ZenFo G'maw Update...

Okay, folks...offline for a while. For real, this time.

Nuh-uh, you say. Ya-huh, I say...

Early flight tomorrow to a land with little Internet access, much less wireless access. Plus, I may be building an ADA-compliant wheelchair ramp...not sure. Won't leave much time for blogging, but I know my grandmother is going to insist I go out and have fun.

Quick update:

The Zenfo Dad is in Va. now. She's doing well, given the circumstances. Still not sure if G'maw will be able to walk again, but...she's one tough lady.

How many women in their 80s go dancing and have 70 year-olds chasing them around anyway?

Seriously. My hands are shaking. I haven't been able to sleep well. I'm nervous as hell.

My grandmother pretty much raised me. I'm actually pissed at myself for not being able to get out earlier. I know she wouldn't want me to get fired, but still...

Anyway, she's doing as well as can be expected. Dad says she's conscious and able to crack jokes. Won't be running any marathons for a few months, but she's in good spirits.

Thanks everybody for your kind thoughts!

Remembering Chernobyl: 20 Years and Still Few Solutions

Twenty years ago today, Reactor No. 4 at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant malfunctioned, leading to a catastrophic fire, several explosions, and, eventually, nuclear meltdown.

It is, by far, the worst nuclear disaster in history. It is the worst disaster not so much because of the known carnage but because of the almost immeasurable environmental impact in its aftermath.

A very wise high school teacher of mine, a former Soviet scientist herself, once said that measuring the lasting affects of Chernobyl would prove as difficult as weighing a single grain of salt against the combined weight of the salt in the seas. How does one, exactly, measure a man-made disaster that refuses to respect man-made borders, laws, and treaties?

Growing up in the Northern Hemisphere, along the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, I'm fairly certain that I was exposed to at least some fallout from the disaster, thousands of miles away from ground zero. Can anyone really offer me - or anybody else - irrefutable proof that the minute increase in radioactive materials swimming around in the atmosphere above me really didn't do any long-term damage?

C'est la vie. We are all victims of Chernobyl, whether we want to admit it or not.

Thousands of Soviet firefighters and containment workers risked (some of whom lost) their lives to help keep the disaster from being much worse. If they hadn't, who knows what the death toll would've been?

• Federman, Adam. "Remembering Chernobyl." The Nation (Web Only), April 25, 2006.
• Mulvey, Stephen. "Chernobyl's continuing hazards." BBC News (Online), April 25, 2006.
• Soric, Miodrag. "Chernobyl -- an Insidious Legacy." Deutsche Welle. Online. April 26, 2006.
• Voice of America. "20 Years after Chernobyl." VOA Online. April 2006.

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Chernobyl, Disaster, Energy, Environment, Firefighters, History, Soviet Union

SURVIVING THE GAME: Taking My Ball(s) and Going Home

NOTE - I thought I'd posted this Monday night, but I forgot to hit post. I figured I'd go ahead and post it before I leave for the ol' hometown later this week to deal with a serious family crisis. (Thanks to those keeping my "G'Maw" in their thoughts).

Not edited very well, but you should be able to get the point. Please forgive the typos. Not as pissed about the event as I was early Sunday morning when I started writing it. Lol...I hope no one reads this and thinks I have a black cloud over my head. I'm so over it, but, yeah, not going there again ;)

- Jason

So I'm in this apartment. On this strange woman's bed. Strange woman is in the bathroom...

Her bathroom. Her apartment.

Something really didn't feel right. I didn't feel right. I'm not sure how I got into this situation. I just stared up at the ceiling and asked myself if I really want to do what I was pretty sure she wanted to do.

I guess since I'm a guy, I'm somehow supposed to get excited that, yeah, more than likely, I was going to get laid. Cute girl. Almost too cute. I guess the fact that it took less than an hour to go from a friendly conversation to heavy petting to a very quick makeout session to her place probably means something to somebody.

An apartment decorated in pink. Girly pink. There's a Green Beer Day tee shirt on the floor, an empty Red Bull can and a unopened diet coke on the nightstand. There's a poster of Big Ben, the Super Bowl hero, on the wall, next to a picture of Heath Ledger.

Why the hell do I feel trapped?

For some reason, I started thinking about a conversation I had with Stephi, one of my fellow OxBloggers, recently. She said something that, for some reason, stuck with me. Something about overly aggressive women being less creepy than overly aggressive guys in bars.

Why the hell did that pop into my mind?

---

I've never understood why I can't read women very well. At least, why I can't read women who are interested in me or who I'm attracted to. No frigging clue how to read body language if I'm just getting to know someone.

I guess that's the No. 1 reason I've always gone for aggressive women. Aggressive women tend not to put up with my self-esteem issues, my fear and self-loathing. I think the fact that it takes a bit of aggression to convince me to let down my guard a bit is the reason aggressive women go for me.

Trust me. For a woman to make it past my signal-reading blindness, my baggage, and other shit, she's going to have to be aggressive. And some women actually like that challenge, I guess.

But is there such thing as a woman who is too aggressive? At what point does sexual or romantic pursuit become simply a demand, completely free of respect for another human being, mechanical and detached?

As I'm staring at the ceiling in this woman's apartment, her cell phone starts bouncing on the nightstand. I ignore it. A.'s still in the bathroom - perhaps the longest pre-whatever ritual I've ever witnessed a woman go through. Damn thing goes off again. And again.

I pick it up to kill the ringer. The screen lights up.

Text messages. Stupid fucking goddamned text messages. Asking if A. had "FUKED THE COWBOY YET."

I might have been amused if I hadn't gotten nosy and read the other two messages. (Sure, it's probably unethical, but what the hell? I've been tempted to ask the probation officer who reads this blog to screen dates and, yes, I google on the first date.)

"GIRL 7PTS 8IF CB GOS DOWN"

"K WILL HATE U U FUCK HIM FIRST 8PTS BEATS HER PROF"

Um...excuse me? If someone fucks me first? Do I have a say in this? I am not a goddamned pointspread. And this ain't the fucking Kentucky Derby.

---

A. walks out of the bathroom. She changed clothes. (Who the hell changes outfits after getting home? She puts on the radio - some god-awful Top 40 shit. She puts on my Stetson - without asking - grins, and starts to do the absolute worst spoiled-rich-girl version of a striptease this side of a Paris Hilton sex tape.

I probably should've laughed. But I'd made up my mind that, yeah, I just wanted to go home. I'd just lost interest.

Physically, sure. Still...um...functionable. That's never been one of my problems - hell, I almost married someone with a clinical sex addiction (along with her other clinical addictions and problems.) Trust me, women aren't the only ones who can fake it 'til they get it right.

Emotionally? No. When that relationship pops into my head, that's a huge red flag.

I'm not a bet. I'm not my penis. She can lie and say something happened for all I care. I'm done. Gone.

She's down to her underwear when I stand up; she pushes me back on the bed, straddles me, kisses me. I turn my head, say I think I'd better leave, that I'm just not in the mood. She doesn't believe me, forcibly kisses me and starts pulling at my belt. I pull back again, and this time I ask about the text messages.

She ignored me and tried shoving her tongue down my throat again. She had my belt undone. So I pushed her off me, got up, and started walking to the bedroom door.

Then she went apeshit. She tried to stop me from leaving by blocking the door. She started accusing me of everything from being a "faggot" to being a "no-dick chickenshit." She screamed about how she'd just find another guy to get her "fucking points."

Yeah. That's called emotional blackmail, lady. Not gonna work.

And then she tried crying. I didn't want her. I was using her. I led her on... I was almost dumb enough to fall for it. She tried kissing me again - I almost gave in. Almost. I just couldn't bring myself to kiss her back.

She even explained the "grading scale." You know what the "prize" was? A drink and some fucking buffalo wings at a bar.

