In class last monday I gave my students a pop reading quiz, only to have one of my students (politely) point out that I had in fact promised *not* to quiz them since they had a paper due. The whole class readily agreed that I had, in fact, promised that. Recalling a vague but nonspecific apprehension I had felt but ignored prior to giving the quiz, I admitted that it rang a faint bell. This fine young man had a laptop with him and proceeded to further bolster his case by pulling up my email through the campus wireless network. With my permission, he confirmed to all within earshot that I had, in fact, promised to be lenient on the quizzing that night.

Shrugging my shoulders and dropping the quizzes into the garbage, class went on.

Just goes to show:

internet = power to the people!
________________________________________

That's right. Its time for...

NINJABLOGGING!

The boss has ducked away for a few minutes. I'm freshly at work, trident citrus gum working its wonders on my teeth, improving my smile, making me more attractive to ladies.

I discovered a really pernicious pet peeve yesterday and was intending to blog about it today but darn if I didn't forget what it was. No doubt I will remember it the instant whatever it is happens again. That flash of explosive annoyance. The internal monologue justifying the feeling. The gradual awareness that it might not be as big of a deal as my "annoyance-o-meter" indicates. Sheepishness. Recrimination. Apologies to all affected. Or reprisals. Ranting. Incoherent blogging.

Pet peeves are pure blog-fuel. 99 ocatane.

I'm off to eat tapas tonight with the Captain in Baltimore. "Tapas" is apparently the universal word for "oures d ourves" but is much easier to spell. You simply order plate after plate of scrumptuous samples until you are positively bursting at the gut.

I ate at a natural food restaurant last night. The waiter was very solemn, dressed in black. Enya was playing in the background. (I kid you not.) Everything on the menu was free of whatever the latest health-food paranoia is panicked about: gluten, wheat germ, MSG, peanuts, hormones, sugar, bio-engineering, flavor, fun. Whatever. I have some very close association with people who have genuine allergies to generally inoffensive foods, but really. In general, American yuppies are getting disgusting with their constant *fear* of everything. They constantly find new ways to define illness so they can improve themselves by eating "healthy". They shop around for "alternative" cures to nonexistant problems. They pump themselves full of obscure shrubs and powders in the hope that whatever 3d world shaman-cult/voodoo remedies remain unpublicized might magically transform them into better beings. (This is all supported by a broad if poorly organized conspiracy of unscientific, highly exploitative culture of "alternative" therapists, doctors, and magicians.) Meanwhile, these yuppie brains go haywire with obsessive compulsions and the rest of us are left wondering how a plate of artistically arranged sprouts in vinegarette for $11.99 can possibly prolong a life that's worth living.

Or maybe its just me.

I hate yuppie-fetishes.

I hate volvokultur.

I hate mandatory laws to keep teens out of tanning salons.

I hate anti-smoking campaigns.

I hate trail mix unless it has M&Ms.

There you have it.

This post is sponsored by Memphis, where I currently am. I just spent a pleasant evening guzzling overpriced mass-produced beer and staring at underage girls, wondering if I was some sort of undersung saint for loving my wife so.

I hate to admit it, but despite my constant bitching about the Midwest, I have grown fond of these second tier American cities sprouted from the plains.

These places always seem to posess some unpretentious combination of gawking tourists, scantily clad women, live music, and alcohol. This kind of thing happened to me in St. Louis and Oklahoma City.

This sort of safe, spontaneous street culture *never* happened to me in L.A. I wouldn't trust it if it happened in New York. And don't get all preachy with me about how bad "safe" sucks, because it doesn't. We're all so middle class its disgusting. Even the slummiest of us are slumming it. We're pretenders. We're always polite and appropriately socialist or Christian or vegan or whatever it is that makes people irrationally nice.

So irrespective of the King, who played virtually no role in this evening's entertainment, Memphis turned out alright.

