That's How It Happened

Thank goodness that Dr. Rufus found a computer from which to post yesterday as I was busy elsewhere trying to mix as much wine, beer, champagne, more beer and dancing downstairs at Asylum (oh and some nasty Greek vino at Vasis) in my poor unsuspecting system. Catching up with old friends can be so exhausting, and despite my best efforts led to my second lost storm proof umbrella in as many umbrella laden outings.

In looking for a link for Asylum, my eye was caught by this page mentioning Asylum and Portorož in the same breath (I grew up on the beach there every summer). As an exercise in bytestream of consciousness (or is it six degrees of stupidity) it's interesting that MCSleazy has remixes of songs available for MP3 download just as I've discovered the wonders of BitTorrent (which discovery I intend to share with the world very soon), which raises related questions. Is it Ok for me to download episodes of the supreme Chappelle's Show for my enjoyment when I've paid to have them broadcast to me back home and they're sitting on my cable box awaiting my next return (which will be for my Green Card interview in June - I'm trying to get my M. Depardieu haircut cultivated)? I'm going to presume that the answer is yes.

Maybe I'm just too hungover, but this game seems remarkably challenging by level two or three (apologies if this has been posted here before). Mr. Wonka's glamorous magic is sorely missed.

I find it fricking annoying when I get those group emails from lucky fools taking a year off to travel. I never want to here how sunny it is in Australia, or what llama dung soup tastes like in Peru. However Mexico is quite nice. Its jolly hot, all the food tastes and looks the same, not too different from Taco Bell, and the ancient Mayan pyramids are suitably ooky spooky. This spanish keyboard sucks, though it does have a cool upside down question mark, that at least on my screen looks like this: ¿ . My gmail account is already getting more spam than actual mail, and its only been up for a week. I didn´t submit it anywhere, so I can´t imagine how the schlong enhancers found me so soon. All in all a mixed bag of news. Hope all is well in the real world, and my continuing congratulations to Mr Nixta for his superlative efforts.

No news from Dr. Rufus since he left the airport other than to report that Mexico is dark at night. He's missing this gem at e-bay though...

Have just heard from Dr. R. with a brief update on his trip so far: Uneventful flight was greeted by the tarmac in Mexico with more than a little enthusiasm, but thankfully not enough to cause more than a minor round of applause from the cabin crew and a public announcement that "Now we've safely been shot down, please open the overhead lockers carefully... Shift happens". His baggage, consisting largely of (now shaken) Air Wovens was examined thoroughly by Mexican Customs Agents, always on their toes in case Rufus intended to get arrested as a side-business.

Mainly without internet access, The DoctoR will continue to report back¹ sporadically with updates. In the meantime, The Future Mayor of Hoboken recommends that we enjoy that which R. will miss most after cocktails and shoe-bay.

---

¹ Frankie Dettori, please come in third...

Actually, as it happens, I was by some miracle not that hungover at all, though my stomach felt like it might explode. I suppose that I might have swallowed some North Sea or perhaps eaten some pebbles without realising it. Anything could have happened on that remote backwater beach somewhere near Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft. Here is the last known decent photo of my wedding jacket sans wine stain. Note the arrow showing exactly where the wine isn't. I suppose this is called comeuppance.

We invented a "new" game. Well we enjoyed it as if it were our first game of pat-a-cake. Standing on a slippery plastic tube, your opponent hurls a heavy ballistic polystyrene buoy at you in an effort to dislodge you while all you have to help you is a wooden stick. Jonky was pathetic at this while I took to head butting it (I need some excuse for my (f)ailing brain). Beforehand we had attempted a game of baseball using the buoy as a ball and the rubber pipe as a bat. Although amusing, it proved a little hard to hit the ball far enough to score. Can't resist it, and I have ages to redeem myself before the Doctor returns: Amusing, ball, hard, score. I got 14 from 16 right, not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Dr. Rufus did a hero's job of getting up at 5am to head home before continuing to the airport and thence on to Mexico where he would be able to compare the local beaches with the East Anglian coastline fresh in his mind. Rendering his organs useless before the trip was perhaps a masterstroke - one can only hope they check before they chop. Jonky and I went on to suffer a superb stuffing at the Crown and Castle. The hotel had a disturbing cat sleeping on a chair. Disturbing because it looked rather more real than stuffed. Then again, perhaps this is a theme at hotels these days...

