned to any person or policy or specific population— Israel is a multicultural and diverse democracy, with over twenty percent Arab, Bedouin and Druze, and people of different faiths, Christians, Moslems, and they want peace just as much so this is not just Jewish, it’s just Israel wants Peace.

Because of the way the consulate is chartered, they cannot use the bracelets for fundraising, Swerdlow says. So they’re still working out exactly how they want to distribute the “shalom bracelet” but it will probably be via something like SASE so that anyone who wants one will be able to order it.

Bracelets can be ordered by sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to:

Consulate General of Israel
6380 Wilshire Blvd Suite 1700, LA 90048
Attention: Yariv Ovadia, Consul for Communications and Public Affairs.
cialis 40mg ‘popup’, cure ‘width=500, recipe height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>And now, something I have to do. This is the grim saga of this. It was the worst pain of my life, and the most hellacious 3-month round of shopping for a cure I’ve ever endured, but you should duck out if you bore easily. You’ve been warned.

My summer trip to Hell began on the July 4 trip to Yosemite, at the very moment I tore the bike racks off the car.

Instant stress. By the time I had blown through three bike shops and wasted two hours on the road and spent two more on the mountainside corkscrew hairpins into Yosemite with bughouse kids and carsick wife, I had a roaring headache. I thought nothing of it at the time, just, “Oh. This too. Great. Gottagettocamp.”

Next day, a duller version of the headache persisted as I wrestled with rebuilding my thrashed wheel rim beneath the redwoods. Popped a couple aspirin, it subsided a bit.

Next day, another headache. Now it’s getting weird. Stress, I tell myself. it’ll even out once you’ve stuck your feet in the river and hear the sough of wind through the pines for a few more hours …
(more…)

decease website ‘popup’, drug ‘width=500, store height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Now available for the first time, you can own a piece of the darkest hour of modern American history! This museum-quality replica of the very weapon that launched America’s War on Terror(TM) is meticulously rendered in vinyl-clad stamped steel, with a razor-like blade and a terrorist-approved pedigree. Made here in the U.S.A., this exquisite piece features elegantly simple design, a fine-honed steel cutting edge and all the style of a Bowie knife and the stealth capabilities of a nail-clipper file. Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, yet powerful enough to carve a hole right in the Constitution, this piece is being issued in a limited edition, and available through this site only. Act now, and get yours!
sickness ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Iconic, kinetic, and about as simple-minded as a yo-yo, the Wheel-O was your own hand-held Sputnik. The red wheel spins on axle-tips of magnetized metal that cling to the wire frame. Tip the frame back and forth, and it spins faster as it rolls around the frame. Get good enough at it, you can get it up to around 500 rpm, and more than two complete “orbits” per second. It’s the perfect desk toy – the quiet whir of magnets on steel, the whipping action of your wrist, the circular/linear motion always seem to relieve stress and restore focus when the project I’ve been staring at for far too long has begun to numb my wits. Sadly, there’s not much to be found on the Web, even on Amazon’s still-in-beta A9 search engine (which seems a bit unreliable, but has plenty of entertaining bells and whistles). Search results are far better for the still-in-mass-production Superball (“made of amazing Zectron(tm)!”), which is a heavy little object in its own right – though arguably not so elegant as Wheel-O. eBay is disappointing, offering only this ferociously ugly and overengineered knock-off. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find some true believers still selling this space-age delight, along with Sea Monkeys, Etch-a-Sketch and Wooly Willy.
information pills ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Z-Cardz are nifty. Z-Cardz are stupid. Z-Cardz are collectible. Z-Cardz are 3D DIY models that start as 2D cards. Z-Cardz come five to a box. Z-Cardz might be laser-cut. Z-Cardz might be water-cut. Z-Cardz manufacturing methods don’t show up easily in Google. Or A9. Z-Cardz are boats. Z-Cardz are animals. Z-Cardz are airplanes. Z-Cardz are spaceships. Z-Cardz are now, just two years after their introdution, some ridiculously elaborate game. Z-Cardz are a bore. Z-Cardz are more delightful when you put the pieces back into the cards, stick them on the shelf and forget about them until two years later when you suddenly stumble upon them and have to build them all over again. Z-Cardz are serious irritainment.
order ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>So much of faith is expressed in symbolism. This logo or that ritual, those laws to follow, these hands to wash beforehand. True belief takes such a leap of … faith that entire sects, churches, religions, nations, races engage in regular obeisance to symbolic propriety to reinforce their oneness, their righteousness, their might, and their identity as followers of the true way, the one God. Their temple. Their book. Their eyes cast heavenward and their hearts beating forward in visceral, passionate progress toward fulfillment of that way are the greatest testament to their dedication to their faith. In the greatest and gravest cases, the symbolism of faith becomes physical, curdles to disrespect, insult, bloodshed, war. And some wars have gone on as long as the faiths themselves, which have turned from codes of humanity and spirituality to mandates for genocide.