Politics.
War.
Money.
Greed.
Grime.
Filth.
Boredom.
Hunger.
Vitriol.
Piety.
Grace.
Action.
Words.
Cushion.
Spanker.
Nix.
Tommy.
License.
Torrid.
Mascara.
Deep.
Whiffle.
Zingers.
Fruit.
Nothing.
Hold.
Time.
Aggrivate.
Felt.
Wholesome.
Spazz.
Chalk.
Olestra.
Pustula.
Sassafrass.
Orangutan.
Gift.
Honey.
Horrible.
Creeper.
Maximum.
Pad.
Astral.
Grateful.
Test.
Saw.
Mission.
Frills.
Vest.
Polyanna.
Cheroot.
Noxious.
Simmer.
Friendly.
Lollypop.
Rim.
Withal.
Donut.
Cork.
Seedling.
Nougat.
Grapevine.
Wings.
Dugout.

Today's post is a (hopefully inspired) response to a response to my last post offered by my good friend and reliably outspoken comerade, Sex McGinty. It goes without saying that his comments are always thought-provoking, and always appreciated, and they make me into a better intellectual by forcing me to (*gasp*) defend myself: something which fat and lazy bloggers like myself are often loathe to do. So thank you, Sir McGinty, and may your pen never dry (P.S. if any of you tire of my fairly formless, predictable rants about the idiocy of popular music trends, go read his March 11, 2003 post on what the Who means to him. THAT's what blogging can do, folks.)

[But anyway, McGinty said:]
The country star was Loretta Lynn.
I can understand your rants against new groups like The White Stripes and Outkast (because I hear it from all quarters every day), but not knowing who Loretta Lynn is puts you in the unenviable position of sounding like all the old hippies I used to argue with about music when I was a teen.
It also sounds like you're just trying to get under people's skin, in which case you need to update your targets: try digging on Interpol or Franz Ferdinand or The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The bands you mentioned are already passe.
And I'm curious about what you think of Bono being suggested as the next World Bank director. If he accepts the job, will you destroy all of your U2 memorabilia?

Firstly, let me say that I would gladly rail against Interpol, Franz Ferdinand, or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, but (sadly) my familiarity with said groups or people's expectations of them are limited. I will look into it, and report back with another rant if and when it becomes appropriate. Also, by the time my annoyance peaked, it would be likely that they would be just as passe as "Outkast", who were all about last year (pshaw!). But requesting that I "update my targets" to reflect this minute's Hot New Thing (tm) proves my point: it is impossible to take any of these artists as seriously as they are taken by the media, even as objects of critical analysis, because they come and go too quickly. But onto Bono, because U2 remains one of my favorite bands, despite their recent disastrous musical release(s):

Back in the early 90s when grunge came out, people turned against idealism in music. I think they were tired of self-absorbed musicians doing stuff like "band aid" etc. Grunge was all about bitching and being angry about being middle-class, and people like Bono took big hits for not being cool enough to abandon idealism. Bono stuck to his guns, though. He didn't apologize for having religious faith, and he didn't stop wheedling and pleading for people to pay attention to issues like AIDS and starvation. Sometimes its annoying to have to be reminded that we still haven't saved the rainforests, or the whales, or the ozone layer, or global warming, or AIDS/SARS/West Nile Virus/Obesity, but I prefer being annoyed by a socially responsive and (more importantly) active rock musician, than have a guy with as much clout and intelligence as Bono just rest on his laurels in the Hamptons. Hell, the guy even went to Africa with representatives of George Bush to publicicze his cause: that's a bit like Jesus and Satan meeting up for a beer.

As for the world bank, call me a cynic but I don't think the continuous disorganized protests against that institution are particularly well-informed or helpful. Most of the people who bitch about large financial institutions are just middle-class kids angry that rich people aren't giving their money away. Now, I suspect that the World Bank is flawed, but I also suspect that its importance as a source of loan money for underdeveloped countries is helpfeul. Having a guy like Bono take an interest in world finances at that level doesn't bring him down a notch in my book: it just increases the liklihood that whatever bad shit the World Bank is responsible for might be placed in check. Perhaps he's a fox in the henhouse? I will be burning my U2 memorabilia, however, but that's only because their last album sucked, and it still sucks, and it will continue to suck everlastingly despite the hype.