Tearing off to the airport again. I leave you in the more than capable hands of Mr Nixta. He is doubtless too hungover to consider a post today, but you can enjoy his wit and wisdom from tomorrow.

I've seen an unbelievably large number of celebrities today:
Roger Black, former Olympic athlete, and Matthew Kelly, former host of Stars in their Eyes, both ridin' the lifts at St Thomas' where they are filming City Hospital. A.A. Gill emerging from lunch at the Wolseley. Bill Nighy wandering incognito down Carnaby St, recognisable from his severe bilateral Dupuytren's Contracture. Boris Johnson riding a bicycle down the Marylebone Road. Since I myself was skipping work to enjoy the late spring sunshine, this glut of c'lebs begs the question: don't the famous actually have any work to do? It seems not, instead these idle idols are free to roam the streets like so many little urchins. Good luck to the little blighters I say, long may they enjoy their reign of indolence.

The History Of The Doctor Pepper

The Doctor Pepper is a true drinker's cocktail. There are many variants to the recipe, many styles to the imbibing, but only one purpose: to get you slaughtered. The original recipe was drunk as a depth charge of amaretto, sunk into a 1/2 pint of lager and coke mixed 1:1. It frothed like mad requiring it to be downed in one. It tasted exactly like Dr Pepper. Then some wise-ass, possibly from Ohio State invented the Flaming Dr Pepper. This is a precision drink, requiring exact mixing and a steady nerve if you wish to retain your eyebrows. It needs 1 1/2 shots of amaretto, with a 1/2 shot float of Bacardi 151. 151 is as the name suggests 75.5% pure alcohol, totally unavailable in the UK, but when illegally imported comes with a special warning against the dangers of ignition. Take this little double of rocket fuel in a tall shot glass, and carefully set it ablaze with a cigarette lighter. Then send it sinking into a half pint of lager (in a whole pint glass). This causes an immense foaming explosion of lager that needs immediate downing. It tastes almost like Dr Pepper. Hitherto I had been a fan of the Flaming variety, that slight lack of gustatory authenticity being more than compensated for by the danger and drama of the drinking. Now though I wish to pay tribute to Barman Tim of The Office Bar. He has found a way to combine the exquisite taste of the original, with the excitement of the flamer. The photo above shows him about to launch one of his custom depth charge domino rallies. Each shot tips the next one into the pint glass, causing a rolling foaming tsunami of Doctor Pepper goodness. Truly an excellent way to get wasted.

Linkin' Park:
The Slack Album: Jay Z Vs Pavement = Unexpectedly excellent
Biggest Wave Ever Ridden?
MyFootprint.org is a depressing tool to help you discover just how un-green western life is.
Floats is a flash game that is crack-like addictive.
Hot Tamales of delicious human flesh. Mexico here I come.
Best defence plea ever? My rooster and two hens were in possession of 68kg of cocaine. Genius.
I hate Dave Eggers almost as much as I loathe Paul Auster, so I was horrified to discover McSweeney's is his baby. However these Saddam Interrogation Logs are the funniest thing I've ever read. Choke back your anger at Eggers ongoing fame and success, and enjoy a brilliant spoof.

I was in an unremittingly negative mood today. The electricity blew at the GFs flat at 00.30a.m. Ordinarily I would have been cool with no power: I like a romantic candlelit evening as much as the next guy. However my fish live chez-GF, and due to their 24 need of heat and filtration we had to call out the emergency electrician. A pair of portly gentlemen arrived in a white van, spent about 30 seconds poking about with a funny red torch that hummed near high voltage (looked like a Harry Potter wand). They announced the enormous costs involved with replacing the whole fusebox, then charged £217 for seemingly changing a fuse. I felt vulnerable, ripped off, and grateful all at once. However I got very little sleep, and then had to spend the whole day assisting at a very long operation, feeling extremely sorry for myself.
To cheer myself up I toured the second hand shops of Brick Lane. I've been really running out of trainers to buy. In desperation I had picked up these mini-Air Woven's due to a dearth of them on eBay. (Curses Bill Murray!) I found nothing in Brick Lane except a pair of deadstock 1992 Nike Golf shoes, even I can resist that. Then I got home to discover my inbox brimming with delights: gmail had offered me an email address (rufus.cartwright@gmail.com), this hilarious photo of a car number plate still in my camera, and a glorious photo of me crowdsurfing at my birthday. Hooray! Those three small things turned my day around. Please send me some email, I'd like to test the 1gig limit.

