If you haven't gathered by now, I'm not real adept at writing reviews. I try hard, but I end up repeating words like, "neat" and "good" and "interesting" eighteen times in the span of two paragraphs, which is neither neat, good, nor interesting.

Nonetheless, let me try again.

Will Self's books contain some of the most complicated prose I have ever tried to read. It may be cultural (English versus American), it could be that the stories are so creative that it just takes my brain a while to wrap around them, or I could just be a little dim. But at the end of every novel, I feel like I've been put through the works to earn a good story. And for books like The Quantity Theory of Insanity and My Idea of Fun, I was never disappointed with the effort I needed to extend to read a great story.

The Butt was actually a much easier read with, albeit a complicated story, a fairly simple premise: ignorant tourist in foreign country inadvertently commits a crime against a local tribe...wackiness ensues. Not Animaniacs wackiness, but the "yer stuck in our country now, rich boy" kind that we all probably secretly fear when traveling abroad (or, you know, south of the Mason-Dixon line if you happen to be from the North in the US). The cleverest thing about the story is that nobody is assigned a nationality; it can be implied that the lead character (ignorant tourist) is American...or English, and that the locality is Middle Eastern...Austrailan...Central American...see, that is just it: Self's scheme is to make us build the characters we want them to be and put them in the place we least want to have a conflict. Hell, I never even thought the setting was the Middle East until I read a number of reviews (after reading the novel)...and actually, I still don't...but some folks do, which I guess is the real trick.

Not unlike Self's Dorian, which was a modern-day take of The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Butt does have a loose resemblance to Heart of Darkness, and ultimately the journey of our lead character becomes the anticipation of confrontation with the novel's own Kurtz. Self's reputation for the bizarre actually makes the conflict slightly anticlimactic, but it is still stranger than the average bear.

It is a fun read; fairly quick, somewhat miserable, and a peculiar commentary on current world relations without prejudice or bias.

When I haven't kept up with uploading new photographs, I fall back on some older shots I've yet to display here. Our trip to Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond a few weeks ago has provided me with a wealth of shots.

The extravagance that the grave markers have at Hollywood is very interesting, especially when time and weathering degrades the statues. Many of the apparent posthumous one-upmanship graves are lined with angels missing limbs and sometimes scarred beyond recognition. It makes for some neat photos, but I'm not sure I will ever understand the point of such a display.

The weather turned from pleasant to nasty to really awful to pleasant, and repeated, all day. Consequently, we stayed indoors almost exclusively.

Oz just can't handle this. He follows us everywhere, and by time evening comes around, he is so tired that he can barely move.

But still, he has to sleep near us, so even then he can't rest very well cause some dope with a camera keeps bugging him by taking his picture.

But at least I finally have a shot of him where he doesn't look like the saddest cat in the world...now he is the sleepiest.

Here is some interesting data I pulled from the US Census Site about the county in which I live:

As you can probably imagine, I felt compelled to research this data at 6:00 on a Saturday evening for a specific reason.

First, let me say that I swindled many family members and neighbors with tons of crummy merchandise over the years in the name of "supporting my educational activities." Every dumbass grade in school had a dumbass sale associated with it for some dumbass reason that I probably never fully exploited, whether it be the decent candy I was to sale for the German club trip to Disney World that I never attended or the waxish candy I was to sale to sit on the bench while other kids around me played baseball (actually, I never sold the candy, we just paid the dues...but I don't want to ruin the point).

My favorite sale was a refrigerator "freshener" that was in the shape of an onion, detailed with a very happy face, who we filled with baking soda to eliminate the odor from onions who didn't have happy faces. I think I sold that in first grade and it still has left an impression on me.

But, what I never did was what a bunch of young brats did to me and others today as I walked to the nearby grocery store. Supporting the Westfields Cheerleaders, a number of 10-12 year old kids were standing in front of the shops panhandling sweets for their cause. With my arms loaded down with groceries (my shopping eyes were bigger than my biceps), I was followed the length of our plastic-puke-shopping-center by screaming girls yelling to me, God and everyone about how badly they need money.

See the table above; the odds aren't on their side for telling the truth.

Now, I realize that I didn't have to be such a pecker and not give them a couple dollars. But let's look at a few charities that I actually enjoy supporting:

http://www.donorschoose.org/, where teachers detail financial needs to support learning needs for classrooms in high poverty areas.

http://laptop.org/en/, because I can't imagine anybody in the world not having access to a computer these days.

And there are plenty of angel trees, food drives, etc. this time of year we like to take advantage of as well.