I just had to stay, just had to make her feel good, just had to...

Even after indicating that this wasn't something I wanted to do, she stuck one hand down my pants and used the other to unzip my fly. I guess I sort of zoned out for a few seconds.

I realized she was trying to go down on me. And I flipped the fuck out. What the flying fuck? Get back on your meds, lady. Seriously.

I made it out the apartment, climbed into my truck and pounded my fist into the steering wheel. I must've sat there for a good hour, listening to the engine idle and the radio play.

How the fuck did I get into that apartment in the first place?

I wondered how those other eight guys felt. Did they know the only reason they got laid was to help a very disturbed, insecure woman win some free chicken?

Game over, man. Game over.

Offline for a Bit...

I just learned this morning that my grandmother was involved in a serious car accident yesterday. I'm needed back in Virginia as soon as I can arrange transportation.

My dad's flying out from California tomorrow. I'll be heading out later this week.

Details are sketchy so far. I know it took emergency personnel about five hours to cut her out of the car; from what I'm told, she's broken both knees and her ankle is severely broken. There's no evidence of internal injuries.

Doctors are not sure if she'll be able to walk again, much less dance or play golf. She's the most active 82 year old woman I know.

I haven't broken down or cried yet - I'm sure that's coming. Teared up, but I haven't cried. Trying to look at the bright side and hope for the best.

Thank God for airbags and the volunteer rescue squad folks. And thank God for the woman who witnessed the accident and immediately dialed 911.

I may post something between now and then, but, well, family comes first.

- Jason

"WE GAVE LEATHERFACE A LIBRARY CARD?!?" The ZenFo Pro Week and Weekend

I really wish I could post about the past week. Really, really wish I could. Let's just say it would probably put me on the unemployment line pretty quick if I did.

I'd also be violating some privacy rights as well as some confidential information. Aside from the professional ramifications, I'd feel like shit.

Read the first part of the headline (as well as the still shot from Tobe Cooper's Texas Chainsaw Massacre, left) and let your imagination wander...

I've enjoyed FINALLY catching up on blog reading this weekend. If you're a lurker, please take time to visit the links to the other blogs listed in my sidebar...

Actually had a rather enjoyable Guys Night Out thing Friday night. Awesome time. I should've called it a weekend after that, because, yeah, sometimes it's best not knowing about certain things.

Let me put it this way: does anybody remember 1993's Spur Posse scandal, where a group of small-dicked peckerhead high school jocks who attempted to set human sexual relations back a thousand years by assigning points to sex acts?

Um...yeah.

Saturday night, I found out that there's apparently a local female version. I think I almost became the sexual equivalent of a pair of free-throws (because I'm over 25 and not a college guy), a jumpshot (I'm a professional with a job), and a three-pointer (because of where I work.)

I don't play that game. I take my ball (and everything else) and go home. I may have almost married a stripper, been romantically involved with women who've made money shakin' ass in clubs, and I've even had adult performers spend the night in my house, but I don't waste my time with skanks. Period.

I just don't get turned on by women I can't respect. Sue me.

I'm still working on that post. Trying to quell a bit of my anger, disgust, and disappointment before posting. If any of the local lurkers happen to know or are one of the women in question participating in this game, well, make sure you read next week.

It ain't gonna be pretty...

Six Things You Really Don't Need to Know about Me...

MizB posted this kinda-sorta meme she a few days ago, and I've been working on my version ever since...

SIX THINGS YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT ME

[6.]

I've had several people over the last few months ask me why I sometimes smell like blueberries - not exactly the most masculine scent. I never noticed it, but as soon as someone pointed it out I smelled it everywhere. And it took me forever to figure out the answer.

Last year, I spent a lot of time with a certain adult entertainer/performer, who would occasionally drop in for weekend visits. She kept a supply of basic toiletries in my shower. After it became apparent that our lifestyles wouldn't mesh and she wouldn't be returning for her rather pricey-looking stuff, I figured I'd go ahead and use them. I'm a guy...I don't care. Soap is soap, right?

If I'd actually bothered to read the labels, I would've realized that what I thought was facial scrub was actually blueberry-flavored sexual lubricant.

Hell, it looked like that Nivea stuff... It did, however, actually taste like blueberry cheesecake.

[5.]

I learned to read cards in college and have been told I'm quite good at it. When I lived in California, I used to read cards - for free - in front of a coffee shop in Morro Bay. I gained some level of popularity because of it amongst fishermen, surfers, and skateboarders, mainly because I didn't claim to channel any psychic gift to predict the future. I simply used the cards as a means to help folks find answers for themselves and cut through most of the mumbojumbo.

I also taught several women how to read cards for themselves, which earned me the wrath of several "professional" psychics in the area. One of the strangest experiences I've ever had reading tarot cards happened in 1999, when this Sister Whatever, Storefront Wiccan literally burned sage and prayed for the goddess Diana to "destroy my manhood" while I was teaching a homeless high school girl how to interpret the Major Arcana.

[4.]

I have this tendency to scratch my ass when I'm trying to solve a problem. And yes, I've even been known to do it in public.

I also do it when I get nervous. I once asked a girl out in college. She politely declined. Months later, I found out through a friend that she was completely embarrassed by the fact that I asked her out in a crowded coffee shop...while scratching my ass.

[3.]

I actually live the overwhelming majority of my non-work life like a hermit. Or a monk. Or both.

I also bore rather easily. I view becoming a librarian as being almost quasi-retirement, having already earned my emeritus status in the esteemed School of Hard Knocks.

I had someone send me a text message late Friday, inviting me to a "dance club" here in Oxford. (Take a subpar disco from some impoverished Baltic republic, magically transport it to the American Midwest, and fill it with rich girls who think they're Paris Hilton - that's the level of sophistication of Oxford's nightclubs.)

Given the problems I've had living my normal hermetic life because of this blog, I don't frequent these kinds of places. The girl who sent the message - a simple STADIUM NOW - has poked fun of me in the past because I only drink at "adults-only" establishments. Well, there's a reason for that...

I decided to go, in spite of my better judgment. I was a bit tipsy and didn't want to risk driving. I paid a three-dollar cover to be bored out of my mind, have eight girls insist on taking photos with me in my Stetson (I really don't want to know), have some girl rub her ass on my crotch, and watch the woman who'd invited me make out with this guy who resembled an Eminem/John Kerry lovechild.

I was bored shitless. I'm in this club where everybody's bumping-and-grinding and I end up leaning against the wall, trying not to draw attention to myself. I should've let loose a little, but I couldn't help but notice the bad sound design, the crappy light rig, and the fact that the security staff are about as worthless as a dead poodle.

[2.]

I can't drive without music playing. Correction. Without loud music playing. And as sick as it might sound, I don't really care what pedestrians think.

I do turn my radio down by schools and in residential zones; I'm not one of those assholes with thousands of dollars' worth of Alpines and subwoofers crammed into the trunk of a used car.

[1.]

I'm a horrible librarian. I don't really enjoy reading novels. Honestly, I'd rather wait for the movie version.

I read nonfiction and poetry almost exclusively. I also read a lot of UN documents in my free time and am addicted to the Journal of the American Society for Information Science and Technology.

GETTING NAKED WITH THE ZENFO PRO:Hiking, Information Science, and the Art of Skinny-dipping with a Lesbian Couple from Out West

HUESTON WOODS, Ohio (ZP) -- Sometimes it becomes necessary, in the course of one's life, to do something completely stupid. Everybody does something stupid every now and then, something so recklessly irresponsible that even Mother Nature laughs at you.

I'm certain that goddamned squirrel chatter I heard as I jumped into a pool of cold, murky Four-Mile Creek water in nothing but my Stetson was Mother Nature's way of saying Jason, you are a dumbass. And that's okay - be a dumbass sometimes.