All sorts of seemingly innocent stuff actually poses horrific safety risks:
Amusement parks
Krispy Kremes
Kite Surfing

I've finally found a use for blogging. My interview sucked ass bigtime. So now in the 15 minutes before I find out that I didn't get the job, I can publically announce that the job sucked anyway and I wouldn't have accepted it. Seriously I don't think I stood a chance. On account of the new European Working Time Directive the successful candidates were expected to be able to handle their shizzle when on call, right across all surgical specialties. I'm used to quiet nights dealing with the odd case of cystitis, not mad emergencies on surgical ITU. One of my fellow ushers from Jonky's wedding was far more qualified than me, and he got his ass kicked to da curb. Anyway, enough whining, back to the real business of blogging:

Rob's blog has gone into overdrive. It rules right now. Via him I found this list of yo-yo world records. I think I have a serious shot at the shoot the moon record. Maybe I'll abandon O+G in favour of pro-yo-yo like the Twirl King.

Enjoy this rad Geoff McFetridge movie. It's 18Mb of pure genius.

Cause I'm a little too porky for both my "interview suit", and for looking chic on the beaches of Mexico next week, I've been eating mostly bananas. The Sun swear bananas are slimming. Anyway any fool knows that 10 seconds after going into your pocket a banana turns into black gooey slush. The solution: Banana Guard. I always say you can never have too many phalluses in your life.

Is MTV filming at your house this weekend? I thought not. But for when they do come calling, have this guide to being on Cribs handy.

Finally this clement weather marks the start of the serious vegetable season. I am engaged in a formidable pumpkin competition this year. If you wish to compete get yo ass down to Thompson and Morgan for some fine Dill's Atlantic Giant seeds. The weigh off will be on Saturday the 25th of September.

Kill Bill Vol 2 is like super-buzz right now. This nutty Czech Kill Bill sword fighting game, had me in stitches all morning. Then the even nuttier news that QT has been using Pussy Wagon as his personal vehicle. Bitchin' dude.
I have a job interview tonight, which is why I won't be attending any preview screenings. Wish me virtual luck.

Huh? No posts over the weekend? Well it seems the sky didn't fall in after all. I make this my official announcement: that daily posting can no longer be expected. I'm only back in London for five days, then I'm off again to distant shores. Nick has done a formidable job during the last week, but I'm not sure he needs this burden again. I didn't post over the weekend because I was too busy having actual fun. After insanely heavy snow fall on Wednesday and Thursday we just rode solidly. Argentiere is the world's greatest place for off piste mayhem. I don't think I've ever had such remarkable snow. On Saturday I got to ride with three pros. I tagged along trying to pull lame 360s and little mutes, while they were busting out huge misties and all manner of spins. I almost had the feeling that if I devoted myself to snowboarding for a whole season, I too might master the cab 900.
The apres hours were spent in a tiny dive called the 09 Bar. I'm not sure the French licensing authorities have understood the name. The bar is so cool, over half is devoted to a half-pipe. Into the remaining space they've crammed a pool table and a Cactus Canyon pinball machine. I was in piggy heaven until I almost brained myself trying to drop in after a heavy sesh of Fernet and 1664.
I woke on Sunday with an all-time killer headache having to bust my sorry ass back to Heathrow. How I missed the London rains.

One last post as guest blogger (never to be asked again, I'm sure) before I head off for the weekend. I cannot discuss the destination for reasons that can only be divulged after the visit has begun (or rather, a short while after arrival at destination has occurred). Suffice it to say that it's one of those once-in-a-lifetime mysterious opportunities that one mustn't forgoe but that with luck will be talked about until death do me part from this place (and perhaps beyond). [ I've just read over this and it's got some fairly moribund undertones - must be a field-day for some hack-quack ]

I am surprised by how little Spike Milligan is available for purchase. Wandering through various bookshops I was struck by how uncommercial it appears that he is. I found one bookshop with one copy each of his wartime biographies, and many with no books at all. Well, I try to support local bookshops wherever I can because it's incredibly important to be able to browse and peruse and get a feel for the books, but that's just plain disturbing. I ended up buying them at Amazon against my highest principles (because I didn't have the money for all of them when I bought them).