How do you symbolize faith in peace? The symbols are far fewer, less legitimized, hardly noticeable at all in human culture. One man’s peace symbol is another’s “footprint of the American chicken,” as they used to call it in the 60s. Lately, movements religious and otherwise are adopting bracelets as symbols. In a different era, it might have been hair shirts or amulets or tattoos. For the past 10 years it’s been a smug little slapfight of bumper-mounted metallic fish. But these days, it’s bracelets.

The Israeli Consulate in Los Angeles is trying out this object – a simple blue strap of elastic, tin-crimped to form a hoop, silkscreened with a few words in Hebrew. My good friend Yael Swerdlow, Press Officer for the consulate, explains:

It says Shalom in Hebrew, which means “Peace”.

The message we at the Consulate created it for is “Israel wants peace.” It’s nonpolitical, not aligned to any person or policy or specific population— Israel is a multicultural and diverse democracy, with over twenty percent Arab, Bedouin and Druze, and people of different faiths, Christians, Moslems, and they want peace just as much so this is not just Jewish, it’s just Israel wants Peace.

Because of the way the consulate is chartered, they cannot use the bracelets for fundraising, Swerdlow says. So they’re still working out exactly how they want to distribute the “shalom bracelet” but it will probably be via something like SASE so that anyone who wants one will be able to order it.

Bracelets can be ordered by sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to:

Consulate General of Israel
6380 Wilshire Blvd Suite 1700, LA 90048
Attention: Yariv Ovadia, Consul for Communications and Public Affairs.
cialis 40mg ‘popup’, cure ‘width=500, recipe height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>And now, something I have to do. This is the grim saga of this. It was the worst pain of my life, and the most hellacious 3-month round of shopping for a cure I’ve ever endured, but you should duck out if you bore easily. You’ve been warned.

My summer trip to Hell began on the July 4 trip to Yosemite, at the very moment I tore the bike racks off the car.

Instant stress. By the time I had blown through three bike shops and wasted two hours on the road and spent two more on the mountainside corkscrew hairpins into Yosemite with bughouse kids and carsick wife, I had a roaring headache. I thought nothing of it at the time, just, “Oh. This too. Great. Gottagettocamp.”

Next day, a duller version of the headache persisted as I wrestled with rebuilding my thrashed wheel rim beneath the redwoods. Popped a couple aspirin, it subsided a bit.

Next day, another headache. Now it’s getting weird. Stress, I tell myself. it’ll even out once you’ve stuck your feet in the river and hear the sough of wind through the pines for a few more hours …
(more…)