Of course, it may have been the blinding whiteness of my bare ass that sent these annoying little tree rats into their racket. Certain parts of my body have rarely seen the sunshine; given the amount of peeling I've been experiencing in certain areas lately, I'm not sure if random acts of public nudity is a good thing or not.

Okay. Not public, exactly. In a public park, yes. I know...you might be thinking to yourself, "Aren't you being a hypocrite? Didn't you criticize a bunch of wannabe pot farmers for breaking the law when you're doing it yourself? Isn't public indecency just as bad?"

Well, yes and no. First, being naked is man's natural state. Nobody, save maybe this completely wasted Phish fan I saw once in Oakland, was born with a bong attached to them. Sure, it's illegal, but I've never had a cop ask me to empty my pockets to see if I'm holding a stash of butt-nekked. I may have fudged some minor local codes, but, hey...there's no cup to pee in that will ever prove I went skinny-dipping, either.

So how did I end up becoming a hypocrite and defiling the environment with my Day-glo ass?

Well, there's something to be said for wanting to entertain tourists....

---

I met two women last Saturday during a hike. While I was unloading some gear, "Kate" and "Allie" (Not their real names, but 80s sitcom buffs might appreciate my alias choices) walked up and asked where if I knew where to find a liquor store.

We struck up a conversation. The pair - both graduate students at a major southwestern research university - was strangers in a very strange land, native Coloradans on a kinda-sorta working road trip across America. Rather than take classes this spring towards completing their degrees, the two were wise enough to realize that they needed a vacation before they hit that burnout point.

The driving force behind all science, of course, is this very human need to explore the unknown frontiers of our world. Sometimes, one can do that in a lab. Other times, scholarship requires an interaction with the world, outside of the ability to control the environment, a field trip into the meticulously organized chaos that is our planet. One should never trust an archaeologist who would forsake a fresh dig to do easy research. There are biomedical researchers somewhere, at this very moment, pulling samples of some of the most dangerous viruses in the world from the field, interacting with the sufferers of such plagues at their own peril so colleagues can safely dissect, examine, and look for treatments.

Science is, after all, a full-contact sport. Exploration requires risk. To understand the universe, one must admit being part of it. I've never understood why so many librarians, IT professionals, archivists, etc., believe that the science behind what we do - information science - can exist as a science without any sort of personal or professional risk.

Kate and Allie didn't know anything about Preble or Butler Counties (Ohio) other than the fact that it was labeled as such on a roadmap. They'd seen the park on the same map while heading west on I-70, decided at the last minute to forsake a night in Indianapolis in favor of a quick weekend detour to take advantage of the beautiful spring weather.

The pair followed me into nearby College Corner, Indiana, a tiny border town with a remarkably well-furnished liquor store. The pair followed me into Oxford to a Wal Mart, where I thought we'd simply part ways after I explained how to get back to the park. Instead, they invited me to swing back to their campsite in the park Easter Sunday.

Sitting in a coffee shop that night, while checking email and having a rather burlesque IM chat with some random local lurker, I realized that the couple were probably a couple-couple. Sometimes, people discuss their sexual orientation with complete strangers; other times they don't have to. How many female just-friends hold hands? Or call each other honey or feel comfortable enough walking around in public with a hand resting in that "lover's only" spot, just above the ass and just below the beltline? Sure, it's just a suspicion...

---

Sunday, I arrived at their place sometime after breakfast. Kate and Allie had decided, like the dozens of other women in the park, that it was too hot to wear a lot of clothing. There's no sin in hiking in a bikini top. Besides, there's nothing like the feel of sunshine on one's skin on a warm Easter.

We spent about two hours hiking. Allie wanted to take a few water samples to at least pretend like she was on a research trip. So we headed down Four-Mile Creek to find a place to lie out and to satisfy a researcher's need to test for agricultural bi-products in the stream. We took along a bottle of Jose Cuervo for added companionship.

Ain't no research partner like the esteemed Dr. Cuervo. Unfortunately, consultations with the good doctor often lead to a miraculous abandonment of anything research-related.

Kate and Allie confirmed my theory about their relationship status rather bluntly. They simply stated that they were indeed gay and in a relationship and hoped that that fact didn't make me uncomfortable. I told them that I'd kinda sorta figured it out already and explained my reasoning.

I guess they thought they'd been doing a good job of keeping their hands off each other in public, and I think that made them a bit uncomfortable. The greater Cincinnati area, for those unaware, is perhaps the most conservative place in America and is not known for tolerance. Both women had been told, by a native Ohioan colleague, that they needed to be very careful in this part of the world - which is very good advice. I've met way too many folks who make Fred Phelps look like Mother Teresa around these parts.

Figuring the conversation was making everybody feel awkward, Kate, who'd already displayed a flare for cheekiness by flashing her boobs at some bikers and vividly describing the art of cunnilingus (yeah, I figured that was meant to be a subtle hint), decided it was time to go for a dip in the creek. We were far enough away from the hiking trails, so Kate simply stripped.

Allie looked at her, then looked at me, then looked back at Kate. Lord, don't wait for the straight guy! It's not like she's the first naked woman I've seen. I was engaged to a stripper, for Christ's sakes. I offered to leave if the two wanted some privacy, but despite Allie's apprehension, Kate pointed out that we were all adults and were capable of being naked around each other.

So Allie and I started to strip. I'd was taking my shoes off when Allie suddenly blurted out that in her three decades on this planet, the only men she'd ever seen naked in person were siblings. She knew at an early age she was attracted to women, had never kissed a guy, dated a guy, or even fooled around with one.

Okay. Let's just say that was a bit intimidating. I would've been much more comfortable not knowing that. She wanted me to know that in case I caught her staring at my junk, there was more curiosity involved than sexual desire. Not a very relaxing situation. I'm just glad it wasn't a cold day... for obvious, guy reasons.

Logically, through my own field, I know that there's anxiety that goes along any Information Search Process. Why should any aspect of exploration - interpersonal or otherwise - be expected to be any different? Is a lesbian's anxiety over skinny-dipping with a man any different than, say, a student struggling to find a thesis in a sea of information resources? Is my anxiety over somehow being the sole penile representation for my gender all that different from that of someone preparing to present an information-based product for the first time?

Science is about exploration, and I'm an information scientist, goddamn it. I wasn't going to let my fear of exposing myself to someone who might be seeing an adult male's penis for the first time get in the way of going skinny-dipping. Life is about learning; learning is the most mesmerizing, terrifying part of exploration because it presents both an obstacle and a reward simultaneously.

So, to ease any anxiety, I simply stood up, kicked my shoes off, stripped off the rest of my clothes, and jumped into the water. Fuck it. I even made a joke about my penis along the way, explaining that if it got in the way in the pool, I'd simply duct-tape it down to my leg. Feel free to look. I'm comfortable with what I'm packing. I told Allie that if she had any research questions about my penis, I'd be more than willing to offer any research help I could - I'm a librarian and that's my job.

Kate thought that was funny. So did Allie, actually. She lightened up a bit and even did a bit of a striptease. I was only partly joking.

See, in my world, this is called easing user anxiety during the information-seeking process. I'm just cool like that.

A group of young women - local college students - walked by while the three of us, a lesbian couple and some dude in a Stetson, were lounging in the water, naked as jaybirds, smoking Camel Lights and consulting with Dr. Cuervo. I recognized one of the women as a frequent patron of the library where I work.

I almost stood up to wave. Luckily, I was reminded that that might not be a very wise idea.

Exploration is fun, but there are limits...

;)

ZENFO WIRE: Things I'm Digging in Cyberspace

I started the ZenFo Wire a while back; I'd intended for it to be a regular feature. Jeez, how time flies...and how work seems to pile on when one actually has fun for a change. No time for a long, thought-out post...so read these instead.