What depresses me most though is the lack of Spike's television on DVD, along indeed with other fine performances and performers from the defining era of British comedy. Some crap collection is available, but where is the Q series? It surely can't be because the BBC deleted them? Apparently only a few episodes were deleted (remember those days when storage wasn't free?) The same can be said of BBC television of all forms actually according to this chap, but it's saddening nonetheless - I mean, it's not like he's around to remake them again...

Good riddance to me. The Guest Blogger is dead! Long Live Dr. Rufus!

I must have missed Dr. Rufus' public ridicule by mere moments when I checked these fine pages on Tuesday night half expecting a knuckle rapping. Believe it or not, my brain-racking has been second only to my guilt-racking on this topic (my mind feels somewhat less than razor sharp these days on account of stultifying office-work).

Turns out that I have very little that can compare with the adventurous tales of death-defying feats that were posted yesterday (though it sounds more like death was just taking a nap while Dr. R. snuck around his apartment and stole some spare scythes). Some might argue that there was just one such feat, but I'm a cautious chap ("risk averse", apparently) and I counted two that I would have considered worthy of rapidly logging in my underpants.

As part of the droll rigmarole that was the aforementioned blog-stalling work today, we discussed the apparently thorny and misunderstood issue of age of consent in the US. Not only did we realise that many Americans are unaware that there are differences state to state, but also that the rules seem more than a little geared towards confusion. They're at times so utterly complicated that even an adult must find them confusing. Pity the poor libidinous teenager or the average boy-band.

Some surprising points of note, though, include that some places (New South Wales for example) don't consider lesbians worth regulating, that some consider gay and lesbian sex acceptable at a much earlier age (13, New Mexico!), and that the US will consider it illegal even if you go abroad and break the age restrictions from your home state "for commercial sex". Then again, some places won't tolerate any sexual congress anywhere that doesn't adhere to their own rules. Fortunately, my nob dropped off a while back so I'm OK.

One final thing, related to Sneakers. I recently spent many hours looking for a size 10 pair of Diesel Vega Indigo-Blue sneaks in New York. I finally settled on a size 10.5 pair from David Z (they may the Starbucks of shoe stores, but they had the orange mocha frappuccino that I needed) which are actually quite fine, but then I was shocked an appalled to find out that Next here in the UK has blatantly ripped them off. According to my wife, this is normal practice although France has tighter laws on this kind of fashion plagiarism.

Mine (No longer Diesel's) are on the left, Next's are on the right. Note the filled eyelets (one fewer for Next), the tread and the velcro. I shall be submitting them to Private Eye...

Too many of my posts give my mother cause for concern, but this one will probably tip her over the edge. I'm visiting Chamonix mostly because of the Rusticana Bar. It's a fantastic little bar, owned and run by the big brother of an old friend. All my nights here are spent propping up the bar. Last night I heard tell of a majestic mini-ski tour. It was reputed to need only 15 minutes hiking to give access to a giant bowl of untracked powder high above one of the regular pisted ski domains. This morning, at a very leisurely hour, I set out with two intrepid colleagues to conquer this mythical "domaine ski-extreme". We went utterly unprepared: no shovels, avalanche transceivers, or even a compass. Armed only with the hazy recollections of an intoxicated barman, and a ham sandwich we ascended upwards from the highest lift along a snow ridge. After a couple of hundred metres slogging through waist deep snow we passed over the crest into the next valley. We than had a mammoth traverse along a 45 degree slope that had hosted numerous avalanches the previous day. We spread out so as not to trigger further shutes and ambled onwards. My fitness is somewhat less than it ought to be for ski-touring, so after an age of sweating and huffing and puffing we reached the next ridge. We were greeted with a fantastic view of Mont Blanc, complete with circling parapentes. We also got sight, by gingerly peeking our heads over a terrifying cornice, of our intended route down. It was at least a 45 degree slope again, littered with rocks, and entirely swept by avalanche rubble. By then though we were too exhausted to consider turning back. As soon as we hit the slope on our boards the snow began to cascade down beside us. I personally managed to dislodge a 50 metre wide slab Luckily no-one fell, no-one was engulfed in hundreds of tons of ice, and we all lived to tell the tale. We breathed a sigh of relief as the snow came to a halt, and then had 10 minutes of blissfull powder carves back to the piste. Totally worth it.