And as for not recalling Loretta Linn's name, well, that can hardly be surprising: see I missed this year's flavor de jour token "outsider" innagural at the music awards. I wasn't one of the many millions who pretended that she had always been a childhood inspiration and that her CDs have always had a cherished place in my collection next to other have-beens or once-greats dredged up by corporate music tycoons for one last spot in the sunshine. This year we got to dawn cowboy hats and pretended we like the country, just like a few years ago we got to sing the Oh Brother Where Art Thou songs and pretend we all have the Carter Family's Greatest Hits looping endlessly on our disk changers [keep mum, Butchie!]. Mind you, that's not a reflection the quality or legacy of Loretta Linn, or of the Carter Family, or any other so-called great. They are just musicians, and therefore equally worthless (or important) in the grand scheme of things as most of us. Its just, for all the accolades they get for there 15 minutes of renewed sunshine, they spent decades forgotten by the very corporate music machine that now pulls them out of the attic, props them up, and pats them on their dusty backs (meanwhile collecting millions). Perhaps all these ancient stars would have done better in the self-respect department (or the Clay Sails respect department, a much more obscure but demanding venue) to get themselves high profile hobbies. Like running global financial institutions.

Wow. I think I deserve credit for giving out the world's easiest midterm. I slated a conservative 45 minutes for my students to take the test (25 questions) and most of them knocked it down in less than 15. I wonder if Jesus will look upon me more kindly now. Maybe it makes up for the porno mags I used to steal as a pre-teen.

Well, they'd all better get A's. That's all I'm saying. So much for my street-cred. They'll be walking on my head next class session, taking advantage of me, calling me a pussy.

I heard a cool album today. Its "More [Move?] Adventurous" by Rilo Kiley. She's apparently the background vocalist for "the Postal Service", which is funny because I always thought the female background vocalist for the Postal Service sounded crappy kinda like that chick from the B-52s (Kate something or other) or that girl from Nickel Creek. I guess somebody caught her on a bad day.

At the oscars or the emmy's or whatever show they had recently where musicians got awards for being industry lapdogs the obligatory token "country" star (some lady) was thanking Jack White, who produced her comeback song. Apparently he gave her one day in the studio to get the song right. And she was thanking him.

Fuck that.

Jack White is a dickhead, and an overrated musician. His self-absorbtion is annoying. We'll be wondering who he is five years from now when someone stabs him in a sweaty Yonkers nightclub for mouthing off.

Not that I care much. "White Stripes" has grown on me a bit in spite of White, but I'm still not aboard with all the hoopla. Its kind of like the Outkast "phenomenon". A rap group puts out a rambling, benign album that "crosses over" into the suburbs, and everybody hails them the next Elvis Prestleys. Two weeks later they are forgotten. Need I mention The Strokes? I thought they were the new Oasis, whoever Oasis is/was.

Point is...er...point is...

Shit, I don't have a point.

Music isn't going to save the world. Even Dylan couldn't manage that.

But I don't need it to do that. I'd be happy if it took care of a few little things:

washed my laundry
cooked rice without burning it
gave me a great book to read

So how about it, music?

Hello?

Got C.G.G.W.? (Cheap, Generic Gummy Worms)

Check.

Got F.P.U.S.B.Y.? (Fresh Pack of Unopened Sugarless Bubble Yum)

Check.

Got 15 minutes of spare time?

Check.

Its time for [DRUMROLL]:

NINJABLOGGING!

Hey there, folks, I'm at it again. Its me, Clay ("The-glass-may-be-half-empty-but-thats-ok-as-long-as-the-other-half-is-full-of-Scotch") Sails, everbody's favorite sugarbuzzed, fuzzy-faced historical analyst-thingie coming to you live from the bowels of America's Military Industrial Complex.

The thing about generic gummy worms, the kind you buy in the bright orange packets that sell 2/$1.00, is this: their consistancy is not only not correct (they're mushy instead of gummy), but it varies from worm to worm. And you can actually taste the animal hooves in the gelatin. I wonder if one can get mad cow disease from gummy worms? Better call the 5 o'clock news.

Speaking of news, I have a (minor, platonic) crush on the morning weatherwoman on WBAL Baltimore, Sarah Caldwell. Usually newspeople look like stroke victims from all the Botox they inject, but Caldwell is a real looker. If you get a chance, check out the way she says, "there's been a fatal five car fire on 295." Hubba hubba. She's married, and so am I, so I'm not advocating anything untoward here, but lets just say that every morning on my commute I contemplate crashing my car in the hope that she'll fly over in a helecopter with a telephoto lens. (I'd dig up a press photo for you, but the only one I found makes her look like a martian.)