Skinny-dipping post coming...eventually ;)

- Jason

---

FREE ADVICE
Kendra K.
Kendrak's Attack, Ongoing Feature

Rather than wait for folks to solicit her advice, this hip, media-savvy blogger chops and skewers the traditional Dear Abby types, pulling questions from various advice columns around the country, throws out the cheesy self-help crap, and gives advice that real people really need to hear. Kendra also happens to be one of my fave iPro bloggers, mainly because she's a rather talented indie rock diva as well.

NEVER WEAR POLYESTER UNDERWEAR IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE HIT BY LIGHTNING
THL,
The Hot Librarian, April 17, 2006

I almost pissed myself I was laughing so hard reading this post this afternoon. THL is a church-going, lingerie-wearing, occassionally potty-mouthed, Chuck Norris-worshipping, supermodel-esque libby - the complete package. I'm still in awe that she lists me in her blogroll. Yes, Virginia, there was a Jesus - and he was eaten by bears ...

FROM IRAQ WITH LOVE? A BIG MESSAGE? AND A CAT?
Kfigment
Criminals, Figments, and Blogasms Oh My, March 1, 2006

A touching story written by my dear, dear friend Kfig. For those who may have friends and loved ones serving in Iraq, this tale of pets, kinda-sorta relationships, and how annoying fucking cellphones can be when getting a call from a Safe Zone. Homegirl's going through some rather rough medical stuff, so please stop by and leave a comment or two.

# # #

OTHER BLOG READS THIS EVENING...

Renee, a fellow Oxblogger, offers advice for those folks considering graduate school ... Fellow Ohioan blogger Ms. Monkeythong offers a rather cryptic bilingual definition of roadkill...

You know what made my day? The fact that Cowgirl survived the recent plague of tornados hammering the Upper Midwest. Rumors of her demise have been greatly exaggerated. It's the boots. Gotta be the boots...

Came across this and this over at Free Radical - a very frank, honest debate on the nature of Islam in the 21st century...

Hey, who says I can't multi-task during my lunch break?

Breathe In, Breathe Out Dept:The ZenFo Pro Has a New Address...Sort of

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I was sitting in a coffee shop yesterday afternoon, trying to catch up on reading people's blogs, work stuff, and scores of other things.

I spent the majority of my weekend having a blast - fishing, hiking, drinking beer, getting sunburned, and generally enjoying the views associated with an unseasonably hot Spring.

Ahem. I'm still a virile, heterosexual guy. I'm single, no attachments. I'm gonna at least look if I'm at a state park propagated by scantily-clad women sunning themselves. It's not like I was one of the middle-aged bikers cruising through the park on their hogs, whistling and drooling.

Just a few glances.

Okay. Maybe more than a few. I kinda, sorta backed my truck into a park restroom while trying to at least pretend I wasn't checking out this group of women in bikini tops in the midst of a water balloon fight. No harm done, though.

I did get talked into going skinny-dipping by two rather vivacious girls from Colorado on a research trip. Hey, I'm a librarian, dammit. I teach people how to research for a living.

More on that later. For now, back to coffee talk...

While I'm refilling my "bottomless mug" of fair-trade joe, a group of women walk in. One sticks her tongue out at me and hollers my way.

Now, most guys would probably get a bit excited when a dozen very attractive women walk into a cafe and one of these women comes up to chat. The first thing that goes through my mind is, usually, panic. Is this woman talking to me, the real-world Jason, or the blog-version?

Fortunately, I knew the woman from the real world. But in the past, I've had people who've asked for research help at work, clam up, and then tell me the whole Cassanova Kiss thing got them all hot and bothered. I've even had cyberstalkers. That's creepy shit.

Ya know what? I know how quite a few local student lurkers found the blog. You got bored in class or in a dorm room while working on some blog-based assignment for one of several classes. You started surfing. You saw, yeah, I have a lot of profile views. You may have thought you recognized me from somewhere you frequent - like the library where I work.

Thanks for stopping by and for reading over the last year. I have no problems with local folks reading - a few of my colleagues think this site is rather entertaining. Feel free to continue reading.

But, well, the ZenFo Pro is moving to Cincinnati... sort of.

I decided to take advantage of the slow blog traffic this weekend, "relocating" the ol' blog to Cincy in the Blogger directory. I'm still based in Oxford - 30 minutes outside of Cincinnati - but, to cut down on the number of local college student lurkers, the majority of whom enter through my profile, I moved the blog to give me a little peace of mind.

~~ Jason

A DIFFERENT SORT... PREFACE

Once you allow that darkness in, there is no escaping it completely. A sliver of it remains. Always. Forever. And every step is a struggle, albeit one that gets easier with time... and then again not, I don't know. So life is lived on a day to day basis... baby steps.

But no, I have no shame about it... and yes, absolutely no regrets. None.

- Miz Bohemia, Blog Friend

To be honest, I'm terrified at what people are going to say about the following post. I remember a few months back, several folks took offense at the fact that I used the term womanizer in a post.

Jeez... what kind of reaction am I going to get from this one? Wow. You may want to skip the post below if you find the term womanizer offensive.

We're talking a part of my personal history that I've skirted or used euphemism to describe for YEARS. This is raw shit. I didn't post it back in January because I was downright petrified that people in Cyberspace would judge me.

Blogging is, after all, a very public Confession Booth. And there's no priest to offer absolution for forgotten sins.

I realized, reading MizB's post tonight, and Shayna's post a few days ago on her assault, and even reading a post Liz wrote a while back about mortality, that I've been a bit of a chickenshit in cutting through my own crap.

Thursday night, I hit my favorite bar here in Oxford. I had a chance to harmlessly flirt with one of my favorite bartenders. She was flirting back. Back and forth. She has a boyfriend, so there's really no chance of anything. But hey, nothing wrong with getting your flirt on...

Then I realized I was damned comfortable being flirtatious with a nice, wholesome, normal woman. No baggage similar to my own. And no feeling that my hidden baggage is somehow being weighed against their own.

Why the fuck should I staple a Scarlet Letter to my head simply because I'm comfortable with myself, my life, and the choices I've made in the last decade? Good or bad, I'm here in the now.

For the majority of my adult life, I've been secretly afraid that one day, I might finally let go of some of my guilt about some of the seedier elements of my past. Some of these things I've never told some of my dearest friends - when left Virginia, literally less than 24 hours after I graduated from high school, I blocked out some of the more painful portions of my teenaged years.

As an adult, I'm a bit of a control-freak. I don't like risk. Back in January, I finally accepted the reason why - accepting the fact that, yeah, there's nothing wrong with having some fucked-up shit in our pasts.

But I never really admitted to myself that having a past isn't a curse; it's part of life. The things that I have done to others are just as much a part of me as the things that have been done to me. There is, as MizB points out, no shame in admitting that sometimes it takes understanding our own hearts of darkness in order to find our own beacon of hope. Risk is a part of life - that uncertainty that drives the human experience.

For me not to take risks is nothing more than an excuse to not let go of something as silly as a damaged cassette tape.

Life's to fucking short to be a chickenshit. I learned that as a teenager, despite my best efforts to not learn anything.

I'm probably not the guy you think I am. Hell, I'm starting to realize I'm not the total bastard I think I am.

- Jason
Read On....

A Different Sort of Digitization Project...

Written Jan. 15, 2006 (Rev. April 14)

So I found this beat-up Maxell cassette buried in a box in my garage three weeks ago.

The tape was in extremely poor condition – the polymer coating had, thanks to two hot Ohio summers, bonded to the recording tape. Worse, a container of hair gel had apparently exploded, and the gooey stuff had made its way into the casing.

In an effort to preserve this extremely rare recording for posterity, I attempted an emergency conservation treatment and an analog/digital format migration. It survived the case extraction, the hand-cleaning of the recording surface, and the 125-degree oven. I was able to stabilize the tape long enough to get three plays out of it.