You leave your blog in someone else's hands, and what happens? Posting goes to pieces. I've been too drunk to post anything this week, but that's the pleasure of being on holiday in Chamonix. The whole town has a fixation on huge shots of Fernet Branca. I'm learning to love them nearly as much as kahlua/tequila shooters. Maybe I can manage a little actual content.....rummaging in the link archives......Bayeux vs Kelis.

One day late, but better late than never. As Dr. Rufus so kindly mentioned in his last post, I will be holding the fort for a little while here while he soaks up the snow and basks in the alpine sun. Is one allowed to link back to one's own blog? Since it's not really mine, I think I can get away with it. [ Did you know that Blogger's spell checker doesn't recognise "blog"? Ed. ]

Petrified by being asked to step up to the plate thusly, and being a virgin blogger, I spent the past few days with my feet bedecked in the finest sneakers my money has been able to buy while I dreamt of exotic cocktails in the hope that I would be "beaten roughly among the eyes until the bleeding becomes" by HowItHappenedesque inspiration. Finally, after 14 hours of walking around Cambridge (the visit to which was the major reason I was tardy in my posting), I found myself being regaled by a man in a bin.

Now, I live (very ordinarily) in New York, and as if that weren't bad enough, I live by the East Village. I have seen many loonies there or thereabouts, but I have never been serenaded, let alone by an Oscar wannabe loonie (see the entry for Mad Charlie about half way down this page).

Turns out this chap does much crooning. When I mentioned the incident to Skankmeister it turns out that he knows the chap (through a mutual friend, you understand) and that his name is Charlie and he owns a punt. Apparently Charlie's Punt can be hired for a mere £10 an hour.

And I shan't be reading any comments, so I shan't have to protect myself from them.

I wish this collection of CD and DVD covers didn't exist. As soon as I saw it I just knew I would in the future waste hours and hours making a virtual gallery of my DVD stash. So stupid, so nerdy, so compulsive.

I try my hardest not to spread any viral marketing, but Subservient Chicken does rule. If you want to spoil the fun, geeks have reverse engineered the lists of stuff the chicken will and won't do.

DVD pick 'o' the week is Buffalo Soldiers. It's smart, funny, and very sad. The casting is inspired: Joaquin Phoenix as a heroin dealing smart alec, Anna Paquin as his love interest, and Ed Harris as the ineffectual Colonel. I'm a sucker for eighties retro, but the movie as a whole is very zeigeisty. Plus for philosophiles you get a voice-over quoting Nietzsche during the climactic scene.

I'm currently packing for a week's snowboarding in Argentiere. I couldn't bear to let the blog lie fallow. Instead I leave you in the capable hands of Mr Nixta. His posts should kick off tomorrow, and I may butt in occasionally during next week. Please treat him kindly in your comments. He may not be able to handle the abrasiveness to which I have become resigned.

Three things I saw while crossing Waterloo Station that altered (very slightly) my world view forever:
1. A homeless man pimping his cute dog to a second homeless man in order to elicit more sales of the Big Issue, while the first homeless man went on lunch break to Pret A Manger

2. A youngish man greeting his girlfriend off a train, wearing a sweat shirt with the slogan: "Sex between two people is a beautiful thing, between three it's fantastic." Actually it probably wasn't that accurately punctuated, but it was still surprising.

3. Someone with a iPod actually following police advice and wearing substitute non-conspicuous headphones. This is called being a timmy.

Three choice slices of slang I ought to rock more:
Ish This is a Jack Blackism, as in "What's your favourite pos-ish?", can be extended to "don't mean to impos-ish"; also good for "when does the new ish of Playdude drop?"
Scrilla (from Manila) This is Brooklyn hipster speak. Comes from the same family as "jawn" and "holla". Example: "I had to pony up mad scrilla from Manila to buy this blinging..."
Uggs Popularised by Uncle Grambo, as in "Mary-Kate and Uggs Olsen".

From the rest of the internut:
Rob's link to LOTR remixed with badgers was hot, but my link to installing linux on a dead badger is off the Scoville Scale. (Phil, I hope you are charmed that we are vying for your affections.)
Grey album tracks listed by Beatles samples.
Beautiful animated vector graphics maps of Manhattan
New BAPE commercial is incredible, if only it could persuade chavs not to wear the brand too.