I'm not trying to sound all high and noble; frankly, I probably don't give nearly as much as my income would warrant. But the idea of supporting an extracurricular club in one of the wealthiest counties in the nation was pretty far down my list long before I heard today's poverty song and dance. I hope I'm not alone in thinking the parents, school administrators, and event organizers around here need to get their heads out of their asses and teach their children just how damn financially lucky they are.

Or, perhaps the real lesson here is that I should have just drove to the store to avoid the confrontation...walking...what the hell was I thinking.

It has been a couple weeks since I mentioned Zooborns, and since I spend a good deal of time every day just looking at the snapshots there, I feel the need to plug it again.

Again, I copied these shamelessly (but with complete respect and admiration).

This site isn't really popular enough to start any type of campaign, nor am I political enough to really care to start something partisan-motivated.

But I am a jerk with a head for catchy tunes, so I started thinking it might be fun to send Joe Lieberman a bag full of worms to see if he would eat them. And if a whole bunch of people sent him worms, well, that would be real funny for obvious reasons.

Researching this little campaign, I learned a couple things.

1. The "Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me" song wasn't, in fact, created by The Kids In The Hall, although I can't say I ever heard the tune outside that show.

2. I didn't know the song had upwards of nine verses and/or five versions. Look at this:

Version I:
Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
Guess I'll go eat worms,
Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,
Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy wuzzy worms.

Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm.

Version II
Nobody loves me, everybody hates me
Think I'll go and eat worms
Long ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones
See how they wriggle and squirm

I bite off the heads, and suck out the juice
And throw the skins away
Nobody knows how fat I grow
On worms three times a day
Ohh...nobody loves me.

Version III:
Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
Think I'll go eat worms.
Big fat juicy ones, Eensie weensy squeensy ones,
See how they wiggle and squirm.

Chomp off their heads and squeeze out the juice
And throw their tails away
Nobody knows how I survive
On worms three times a day.

Version IV:
Nobody likes me, everybody hates me
I'm goin' down the garden to eat worms
Long thin slimy ones, short fat fuzzy ones
Ooey gooey, ooey gooey worms

Long thin slimy ones slip down easily
Short fat fuzzy ones don't
Short fat fuzzy ones stick to your teeth
And the juice goes slurpin' (slurping noise) down your throat

Version V:
Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
think I'll go eat worms...
big fat juicy ones, little slimy skinny ones,
hope they don't have germs!"

So, cursed by my own unpopularity, perhaps Joe Lieberman won't get bags and bags of worms in the mail. But at least I learned something today.

Moscow Groove Institute - 1/4 South Vietnam (Metro Mix): From the "various artist" collection Moscow: The Sex, The City, The Music, this is one of a many entertaining, bouncy electronic tracks.

Skinny Puppy - Amnesia: Another song from The Process, the Puppy at their most industrial.

Ixox - Space Cadet: From Pierres Brulantes, a self-released CD by a French artist, a great composition and a prime example of solid self production.

The Replacements - Left of the Dial: My favorite band forever and ever and ever, this is one of the more notable songs from the Tim release.

The Boomtown Rats - Elephant's Graveyard: You could insert my rave about the Rats made a few weeks ago here. Even though the Mondo Bongo release departed from their earlier, more punkier sound, I never lost interest in their later recordings.

Philemon Arthur & The Dung - Jag Mar Si Illa: The award for the weirdest band of the random eight goes to this song with little chance of the remaining two unseeding it (even if a goofy Boredoms song shows up). The Wikipedia entry probably sums up the band better than I can: Philemon Arthur and the Dung is a mysterious music group from Scania, Sweden, consisting of two members known only by the pseudonyms Philemon Arthur and the Dung. The band formed in the early 1960s under the name The Popbeams, which they changed before the release of their first album. The duo's true identities are most likely known only to a few individuals at Silence Records, the record label that the band has worked with since 1971. Philemon Arthur and the Dung do not want their identities to be known, lest those who live in their small village find out who they are.

Jeff Beal - His Name Was Michael: From the Carnivale soundtrack, the HBO show that died an unfortunate death after two seasons on the cable network. The show had great, moving music.

Gang of Four - I Will Be A Good Boy: A nice, haunting track.

As the days grow colder, tolerance for sharing food amongst the stray cats is growing thinner.

While the guys will generally huddle around the large pans or bowls filled with crunchies and canned food and share peacefully, some days they just constantly annoy each other with swats to the head and hisses, basically making it so nobody really gets a square meal with the exception of the alpha cat who is above it all.

I am somewhat happy to say that Oz Junior is that alpha cat, and enjoyed the bulk of the food amongst his grumpy companions at our last feeding.

Fortunately, we typically give the guys enough food that, at the end of all the scuffling, they are well fed. The territorial battle becomes little more than unintended comedy...at least for us to watch.