decease website ‘popup’, drug ‘width=500, store height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Now available for the first time, you can own a piece of the darkest hour of modern American history! This museum-quality replica of the very weapon that launched America’s War on Terror(TM) is meticulously rendered in vinyl-clad stamped steel, with a razor-like blade and a terrorist-approved pedigree. Made here in the U.S.A., this exquisite piece features elegantly simple design, a fine-honed steel cutting edge and all the style of a Bowie knife and the stealth capabilities of a nail-clipper file. Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, yet powerful enough to carve a hole right in the Constitution, this piece is being issued in a limited edition, and available through this site only. Act now, and get yours!
sickness ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Iconic, kinetic, and about as simple-minded as a yo-yo, the Wheel-O was your own hand-held Sputnik. The red wheel spins on axle-tips of magnetized metal that cling to the wire frame. Tip the frame back and forth, and it spins faster as it rolls around the frame. Get good enough at it, you can get it up to around 500 rpm, and more than two complete “orbits” per second. It’s the perfect desk toy – the quiet whir of magnets on steel, the whipping action of your wrist, the circular/linear motion always seem to relieve stress and restore focus when the project I’ve been staring at for far too long has begun to numb my wits. Sadly, there’s not much to be found on the Web, even on Amazon’s still-in-beta A9 search engine (which seems a bit unreliable, but has plenty of entertaining bells and whistles). Search results are far better for the still-in-mass-production Superball (“made of amazing Zectron(tm)!”), which is a heavy little object in its own right – though arguably not so elegant as Wheel-O. eBay is disappointing, offering only this ferociously ugly and overengineered knock-off. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find some true believers still selling this space-age delight, along with Sea Monkeys, Etch-a-Sketch and Wooly Willy.
information pills ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>Z-Cardz are nifty. Z-Cardz are stupid. Z-Cardz are collectible. Z-Cardz are 3D DIY models that start as 2D cards. Z-Cardz come five to a box. Z-Cardz might be laser-cut. Z-Cardz might be water-cut. Z-Cardz manufacturing methods don’t show up easily in Google. Or A9. Z-Cardz are boats. Z-Cardz are animals. Z-Cardz are airplanes. Z-Cardz are spaceships. Z-Cardz are now, just two years after their introdution, some ridiculously elaborate game. Z-Cardz are a bore. Z-Cardz are more delightful when you put the pieces back into the cards, stick them on the shelf and forget about them until two years later when you suddenly stumble upon them and have to build them all over again. Z-Cardz are serious irritainment.
order ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>So much of faith is expressed in symbolism. This logo or that ritual, those laws to follow, these hands to wash beforehand. True belief takes such a leap of … faith that entire sects, churches, religions, nations, races engage in regular obeisance to symbolic propriety to reinforce their oneness, their righteousness, their might, and their identity as followers of the true way, the one God. Their temple. Their book. Their eyes cast heavenward and their hearts beating forward in visceral, passionate progress toward fulfillment of that way are the greatest testament to their dedication to their faith. In the greatest and gravest cases, the symbolism of faith becomes physical, curdles to disrespect, insult, bloodshed, war. And some wars have gone on as long as the faiths themselves, which have turned from codes of humanity and spirituality to mandates for genocide.

How do you symbolize faith in peace? The symbols are far fewer, less legitimized, hardly noticeable at all in human culture. One man’s peace symbol is another’s “footprint of the American chicken,” as they used to call it in the 60s. Lately, movements religious and otherwise are adopting bracelets as symbols. In a different era, it might have been hair shirts or amulets or tattoos. For the past 10 years it’s been a smug little slapfight of bumper-mounted metallic fish. But these days, it’s bracelets.

The Israeli Consulate in Los Angeles is trying out this object – a simple blue strap of elastic, tin-crimped to form a hoop, silkscreened with a few words in Hebrew. My good friend Yael Swerdlow, Press Officer for the consulate, explains:

It says Shalom in Hebrew, which means “Peace”.

The message we at the Consulate created it for is “Israel wants peace.” It’s nonpolitical, not aligned to any person or policy or specific population— Israel is a multicultural and diverse democracy, with over twenty percent Arab, Bedouin and Druze, and people of different faiths, Christians, Moslems, and they want peace just as much so this is not just Jewish, it’s just Israel wants Peace.

Because of the way the consulate is chartered, they cannot use the bracelets for fundraising, Swerdlow says. So they’re still working out exactly how they want to distribute the “shalom bracelet” but it will probably be via something like SASE so that anyone who wants one will be able to order it.

Bracelets can be ordered by sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to:

Consulate General of Israel
6380 Wilshire Blvd Suite 1700, LA 90048
Attention: Yariv Ovadia, Consul for Communications and Public Affairs.
cialis 40mg ‘popup’, cure ‘width=500, recipe height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>And now, something I have to do. This is the grim saga of this. It was the worst pain of my life, and the most hellacious 3-month round of shopping for a cure I’ve ever endured, but you should duck out if you bore easily. You’ve been warned.

My summer trip to Hell began on the July 4 trip to Yosemite, at the very moment I tore the bike racks off the car.

Instant stress. By the time I had blown through three bike shops and wasted two hours on the road and spent two more on the mountainside corkscrew hairpins into Yosemite with bughouse kids and carsick wife, I had a roaring headache. I thought nothing of it at the time, just, “Oh. This too. Great. Gottagettocamp.”

Next day, a duller version of the headache persisted as I wrestled with rebuilding my thrashed wheel rim beneath the redwoods. Popped a couple aspirin, it subsided a bit.

Next day, another headache. Now it’s getting weird. Stress, I tell myself. it’ll even out once you’ve stuck your feet in the river and hear the sough of wind through the pines for a few more hours …
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