I've long claimed that video games improve my operating, and now there's proof: Playing at least 3 hours a week reduces your laparoscopic errors by 37 percent, and increases operating speed by 27 percent.
All those girlfriends and spouses who have railed against long hours of X-Box and PS2 had better back off now. Finally we junior surgeons have an excuse for spending our free time in tense anti-social silence doing battle with pixelated foes. I salute Dr James "Butch" Rosser and his Top Gun surgical training scheme for supporting the cause of x-box-heads everywhere.

Biro-Web's guide to "The New Ways To Make Love".

Women performs caesarian on self. I was utterly incredulous when I read this, but apparently its been reported in the FIGO Journal. Do not try this at home.

While on an obstetric tip: how about this Japanese kid's educational toy featuring a real rat fetus fossilized in an acrylic torso of a pregnant woman.

In my Star Wars dreams I am always Lando, ruling over Bespin City with my creepy bald cyborg chum Lobot. I often wake, cursing that the 'Falcon isn't parked in my spaceport ready to make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs. However even I know that the Battle of Endor was not a real historical event.

In late 2000 the DEA made a bust of an LSD lab with 2 billion hits of acid. That's enough for every teen on the planet, and most of their hippy parents too. The sad result of this massive bust seems to be that the psychedlic revolution is over.

I'm feeling a little low on hobbies. My attempt at being an apiarist is on hold until the bees show up. ReadyMade don't have any suitable projects, (though they do have a brilliant Missed Connections Classifieds Column) so I thought I'd find something of my own to keep me off the streets:

Papier Mache Snowboards
World's Largest Home Cinema Subwoofer
The $14 SteadyCam

I have a vision of combining these three projects to screen the world's bassiest, smoothest, eco-friendliest snowboard flick.

Link-o-matic:
Meme theory made easy, which by picking "christianity" as an exemplar meme, somehow drags down the World's Favourite Religion™ to the level of Plush Toy Microbes and the Funny Turkish Guy

If your penis bone is too small, you are at an evolutionary disadvantage. Compensate by buying a racoon penis bone from acclaimed author JT Leroy.

The whole bible in Lego. Please somebody tell me what kind of insane superiority complex led Mel Gibson to cameo in The Passion as the hands that nail Jesus to the cross.

Not enough links for ya? Go find your own.

In my highly secular life, only one activity could be described as "meditative": pinball. Intense periods of play, particularly sustained sessions utilising a single credit, or even a single ball, can only be achieved by "entering the zone". This "zone" isn't one of spiritual enlightenment, more physical enlightenment; it is a mind state in which the mechanics of flipper and ball become all consuming, where the outside world has to wait, and where high scores count more than pee-breaks. I don't lay claim to any world records, but I can bust out an hour's play for a single credit on many of my favourite tables. I was thus astonished to learn of the achievements of one Scott Safran who set the Asteroids record in a single credit marathon of "72-80" hours in 1982. Since he was only a kid, and his parents were watching, we can assume young Scott wasn't wired on methedrine or any other cheap-ass eighties stimulant. No he did it for the love of Asteroids. A recent attempt to defeat this astonishing record was foiled when the machine gave out after just 27 hours. What makes this all the more amazing is that Asteroids isn't a slow paced sort of game; it requires incredible concentration and short range strategy, as well as machine gun like button bashing. I think this might be an everlasting world record.

In other important news:
Gates toppled from the top of the rich-list for only the second time this century. (qv Larry Ellison)

Budding Dr Evils bid their asses off for a kick ass tunnelling machine worth "one million dollars!".

Google fetishists remind us all why massive hard disks are so sexy.

Unexpectedly: I am a Grammar God!

Who needs another amateur critic reviewing an already smash hit movie? To liven up my review of School of Rock, I've created this little banner for your (brief) enjoyment. I stole the idea from some dude named Kottke who like invented blogging or something. Anyhow, School of Rock, assuredly rocks. It's just a kid's movie, but with Linklater at the helm, and Jack Black stealing the show, it's a bundle of fun. Jack Black had the role written for him, and without him (essentially playing himself as one half of Tenacious D) the movie would be lost. But if you like chubby rock-n-roll antics, you can't fail to love this.