Sadly, the last known “mix-tape” of Dick Pickles rehearsals and show rarities was pronounced D.O.A. late last night. Completely deteriorated, probably due to whatever toxic shit was in the hair gel.

I played in the Dick Pickles in high school. This was what I'd call the good shit – the dangerous, vulgar, brutal, and controversial. Actually, that pretty much describes me as a teenager.

Let's put it this way...I once played this tape for a girl I was dating. She thought I was a nice guy, compassionate, intelligent, mature, etc. How the hell did she think I got that way? Sunday School and fucking Pep Rallies? Please. I'm almost certain the reason the relationship went nowhere was because of this tape.

Like I said, the good shit.

Since I can't make the recordings available on this site, I thought I'd preserve a bit of personal history here. This will almost certainly be offensive to several readers, so please remember that this tape documented who I was in 1994 through 1996, not who I am now. It may give some folks some insight into the ol' Zenfo Pro as a rather strange, demented, and seemingly invincible angst-ridden teenager.

Hey, if you forget where you come from, you'll never get where you're going....

# # #

Is That My C#ck in Your Mouth (Or R U Just Glad to See Me?) - Dick Pickles, 1996

Despite the rather, er, creative song title, I believe the the song was meant to be a protest song. Yeah, I wrote this powerful acoustic ballad with our sometime bass player in the Feb. 1996.

The rest is a bit hazy. We were very drunk – one of those three-day binges. I think there was an inflatable sex doll involved. Some cow tipping. Possibly codeine and firearms. I do remember topless girls and chocolate syrup.

That was a lot of fun. Stupid, but fun.

C'mon. You didn't think I was some innocent, shoe-gazing wallflower when I was in high school, did you? How I survived that part of my life and still managed to be coherant enough to pull off a 3.0 in high school is beyond me...

Playaz Go Down – "G-Spot", DJ [???], and DP

I know this was recorded at a rap show in which two of the DP crew (including yours truly) decided to plug guitars into a mixer and crunch a few Drop-D riffs over some Mobb Deep samples.

"G-Spot" was a female version of Tupac Shakur. This tiny black teenager sang gospel in church on Sundays and rapped about multiple orgasms on Saturdays. She had one or two in front of the crowd that night - not kidding. The first time I listened to this track, honestly, I was... um... overwhelmed by the pure, unadulterated sexual energy of her raspy voice and the simple, breathy chorus:

Your dick will do the trick/ but your tongue will get me sprung

My job as backing vocalist was to simply talk dirty, moan, and grunt. And to mimic a certain sex act. Not a bad gig. If I hadn't been so loaded with malt liquor and hadn't cleared a four-footer several times, I'd probably remember more.

The only thing I remember is the fact that she pointed out that I was the only white boy she wanted to make her toy that night. She did show me her very interesting piercing...the thong/piercing obviously negated her need for a regular sex partner.

I almost regret not pursuing that offer...almost. I heard she may have died of an overdose in a housing project a few years ago.

F#ckless Wonder/Want Your Candy/Minor Threat – Dick Pickles, Bat Cave, 1995

The Bat Cave was a nickname given to our rehearsal space in my parents' basement. Everybody was frustrated, hung over, and at each other's throats. Our drummer didn't have a kit, so we built one out of trashcans. And our vocalist/lead guitarist pulled a David Bowie, choosing to dry-hump a futon instead of actually sticking with one song. There was a rather nasty fungus involved.

Nuke the Academy – Me, solo, acoustic. Undated.

We wrote this song about the girls who attended the private school in my hometown. The private school was founded after the fall of Jim Crow to allow rich white people the opportunity to keep their kids from being tainted by non-whites. The electrified version was rather intense; this version sounded like Jim Croce covering Black Sabbath – not very good.

It had to have been recorded in Spring of 1996, because it's clear from the conversations in the background that DP had already broken up. I also realized something I must've blacked out - I think I may have been in the bedroom of one of my best friend's girlfriends. Recognize the voice. I know we didn't go all the way (it sounds so juvenile to actually write that), but I'm pretty sure we were both naked and had gone farther than I remember wanting to go. I do know it was out of spite. He'd pissed me off. Borrowed my guitar without asking. So I hit on his girl. And we took a few photos. There's also another girl's voice on the tape as well...think this was a brown-out moment...

Stupid Jack Daniels.

Shit, Shit, Shit – Dick Pickles. Undated live recording.

No fucking clue if I even bothered to tune my ol' Telecaster on this one. No sense in lying – we were all high on various controlled substances. And it sounds like it. I remember jumping off the makeshift stage in this horse barn, hitting a low beam, and knocking myself out cold. I also remember some kid throwing up because he'd dropped too many hits off a blotter. I may or may not have intentionally urinated on him in an attempt to wake him up.

And then there was this girl known as the Missionary. Born-Again who obviously believed that she was "saving herslef for marriage" by offering everything but her vagina to any guy who treated her nicely. I know she'd been raped by her uncle. She was 14. Don't know why she was there. Her friend - a walking, talking STD of a woman - gave a friend of mine the Clap. That really sucked.

A Country Boy Can Survive – Me, Dan ?, Limp Dick

Oh, now this is interesting. A Hank Williams, Jr., cover. Acoustic. Sadly, I can't remember who the fuck Limp Dick was. May have been a dealer. Limp Dick's a great nickname for dealers.

Shutdaf#ckup, Cracka – “Nat F#cking Turner and DP”

This was an impromptu recording of a black friend and occasional bandmate who had been scolded by a white student teacher for correcting her when she used the phrase “The N Word” in in what was supposed to be a frank discussion about racial slurs. This guy hated white teachers who were afraid to say the word nigger in an academic discussion.

If You Can't Say nigga because you think you somehow bigga than Biggie... then I knows you thinkin' Coon when you back at the motherfuckin' sorority. So instead of pulling trains for fraternities and talkin' bout how you care about my brothas in penitentiaries, shutdafuckup cracka before I smack tha kappa outcha mouth.

I've lost touch with "Nat Fucking Turner," but I've heard rumors that he still refuses to let white people use "the N Word."

COLLEGE TOWNS OF THE LIVING DEAD:Who's Supposed to Fix This Shit, Anyway?

You see this? This is you. I'm serious! Right here, life is about to form on this planet for the very first time. A group of amino acids is about to combine to form the first protein. The building blocks of what YOU call "life." Strange, isn't it? Everything you know, your entire civilization, it all begins right here in this little pond of goo.

- Q. [John de Lancie]
Star Trek: The Next Generation

All Good Things... (series finale, 1994)

It's amazing how people think they can pull the wool over the world's eyes, how human beings act when they believe no one is looking.

Take, for instance, young women with eating disorders. One would think the last place someone battling such a disorder would go would be a grocery store. After all, the place where most folks buy food should be a repellent to anyone trying to avoid it.

But in college towns across the country, that's where the savvy anorexic goes to buy the tools of a rather unhealthy trade. At pharmacies, someone is more likely to face questions over excessive amounts of diet aids. Cashiers in this region tend to be suspicious of any large quantity of over-the-counter meds, thanks to a blossoming meth industry. Unlike supermarkets, there's rarely a full house in a drugstore - empty stores lead to chit-chatty cashiers who might have time to give a rat's ass.

A grocery store? Throw in a few bars of soap, some toilet paper, a bag of baby carrots, and a few rice cakes, and no one is going to ask any questions, thanks to self-service checkout.

Last night, I watched four college students, one right after the other, pull the same self-checkout trick I've seen a hundred times in this town and in other college communities. Each one carried baskets filled with diet foods, diet soda, Fiji water, Special K, and South Beach products. Not one of them could have weighed more than 110-115 pounds.