Oz, our fat fluffy kitten-boy, is one of the most lovey creatures around. He'll snuggle with us, crawl on our laps, roll on his back when he wants his belly rubbed, squeak like a baby when he wants to play, and drool all over the place when he is getting attention (to the extent that I fully expect him to short-out my laptop one of these days).

And I've never once taken a picture of him where he didn't look like the saddest cat in the world.

It is to the point of near frustration that I can't capture his goofy, playful side. The problem likely started when we first brought him into the house and I took about 100 flash-pictures of him. The curious yet certainly frightened little boy was probably very unhappy about his first exposure in our house being dominated by a nasty, mechanical, lightening-producing monster pointed within a few feet of his face.

Since then, every picture has a worried little sad face where our happy Oz is supposed to be.

For better or worse, I'll keep trying.

...or fingers...whatever gets in range of their bills.

He'd eat you if he had the chance.

Looking at the photographs of the stray cats I post here, it doesn't take long to understand why we have dubbed the lot as "team monochrome." They are gray, black, white, gray tabby, and occasionally a peculiar mix of those shades. Only once did I see an orange tabby in the bunch, and based on his belly size, I suspected he was actually a nearby house cat who was slumming with the local gang for a few days.

Orange tabby: "What do you eat around here?"

Team monochrome rep: "Mice."

OT: "No, really..."

Mono: "Mice."

{Orange Tabby waddles back to his safe suburban home.}

The Smokies started as a couple of solidly gray cats, but have exploded into a significant part of the population. I eventually gave up in trying to differentiate them...I started safely with Smoky, then Smoky #2, then Smoky #3, then SmokyKitten...but then it just got out of hand.

Although you can't see it here, the guy in this picture has a very unique tabby tail. His face looks young, and like our domestic Coco Cat, I suspect he will grow in/out of his coloring as he ages. It is fascinating to watch; they are remarkably beautiful cats.

Through earphones on a morning DC Metro ride, the first eight songs from the iPod set on Shuffle Play:

Hella - Top Twenty Notes: A good plug here; if you are into legal decent live recordings of bands who don't object to having their shows shared, archive.org is a place for some fun stuff, including this Hella show from 2002.

The Byrds - Eight Miles High: It seems to me that any band with half an ounce of talent can cover a great Byrds song and make it sound beautiful. With this in my head, a few months ago I was dwelling on the computer at about midnight and got the idea that I should get a recording that had a 15 minute jam of Eight Miles High from the actual band (not the spastic two minute version Husker Du covered years ago, although that is beautiful in its own way) and ordered the live Untitled album. After listening to it a few times I decided I just really don't get these wacky 60's bands, and couldn't begin to imagine how boring it must have been to be at a show when they played this goofy jam fest (although I'm sure some aged hippy would fire his bong at me for having said that). Nonetheless, if I had to pick one song from Untitled to hear in the random eight, it would be Eight Miles High, as it is still kinda fun at times.

The Books - An Owl with Knees: The Books play very minimal music with lots of audio clips interspersed. While this is a good track from Lost and Safe, I'd highly recommend getting their The Lemon of Pink release.

Boredoms - I'm Not Synthesizer: I think the thing I like about the Boredoms is that sometimes there is really no reason why anybody should like the Boredoms. Somehow this song makes that line make sense.

Matmos - Public Sex for Boyd McDonald: Funky electro; mostly I was just glad Boyd McDonald wasn't on the same metro car as me.

Skinny Puppy - Downsizer: From The Greater Right of the Wrong, pretty standard fare from this era of the band.

Sebadoh - Sister: Yeah, smash your head on the indie rock, literally.

Lou Reed / John Cale - Black Angel's Death Song: Great, eerie acoustic version (guitar / viola) of the haunting track.

Copied from the Tom Toles political cartoon archive on the Washington Post website:

A few other things to note:

• Obama = donuts in our office, although I think only about 50% of the people here are willing to eat them
• After years of listening to Democracy Now, I don't recall ever hearing Amy Goodman sound choked up as she did this morning while reviewing the background of Obama's life
• Apparently Cheney and Rove aren't going to drop the curtain, yell "gotcha," and announce their hostile takeover of the country...although I haven't let my guard down yet

We impose very few rules on our cats.

The big one is to stay off the kitchen counter. It is a hygiene thing, of course, but also we are hoping to avoid having a cat singe themselves on a stove burner while searching for food.

For Oz, in his youthful days, we deployed a dancing Christmas reindeer that sang "Jingle Bell Rock" at the base of the counter. Oz hates the reindeer more than you could ever imagine; even if we just jingle the bells that hang from its antlers, the poor cat will go slinking off into a corner somewhere until the fear of the appearance of the horrid song passes.