Alright, back to this morning's contingent of dead people.

But first I need to lay off the gummy worms and break into the gum.

And then caffeine. I'll need some of that, too.

Apparently some American studio has re-done the Brit-wit sitcom "The Office".

For those of you who have not seen this imported gem, its a very funny snapshot of a British paper supply company done in pseudo-documentary format. The main character is a pudgy, quirky, egocentric boss named David Brent. This guy thinks he's everybody's friend. He thinks he's a comedian and a rocker. He's a subtle mix of tragic and so hopelessly wormish that you never know whether to hate him or pity him (you only love him for the awkward situations he perpetuates). In short: he's brilliant, and the rest of the cast is great, too.

So some American studio, probably figuring that it wouldn't be intelligible to Americans as long as people spoke in those wierd Old World cadences, or maybe thinking they could do it better, have re-made the show with an American cast.

This is a true television tragedy waiting to happen because all the doughy, chip-filled beefsteaks with degrees in forklift will never get to see the British version. Worse, they might think the British version is a cheap knockoff.

Regardless of whether the American version is funny, and I have my doubts, the true genius of this show simply cannot be replicated by anyone, howevermuch blue-blooded knowhow they may or may not possess.

This is funny: someone has snapped up my old "gloves.blogspot" domain in order to do a blog about haircoloring classes. Cool. More power to her. It fits her site more than mine.
So much has been going on, none of it particularly interesting. Here's what has been going on in my life lately:
My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago, had an operation, and will soon be starting radiation. The good news is the cancer was fairly localized. This means that all of my parents and grandparents (as well as my parental in-laws) have had cancer. I'm resolved: I'm going to start eating broccoli, which is gross.
I had the flu last week. I laid on a couch for 2 days and hallucinated. Once upon a time that would have been considered recreation, but the intestinal troubles and profuse sweating diminished the appeal.
I'm back in the office now, which means I might be able to ninjablog a bit. I just can't motivate to blog from home. Too much to do, I guess. Problem is my work duties are also quite heavy, so I have to reserve only occasional odd slices of time to get you the Clay Sails update you all crave.
I've been totally addicted to a Shins album "Oh Inverted World" (Stupid title, awesome album). Someone said they are 'the new Strokes' but since I never listened to the Strokes, I liken the Shins to a happy cross between the Beatles and (take your pick) the Flaming Lips? Radiohead? Anyway, forget who they sound like: just go out and buy the album.
I finally saw "Spinal Tap". Is that old news? I hardly know anymore.
My old friend Preacherman passed a major hurdle in his ordination process: kudos to him. He's put his time on the front line of a few hardscrabble inner-city churches and has gotten a major vote of confidence from the powers that be.
My lovely ginger colored dog Cali endeared herself to us a few days ago by eating a blue marker on a brand new tan rug we purchased for $400. She's now stuffed and hanging above the settee.
What else? Not much to report. I'm out of rythem with blogging. Don't worry. It will pass.
Here's a problem for you: I've run out of self-pity and righteous anger at the same time. This has never happened before. Usually one just morphs into the other. I need pity or I lose my sense of being an outsider in a snug world of callously comfortable corporate drones. I need to feel the entropic tug dragging down my jowls. I need a slow sense of impending decay to urge me into heroic motion. At the moment, all progressive momentum consists of waiting for the postman to deliver a winning sweepstakes check.
The office I work in "remodelled" last month, which is a euphamism for shrinking everyone's work space and tightening restrictions on what can and can't go on the cubicles. Now the formerly blue cubes are grey. The formerly black shelves are grey. The phones have always been grey. The formerly white monitors are grey. My keyboard is grey. The carpet is grey.
Here's something: I'm currently creating the worlds largest contiguous stack of rubber electrode nipples. It consists (at the moment) of nineteen of the little things, which came affixed to various office electronics. (They are about 1cm in size and come in a variety of colors: yellow).
Want to help in this endeavor? Send me your nipples.