As each of these women emptied their baskets at the counter, I noticed that all four were buying the same brand of liquid laxative. Not small bottles, either. We're talking enough laxative to pass a 1974 Chevy Malibu.

What are the odds that four women, wearing the same Greek letters, would all be constipated at the same time? Or would all pretend not to recognize each other in adjacent check-out lines?

Every single publication I see while I'm waiting in line - all geared towards women - has at least one article regarding weight loss or staying fit mentioned on the cover. Headlines scream out, in bold four-color print, about how such-in-such A-lister lost 10 pounds through a miracle diet, or how some actress has lost her sexiness because she - gasp - had a child and "let herself go a bit."

All four of the women in fron of me were, coincidentally, purchasing copies of these magazines.

I can't be the only one in this goddamned town who notices this kind of stuff. I looked around, but nobody seemed to think anything was out of place. Three stereotypical Miami students doing what Miami female students stereotypically do.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

Almost every trip to the store here in Oxford, I see the same scene play out in some form or fashion. Young women, lined up to redefine thinner, working to keep the Auschwitz physique in style.

Eating disorders have been a destructive staple of the college experience for decades. I've met women in their 40s and 50s who developed eating disorders in their college days and fought to regain their sense of true beauty. One rarely meets women in their 40s or 50s who have not addressed their eating disorders because, frankly, those who don't seek treatment usually don't make it that far.

Eating disorders are just one of the dozens of problems plaguing college communities these days. The problems are almost as old as higher education itself. Have we finally reached a point where the silent institutionalization of so many dangerous practices has led campuses to just treat these problems as if they're part of everyday life?

It is impossible for one living and working in any college community to not notice these problems, yet no one seems ready or willing to solve them.

The faculty? Please. The vast majority are too busy grading papers, conducting marginally relevant research, and publishing mostly-bullshit articles to think of students as anything more than an identification number in a gradebook. Many of those with tenure sit on thrones of bullshit; those pursuing tenure seek to pile on their own in an effort to gain job security. Faculty these days barely have time to actually teach, much less care.

What about a university's administration? They must have some concern for future alums, right? Maybe a bit, but probably not beyond the need to meet admissions requirements and accreditation standards, to crank out graduates, and to stalk said graduates in an attempt to secure additional funding.

Students? They see the problems daily and bemoan them; yet by refusing to police themselves or to take more action beyond the occasional rally or protest, there is no hope of a solution. Who has time, after all, to care? There's organization meetings, campus activities, study groups, classes, and the quest for that elusive post-party hook-up.

Besides, the faculty and administration are supposed to fix things, right?

Or maybe the buck gets passed to the townsfolk, the "townie." Should townies clean up a college's mess? They seem to be the ones who care, at least in terms of protecting their livelihoods and families. They're the ones who vote on the sales taxes and the breaks for students. They support the police department and non-campus social services.

I'm sure there will be at least one college student who'll read this, some day, who thinks that's just peachy. I'm also sure there will be at least one townie, somewhere in some college town, who thinks that idea is utterly insane.

I'm not just talking about Oxford Fucking Ohio here. Ask the folks in Durham, North Carolina, how much they're looking forward to cleaning up Duke's shit stain of a lacrosse program. Go ahead and ask the Indiana faculty how much a fraternity member's death this weekend really impacted Monday's lectures.

Welcome to the world of higher education. As long as the tuition check doesn't bounce, nobody really gives a shit how you choose to ruin your life - or the lives of others. As long as no one sees it or hears about it, obviously, no problem exists.

Oh yes! Where was I? Oh, that's right. Laxatives, eating disorders, and the grocery store...

I recognized one of the girls in the check-out line. She and her roommate had me over for supper and gave me a tour of the so-called party scene here in Oxford.

I asked her how her semester was going. Her answer - fine. She smiled and asked if it was true I was dating a girl at the University of Cincinnati. Total rumor, I explained.

I laughed. She laughed. Good times.

I made a comment about her gigantic bottle of liquid laxative.

She said that she simply needed it to make her feel better. She stared at me for a few seconds, got this angry look on her face, and just walked off.

Hope she feels better soon. She looks way too thin and jaundiced. I hope to God she's not using it for what I think she's using it for.

At least she'll be able to read People in the can while she's making herself feel better.

JASON AND THE ZENFO PRO WALK INTO A BAR...Life as a Small Town Blogger

Last week, a blog lurker came into my office. She was working on a class project. Sounds innocent enough, right?

Ah. But here's the catch - I'm the project. Actually, this web-based alter-ego, The ZenFo Pro, was the project.

Should've figured. According to my Internet statistics, somebody went through every single post I've ever written - twice - in the last month.

First, I am not my blog. I'd like to think I'm so much more than a string of HTML on a computer screen. I answered some questions about the blogging experience - after I received assurances that my real name, title, and employer's name would not be used.

I had an opportunity to ask a few of my own questions. The answers, well, were...interesting. I'm debating, at this point, whether or not it might have been wiser to simply stay ignorant. I live, work, and generally play in a town that houses app. 22,000 over a six square-mile area. Oxford is an almost suffocating place as it is without the knowledge that there are people watching you.

I'm apparently popular locally amongst women; I'm still trying to figure that one out. The lurker showed me a few Facebook accounts of friends of hers who think I'm hot. Trust me, I'm not hot. I'm nowhere near hot. It's quite terrifying, actually, to be told that there are women - very attractive women - checking you out while you're at the store, at work, or grabbing a cup of coffee.

Who would want to date a dork? I'm a probably one of the dorkiest people in the Greater Cincinnati area. I readily admit it. I've never read the De Vinci Code, but I have read a lot of Elaine Pagels. Desperate Housewives? 24? Lost? No fucking clue, so don't ask me about them. But I own two different Star Trek DVD boxsets and both seasons of the new Battlestar Galactica.

The final damning evidence of my dorkiness? I have a frigging BLOG.

The lurker interviewing me said she was worried I might not talk to her because she wasn't pretty. This woman was frigging gorgeous... why the flying fuck would a 21-year-old who looks like a damned supermodel be worried about what a frigging librarian thinks? There are no words to describe how surreal of an experience it is to be a male librarian and to be told by a woman that she felt the need to choose the right outfit to meet you.

Maybe I should be flattered, but it makes me feel a bit awkward. Last weekend, while at a hardware store, I had a group of female college students wave at me. Then I had a high school student blow me a kiss in the grocery store - that's kinda creepy. Is it tied to this site? Lord, I hope not.

I learned a few other things from the interview. Apparently, my often cryptic writing comes across as mysterious, which has added to my supposed sex appeal. Having a profile picture doesn't help much, either. Personally, the only thing I notice is my big mellon and that I need to clean my office.

There's also this perception that some of the rather harmless "blog flirting" that goes on between bloggers somehow translates into something in the real world. Did you know that there are three female bloggers that comment regularly - two of whom are married with children, BTW - who have been confused with people I know in the real world? Neither did I.

A rather brilliant student at an East Coast university (who, under the circumstances, I'm choosing not to hotlink) has even been confused with a local real-world ex. Why? Because she posted a comment once or twice about having a relative who attends Miami and I guess some signals got crossed. Take my word for it - the blogger I'm talking about has nothing in common with Danno (no sense in using an alias here, apparently).

For the record, I read her blog because she's never posted, to my knowledge, anything on her addiction to Chanel, her perfect nose, or how she's in love with the Olsen Twins - that was basically all I heard about from said ex.

Instead, the blog friend in question posts about the Sudan crisis, the rape culture, Costa Rican getaways, and blowjob queens. She's been getting quite a bit of heat lately on her blog for speaking her mind, for daring to be herself. If she intimidates local college students simply by posting comments on my site, she must be doing something right.

To be completely honest, I debated shutting the ol' ZenFo Pro site down several times since that interview but decided against it. I think I do a damned fine job separating my blog life from my work life. If people want to stare, well, why should I give a shit? If patrons think I'm cute, well, there are worse things they could be thinking.