I hosted another poker night again on Saturday. I laboured through 8 hard hours of play, all relatively sober. I lost my £10 stake at 4am, as somnolence snatched away my razor sharp card intuition. I ought to know better than to publically promise any kind of abstinence, but I am announcing my retirement from poker, at least for a couple of months. It's just no fun grinding through hundreds of hands, of which you only see action in about a fifth, only to make an insignificant loss or profit. I have no intention of gambling my whole paycheck, and I guess I'm bored of gambling for less than minimum wage. To make matters worse, I had picked up a small supply of A+W root beer. That's like gold dust in London, available only on import from Singapore. My poker "buddies" proceeded to drain the precious cache even as they stole my stake. Tomorrow is a very significant anniversary in some circles, 10 years sans-Cobain. Take a little time to review the police records, and note that Kurt's last drink was a root beer. I feel strongly about root beer too; maybe not strongly enough to shoot myself in the head, but strongly enough to be totally narked that I invited people over to fleece me out of cash and sarsparilla roots.

My ant farm is proving a grand success. The ants seem to have settled in well. I haven't designed any challenging experiments yet, but I have made an amazing discovery: ants can walk on water! I thought this was limited to just pond-skaters, and ever since seeing Antz and A Bug's Life I figured ants lived in mortal fear of even a tiny drop of water. However the truth is my ants hop about on top of their water supply, trusting in surface tension just as I trust in parquet flooring.

Linkage:
LaMJC fresh newz about japanese toys, rare sneakers, and a chance to practice your french. (Same is true for Gunborg, but svenska can be a tad challenging.)

Excellent Pocket X-Box April fool.

Mancala Snails game, which plays no better than the lousy Nokia version (Bantumi), but looks much cuter.

Logo Guessing Game, similar to the movie poster alphabet game, but success depends on your fondness for consumer electronics.

While enjoying a White Lady at the Savoy last night, I mused over where else you'd have to visit to try the "original" of each of the classic cocktails. I've got some way to go on these:
Singapore Sling: The Long Bar at Raffles (tick)
Mai Tai (and the Zombie): Trader Vic's (tick)
Bellini: Harry's Bar in Venice
Mint Julep: At the Kentucky Derby
Daiquiri: Grand Hotel, Havana
Cosmo: Rainbow Rooms, Manhattan
Margarita: unknown, but presumably Acapulco
Any other suggestions? I think the origins of the Manhattan are lost in time, and obviously the Martini is claimed all over. I suppose you could order a shaken-not-stirred Martini at the Monte Carlo Casino, and feel reasonably authentic.

Like Paul Simon said, "I have no opinion about this or about that." I don't know if these are april fools or not (though I'm super dubious about the fireball), but they made me laugh anyway:
Outback fireball
Frogs in postbox
Google's 1 gigabyte webmail (best google prank since pigeonrank?)

Kozyndan are a husband and wife team of illustrators. I can't get enough of this Hokusai-esque print, or their apocalyptic cityscapes. Best of all they've updated their site to include a mini-blog, and a collection of vintage porno hawaiiana postcards. Some folks just can't help being hip.

If only every time I went clubbing there were giant comedy dancing chickens... The Asylum has a new tasteless backdrop. Instead of a Waimea sunset, there's now a pre-9/11 NYC skyline. Mr Nixta and I have planned our own tasteless 9/11 tribute trinket. It combines novelty cigarette lighter, with one of those wooden toys made from beads strung on elastic, that then collapses when you press the base in. In our version, pressing in the base would cause a tiny plane to fly into a mini WTC, then the butane flame would appear from the side of the tower, followed by the collapsing part.

If that's too tasteful for you, try The Passion Of The Christ in Lego. I have no stomach for that movie. One of my colleagues took his girlfriend on a date to see it. He reported it was so harrowing they went home and watched Schindler's List to cheer themselves up.

I am just adoring this Japanese Shooting Game. It combines exactly Elite with the original Virtua Cop. The instructions are self-explanatory, click to shoot, space to reload. Makes Splinter Cell 2 look stupid and gloomy.

A last minute reminder: it's Bastard tonight. They seem to be too popular to bother with flyers, but if you love boots and mash-ups as much as I do, you can't afford to miss it. 8pm onwards at The Asylum, 1a Percy St, London Town.

I'm so proud, I've got my first blog-hata. A certain individual has not only been prolifically writing anonymous hate-comments across the site, but has also sent explicit blackmail threats to my inbox. I stand defiant! Never shall mealy mouthed blog pond life threaten the integrity of That's How It Happened. I could never even consider compromising my editorial stance by altering a post at the insistence of one reader (unless they get on that legalese cease and desist shizazz). Bring on the unfounded allegations I say!

Mmmm, Super Wide Flat Screen TV....aprilicious.