Coco dislikes the reindeer too, but unfortunately whenever we use it to scare her away from the counter, poor Oz completely flips and thinks he is in trouble for something. We then tried locking Coco in the powder room which has, in the past, served as an effective "penalty box" for the cats when they do something bad. No go, that idea was, as she always manages to find something to play with inside the tiny 5' x 5' room.

So, finally, we implemented Kitty Jail, a small cage that confines Coco for a short yet anxious period of time after she is caught doing wrong. At first, she hated the cage more than anything, constantly walking backwards as if she could find a way out by not looking where she was going. Now, like a true harden criminal, she just sits quietly, staring at us with sad eyes, waiting to be set free.

Criminal activity has decreased a little, but not as much as we would have hoped by now. Perhaps putting the reindeer in the cage with her would be a deterrent.

Zooborns is my most recent favorite site on the Web. Unfortunately, I can't see it surviving for very long. Eventually, somebody is going to die from cute-overload after viewing the site; lawsuits will follow, and the wonderful pages will ultimately be shut down.

So, enjoy the site while you can. And if you don't believe me, look at the following pics I stole from the site to prove my point.

Go to Zooborns now, before it is too late.

Perhaps it didn't look creepy at the time.

The first eight songs of the day after setting the iPod to shuffle play:

Chainsaw Kittens - Sgt. Whore: From the entertaining Angel on the Range EP, a mix of rock and a touch of Tyson Meade weirdness.

Husker Du - Back from Somewhere: Another track from the Warehouse CD, this one is a fun Grant Hart track that he continued to play live on his solo shows for years.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan - Love Comes Home: The more I explore Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's music, the more I find a wide range of genres. The folks who were clamoring to collaborate with him towards the end of his life was remarkable, and this collection mixes his traditional singing with near-electro beats and sounds.

Dengue Fever - Lake Dolores: Looks like the iPod has found a new band to stalk. This is a bouncy instrumental from the Escape from Dragon House release, a fine exhibition of the musical talent this band brings.

Joe Walsh - Malibu: So, when I was in high school, I got a bit overwhelmed by a number of record/tape clubs I was a member of, and without really caring about what I ordered, I sent for the unfamiliar Got Any Gum cassette from Joe Walsh. It instantly became one of my favorites and I played it to death for a year or so. Eventually it went the way of all cassette tapes (buried in a drawer somewhere), but I couldn't resist tripping down memory trail when the CD was reissued a few years ago. It is a kinda silly album; it isn't moldy classic rock like one might expect from Walsh, but it isn't really contemporary either (even for the time). It is just kinda there, but it still makes me feel happy when I hear a song from the release, so on the iPod it stays.

Hella - 1-800 Ghost Dance: The first disjointed punk song of the morning. I'm not sure what makes Hella stand out above hundreds of other bands who play music like this, but I'm always drawn to their sound.

Boredoms - Feedbackfuck: I suppose you could call this the second disjointed punk song of the morning, but I never really thought of the Boredoms as punk as much as just crazy. The song is mostly noisy guitars, drums, and screaming; maybe not as innovative as the Boredoms can be, but certainly as weird.

Yo La Tengo - My Heart's Reflection: One of those songs that really made me like Yo La Tengo years ago; a very calm, soft track with the potential for noise, slight-off-tune riffs, and a general feeling that you never really quite knew what to expect from them.

So, after tens of thousands of clicks since I bought my first digital SLR nearly five years go, a small piece of metal wire that held the mirror to the shutter on my camera snapped, causing an obstruction on any picture that I now try to take.

Since the last shots were of our Coco Kitten, I dug deep into my embedded elementary school insults and said to her, "you're so ugly you broke the camera" (it was either elementary school or an insult my Grandmother used to tell me...she was a bit of a nasty sort at times). Nicole didn't find this the least bit amusing, so now the line is the cat is too cute / pretty to have her picture taken.

Either way, the kitten was more concerned about watching the Montreal hockey game on television than responding to my jabs, which is interesting in its own way.

In keeping with my trend of fixing things with stupid methods, such as fixing my iPod with a piece of bubble wrap, I used a small piece of masking tape to join the shutter and its mirror back together, hereby, at least temporarily, fixing the unit so I can take pictures again until I decide to either fix the camera for real (unlikely), or buy a new one (which I was contemplating just this week anyhow).

The camera, the first Canon Digital Rebel SLR, has been great...not a complaint in the world really, and to say I've taken tens of thousands of shots with it is in no way an exaggeration. But, as technology has evolved, even basic handhelds can capture shots at higher megapixels than mine does now. So, upgrading after all this time seems like a reasonable thing to do.

And, if the masking tape holds, I can dedicate the old SLR to my microscopy shots. A win-win for everybody.