The experience did, however, sink in that there probably is no separating who I am in the real world from who I am in Cyberspace. That's both fascinating as an information professional and terrifying as a human being. I caught 12 women staring at work this week; one was staring at my crotch. Was Jason the Librarian being checked out? Or was the ZenFo Pro recognized from black-and-white profile pic?

This is why I refuse to take the Blogosphere too seriously and why I treat the perceptions of the bloggers behind the curtain like a rabid wolverine in a nursery. After talking with me, the lurker decided to not focus in on me for her class assignment; instead, she'll be investigating the Blog Culture.

I ran into her in Uptown Oxford this morning. She's going to e-mail me a transcript of her interview with me. Apparently, she decided to not use anything about me because, I guess, she now better understands some of my concerns.

See...who says being a small town blogger isn't interesting?

STUPID POLITICIAN TRICKS: Congressional Profiling, Batshit Dictators, and Scooter's Follies

I haven't done a Zenfo Pro version of SPT in a long while. Again, I have a post that was planned, but I'm still waiting for permission from a person involved to discuss our conversation (nothing major, just courtesy to local lurker.)

So, until then, it's time to send another rosy greeting card to the world's dumbest politicos...

---

PROFILES IN ...UM...COURAGE?
WASHINGTON (ZP) -- Rep. Cynthia McKinney (D-GA) earns the top spot in this installment for her recent pissing contest with Capitol Police.

McKinney, void of any kind of visible Congressional ID, tried to sneak past a security checkpoint in the Capitol March 29. When an officer stopped her, she bitchslapped the guy with a cellphone.

For about a week she's been moving through the news-talk world, screaming about how she was simply a victim of racial profiling and had done nothing wrong. After a bit of pressure from Democratic leadership, she finally offered a haphazard apology for causing a ruckus, but still refuses to admit her mistake.

Racial profiling? Please. McKinney's histrionics are more about garnering publicity, a desperate attempt to spin a stupid mistake into something meaningful. Her actions may have possibly weakened the case for those with legitimate claims of institutional bigotry.

McKinney brazenly chose to walk past a metal detector because she believed she was too important to be bothered with silly things like the need to protect the nation's legislative branch from acts of terror. While the majority of House Dems were working to pitch their Homeland Security agenda, one of their own chose to undercut those efforts by being an asshole.

Honestly, if there's one group in America that should be targeted based on culture, it probably should be those in Congress. Imagine what they'd find if, say, Dennis Hastert had to empty his pockets into a plastic tray and go through security?

---

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Capitol Police, Cynthia McKinney, Politics, Racial Profiling

- MORE -

SILLY DICTATOR, TRIX ARE FOR KIDS
BAGDHAD (ZP) -- Good ol' Saddam Hussein. Who woulda thunk it? A homicidal dictator who spent decades massacring his own people can't come up with a decent defense?

So you're on trial for being one of the most brutal warlords of the last century. You're being forced to defend your orders to butcher Shiite villagers during the Dujail Massacre. The prosecution presents the court with photos of some of the children killed during the massacre and an overwhelming amount evidence.

Your defense? Blame the current Shia-controlled Interior Ministry and point out the human rights violations at Abu Gharib instead of actually, like, you know, countering the charges against something that happened in 1982.

Speaking of Saddam's I Killed the 80s moments, why aren't the American, German, Dutch, French, Swiss, and Austrian company executives who supplied Hussein with his real weapons of mass destruction during that decade facing an Iraqi firing squad?

---

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Dujail, Saddam Hussein, Iraq, Politics, Trials, War Crimes

- MORE -

W. FOR VENDETTA: NATIONAL SECURITY SCOOTS THROUGH WASHINGTON
WASHINGTON (ZP) -- Speaking of corporate relics from the 1980s, the Bush Administration took a huge hit this week when federal prosecutors revealed that former Cheney aide Scooter Libby has implicated the president in authorizing the leak of classified information.

The reason for the leaking of portions of the Nuclear Intelligence Estimate (NIE) for Iraq? Was it to help bolster the American public's confidence in the wake of the Iraqi invasion? To prove, once and for all, that the Left was wrong about Iraq not having nukes?

Nope. Those would be legitimate reasons.

Sure, it's probably legal for the president to leak information regarding a Iraq's nuclear capabilities to support an administration's policies. But for political reasons?

I guess it's okay, then. I mean, who has time to worry about things like national security when ... huff...the president and vice-president felt personally insulted by former U.S. Ambassador Joseph Wilson and other critics?

Wilson, of course, is the husband of former CIA operative Valerie Plame - who was somehow outed as an intelligence officer mere days after Wilson questioned the White House's assertion that Iraq did indeed have a viable nuclear weapons program...

Note to self...hmm...do not question the wisdom of the Bush Administration. Insulting them may lead to the White House accidentally leaking missile codes to China, in the interests of national security, because the Veep takes it personally.

---

TECHNORATI TAGS:
George W. Bush, Scooter Libby, National Security, PlameGate, Politics

# # #

CORRECTED 9:30 AM EDT

DUKE OF BRUTALITY: Player E-mail Beyond Insanity

I really wish I could find better words to describe what I've been reading about Duke University's lacrosse scandal this morning.

I had another post planned, but this is much more grave and needs to be addressed.

The recent e-mail released by investigators and allegedly sent by Blue Devils player Ryan McFadyen is, frankly, beyond any coherent definition of insanity.

It's difficult to find words to describe utter insanity when it's paired with complete stupidity.

McFadyen, No. 41, allegedly sent the following e-mail (transcribed below) outlining plans for a party where he'd get off killing and SKINNING strippers .

The e-mail is believed to have been sent immediately after the alleged rape now under investigation in Durham, North Carolina, occurred.

To whom it may concern

tommrow night, after tonights show, ive decided to have some strippers over to edens 2c. all are welcome.. however there will be no nudity. i plan on killing the bitches as soon as they walk in and proceding to cut their skin off while cumming in my duke issue spandex.. all in besides arch and tack please respond.

41

From WRAL-TV, click here to read the text of the Probable Cause Affidavit.

And there are people who seriously believe this isn't a major issue, that this is just another case of student athletes pulling the boys will be boys routine?

Are they fucking insane as well?

(CORRECTION 7:59 AM ET)

---

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Duke, Lacrosse, News, Rape, Scandal, Sexual Assault

"Cajun Guys Call Boobs Beignets Right?": Random Texting, Birthdays, and Google Indexing

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Okay, that's a completely random post title.

Somebody sent that sentence as a text message Friday night. I have no clue who sent it to me.

I found it on my phone this morning.

To answer the question: no, Cajuns don't call boobs beignets. A beignet is a rather plump, fried doughnut. A woman's boobs have a lot fewer calories.

I have this horrible visual of an Accadian version of Homer Simpson, staring at a woman's chest and going "Mmmm...beignet."

If I can get myself out of the fetal position, I should be able to force that awful image from my mind.

Really have to check those things more often...

* * * *

So why oh why do I have a picture of a Gibson ES-175 embedded in this post?

Have you ever heard the tones that resonate from this sucker? Gig it up to a Marshall stack, and you're ready to roll. I played a decent clone of this guitar last Christmas; I'd probably neuter myself with a spork to be able to afford the real thing.

Perfect gift for birthday travels on a Music Highway.

Happy birthday, Shayna! And I bet you thought I'd forget...

* * * *

Since Cooper brought up the concept of keywords associated with blogs, I wanted to give Google's indexing monkeys something interesting to play with.

Give it a month. Somebody's going to search for "librarian boobs Cajun Beignets ." There are, after all, some sick bastards out there.

Please. Way too many people take blogging too seriously.

How the hell do you think people find your blog? CNN?

The ZenFo Pro Takes a Hike... and Scares the Shit Out of Stoners

Sometimes, you just have to take the advice of critics and take a hike.

I did just that Sunday, heading up to a state park for a nice three-and-a-half hour hump through deer trails, horse paths, and along creek beds.

Last week was rather brutal, both online and in the real world. It's been a long time since I received an e-mail comparing me to Hitler or had folks expressing a wish that folks I know meet the same brutal demise as a bunch of party kids in Seattle. I wish I had time to give a shit, but as a journalist I learned that a few nuts will always fall from the tree when you shake it hard enough. And there's nothing wrong with that.

But in the offline world, I have projects I'm developing. I have products that I'm responsible for producing under deadline. And I don't have the luxury of pondering anyone's gripe against a web site that I write in my spare time.

So I took a hike.

I'm a bit of a nature lover and like to think I'm in touch with my primordial self. At least, I used to be - how easy it is to forget the beauty of nature when wrapped up in a blanket of silicone and plastic.

While I no longer hunt, I still like to keep my tracking skills at least minimally tuned. I always preferred the tracking aspect of the hunt to the killing. Tracking game is a lost art in a time when cubicle-hardened weekend warriors hunt with automatic weapons.

I tracked a pregnant doe for miles (the excessively deep, almost bow-legged tracks left by the hind legs are a dead giveaway), but my hunt was ruined when I found three sets of Birkenstock clog prints (wide toe and low heel imprint - one lighter male, two heavier females), a discarded candy bar, and picked up the whiff of weed upwind.

Hippies. Damn hippies. Not even cool Dennis Hopper, burnt-out, 1960s hippies. No, these were the trustafarian, I-worship-Bob-Marley-from-an-SUV kinds of hippies.

It took me a grand total of 10 seconds to pinpoint three heads bobbing up and down in front of me in the bush, 100 yards ahead. I could've been blind and picked them out. They had a white five-gallon bucket with them and were loudly lumbering through the woods.

Looks like somebody's planning some illegal agriculture. Growing up in the rural South, one learns to hate the site of those five-gallon buckets - and I grew up with people who's parents relied on those potted crops to put food on the table. Ilost one of my best friends because he fell in love with the money made from the crops grown in those buckets.

Not only did these three assholes manage to scare away every breathing creature for acres, they were planning on setting up their own little farm in a state park.

So I hollered up ahead and asked if they were enjoying the day. They took off running. They even dropped their bucket, which, upon inspection, had three holes neatly cut in the bottom for drainage and a tiny baggy.

I guess I was lucky. They could've been armed, and I left my knife home for the first hike of the year. I never go hiking without ol' Sharky (my grandfather's blade), or at least a Gerber.

Yes, I'm just dumb enough to bring a knife to a potential gunfight. A lot of folks expected I wouldn't make it past 21, so I figure I'm on borrowed time anyway.

Why is it that some pot users think that inhaling the smoke of a plant somehow puts them more in touch with nature? Or gives them the right to exploit natural resources illegally, probably for profit, anymore than Enron or ExxonMobile?

Last year, I spotted a badger in this same area - very rare for southwestern Ohio, given that the population level is unknown. Any chance of that was ruined by a couple of kids looking for a place to grow a banned plant...in a state park. The doe? Gone.

I don't care if someone smokes weed; it's none of my business what one does in the privacy of one's own home. But hundreds of folks use this park every weekend from April through November. If you want to grow, buy your own lot and take your own chances.

I don't know too many families that plan outdoor vacations based on the likelihood of a DEA raid.

This part of the country is, despite what a lot of local college students think, very rural and very poor. The local parks provide low-cost entertainment for working-class families and being outdoors is a hell of a lot better for kids than a fucking Xbox.

Are ya looking to ruin the experience for everyone?

MODERN MATURITY DEPT. Life is One Quirky Motherfucker

I woke up this morning and just stared at the ceiling for about an hour.

Last night, a bartender was able to guess my age, exactly, on the first try. I didn't think anything of it; the various servers at ----- have made some very strange guesses during my two years in this town.

A bouncer once asked me for THREE forms of ID because he didn't believe I was over 21 - that was flattering.

One bartender - a muscular blonde with gorgeous eyes - once guessed that I was 37. That was not flattering. Not that 37 is old; I'm just not a fan of having someone age me a decade in a few simple words.

I'm generally happy with my age, who I am in the here and now. I didn't think anything of E.'s correct guess. It simply reaffirmed my belief that she is quite possibly the smartest working upperclassman in this town. I always thoroughly enjoy talking with her; she's one of the friendliest folks I've ever met.

After I'd put down my second Labatt mug, I had to hit the head.

----- is notorious for its tiny restrooms. One stall, one urinal. No soap in the dispenser. A towel dispenser that hasn't worked right in years. These two guys had beat me to the relief stations, so I leaned against the wall and waited. Both guys...overgrown fratboys back for some alumni reunion...were chatting away like old ladies a church potluck.

Of course, if old ladies at church suppers were as full of shit as these tools, everybody would be destined for hell.

These two guys were talking about which women out at the bar they were going to try to "score" with that night. Talking about tits and ass, banging, fucking, sucking, ...sprinkled with a few miscellaneous Yo bros spread in between grunts.

This tiny little metrosexual, a cross between the Can You Hear Me Now? Guy and a Smurf, turns his head my way.

"Hey bro...are you hitting that or what? I'd love to tap that shit. Girls like that...need dick."

Who the fuck does this dwarven hipster wannabe think he is? And who the hell did he think he was talking to? For all he knew, E. was my sister, a friend, a lover, a student of mine.

If you've read this site long enough, you probably are aware of the fact that I used to be a bit of a hoodlum in a past life. Certain stupid choices I made in high school are the reason I can no longer close my hands on cold days. I may be more Bertrand Russell these days, but I used maintain more of a Russell Crowe persona back in the day.

This guy was drunk. His friend was drunk. They were drunk when I first sat down at the bar. Rolling a drunk isn't difficult; rolling two is tricky but not impossible. Someone had left a plunger near the can - I could easily get to it before Big Mongo knew what was happening. The little guy would've been an easy out... pump-fake with a right jab, then a left hook...

I don't like violence and senseless violence over some comment only makes me look like an idiot. There is nothing at stake beyond a verbal insult that the person in question would never hear. Guys who talk about hitting that in a bar bathroom rarely hit anything beyond the palm of their hands at the end of the night.

The tiny guy moved over to wash his hands, freeing up the urinal. I thought about accidentally missing the head - the guy probably wouldn't have noticed.

Then he started talking about his sweet ride. On and on while he washed up about his new sports car. (Who was this guy? A heart surgeon? He spent about 2 minutes scrubbing his arms.) At 33 years old, the guy had finally talked Mom and Dad into hooking him up with a ride of his very own.

I finished up, went back out to the bar, and ordered another tall, cold Labatt. Chatted with E. a little while longer until business picked up, then narrowly escaped a conversation about frontier justice with a very nice biker. After I left the bar, I realized I had to make another pit stop.

I could've made it home. Could've gone back to the bar.

But I noticed this car...a nifty little convertible that matched the description I'd just heard in the restroom, with plates that matched Metrosexual Mini-Me's home state. Who leaves the top down on a convertible on a rainy night? Next to a bar? Illegally parked...

Fate is a real bastard sometimes. One cheeky, evil bastard.

I've never owned a vehicle with black leather upholstery. I don't know the first thing about, say, getting the urine smell out of leather seats or leather-covered dashboards or...

* * *

For some reason, I was thinking about that this morning while staring at the ceiling. I was grinning for some reason. I don't know why. I guess I was feeling a little...hmmm... relieved.

Maybe I'm not as old as I feel sometimes. Or as mature. Or as wise.

Maybe none of that matters first thing in the morning.