Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.

If I can offer any kind of advice to the emerging blogger scene here in Germany it would be this: No open bar, kids. It'll bust you. This isn't little league we're talking about here.

I'm on the road today, in beautiful Düsseldorf, visiting a blog-reading for the largest five or six blogs in Germany. For some reason, they won't be reading from mine, probably because I tend to use the word 'twat' too much for German society.

No matter, as with a little ingenuity one can ruin any gathering. My baby and I will be sure to load up on Altbier and curry-wurst before loping into the seminar dressed as suicided bombers. It is Karneval, after all.

I'll be filing a report from the Düsseldorf hoosegow tomorry.

While traveling abroad with my broad last spring, we headed down to south Georgia, in preparation for the Wreckyll in Jeckyll. We made a stop in the beautiful city of Savannah, so I could show my baby one of the South's true highlights, the River St. Saloon District.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves in a sports bar, eating excellent pizza and enjoying our last drinks for the evening. When we were through eating, and getting ready to head back to the hotel, I happened to see a few familiar faces on the wall. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be photographs of my old ice hockey team at Georgia Tech.

Luckily, there weren't any pictures from the years I'd played: It would have been a little too weird to take my German girlfriend to the States, into a bar that I'd never been in, one that's about a 6 hour drive from my hometown, and find a picture of myself on the wall. Nevertheless, a bit of googlin' brought me to the Georgia Tech Hockey Club's alumni pages, where the legend of Rube lives on, if only in mockery and contempt.

1990-1991

FRONT ROW (L to R): Jim Clay, Rob McConnel, Mark Goggans, Scott Anderson, Rick Norwood, Eric Williams [me], Steve Kessler 2nd ROW (L to R): Chris Ciovacco, Craig Leduc, Jim McConville, Mark Liebold, Fredrik Nilson, Joeseph Slater, Van Oleson, McAvoy Not Pictured: Chuck Shendl, Jim Meehan, Sean Wallace

1993-1994



FRONT ROW (L to R): Mark Stone, Steve Fischer, Dan Cnarich, Scott Anderson 2nd ROW (L to R): Coach Greg Stathis, A.J. Josyln, Victor Martinez, Albee Stein, Jim Meehan, Jonathan Su, Rob McConnell 3rd ROW Troy Jamison, James Scheider, John Krueger, Niclas Arvberger, Kevin Lemke, Eric Williams [me], Timo Lumikko, Fredrik Nilsson, Brian Holcombe, Dean Stahman, Dan Carlin 4TH ROW (L to R): Harrel Blatt, Edward Gallant, Jim Cowee, Mark Leibold, Van Oleson, Chuck Schendl. Not Pictured: Chris McConnel, Phil Stewart

Man, I sucked.

Every day, I find myself getting the giggles a little bit sooner, and a little bit longer. I'm with Ace on this one. I'm just going to start watching videos of Muslim Outrage™ with the sound turned down, and Benny Hill music playing.

The awesomest part will be when the hot Islamamama's skirt blows up in the air, revealing long legs, fishnet stockings, and a very surprised-looking Jackie Wright.

Beer doesn't make you fat. It's the pretzels. Give it a rest already, fatboy.

The Warsteiner slogan, "eine Königin unter den Bieren" means, "a Queen among beers", implying a non-flattering relationship to Budweiser.

When trying to sound debonair, please don't say that Warsteiner is the best german beer. It's not even the best german beer in America. Löwenbräu is actually very good in Germany, but I don't remember ever drinking it in the States.

Germans in Rhineland drink beer in little 0.2-liter glasses, which is less than a coffee cup. Further calling their masculinity into question, if you get a Pils in a Rhineland, they put a little paper skirt on it.

In Austria, you get a long pint(0.5-liter), which is called "a half-beer".

A "Radler" is a 1:1 mixture of Helles Bier with Limo, which is pretty much Sprite. A Radler is also German slang for a cyclist.

The best German beers come from Bavaria. Warsteiner is a german Pils, which is a Czech type of beer.

In Europe, the Czechs have a better reputation as beer-brewers than the Germans.

Indeed, not all german beers are good. Altbier, favored in Düsseldorf and the surrounding areas, tastes like rancid pus. Astra, the favored brand in Hamburg, tastes like Miller Lite from a can. Horrible stuff.

PBR has more alcohol than most german beers; about the same as Pils. But it has no taste at all, that I can discern.

The best Pils is Pilsner Urquell, so I am told, and it is mighty tasty. Pilsner Urquell on tap in a Czech back-alley pivnice is the quintessential beer-drinking experience.

For a real treat, try Kaltenberger Helles, if you can find it. This is, indeed, the Best German Beer.

Other good German beers are Schwarzbräu Exquisit, Augusta Bräu, and Burgerbräu.

Beer snobbery is stupid and unoriginal. Not all American beers are bad. Budweiser, for example, is a very good beer for hot weather, or after athletics. For the price, it's probably the best American beer going. It's got its own ricy flavor, and no bad aftertaste. And it'll get you drunk. Good 'n' drunk. Blotto.

Absinthe tastes like Ben-Gay smells.

Whiskey is a good alternative to beer.

Jack Daniels is not bad, and it's also not bourbon.

Wild Turkey is a good bourbon.

Getting drunk on expensive scotch makes you look like an ignorant prole who just got paid and wants to impress people. Get drunk on Wild Turkey to show you have real class.

When you're drunk on whiskey, you're not as clumsy and incoherent as with beer.

Whiskey-dick, however, is no myth.

If you're a fast drinker like I am, mix whiskey 1:3 with water. But make sure it's tap water, as whiskey doesn't mix well with mineral water.

cribbed from my Fark profile

[This is a book review I've written for next month's Die Neue Szene, the local independent monthly, in case anyone feels like reading it.]


"Roboter Geschichte - Technik - Entwicklung" (Daniel Ichbiah)

The world of robotics is an expansive theme, and one that obviously fascinates Daniel Ichbiah, the author of this volume. Covering the technological development of robots, from the automatons of the Renaissance to the Mars Rovers of today, “Robots” takes a very detailed look at the history of robots, and how they have come play such an important role in modern society.

Modern consumer-oriented experiments like Honda’s humanoid Asimo, or Sony’s beloved mechanical canine, the Aibo, are covered in detail, and placed in their proper historical context. Fleshing out the author’s own experience, interviews with technological luminaries such as the creators of the phenomenal hit game “The Sims”, are sprinkled throughout the text.

Though impressive, this book is not without its faults. The lack of an index leaves the reader flipping through more than 500 pages when looking for a specific piece of information, and disqualifies its use for doing serious research. Additionally, the graphic design and layout add to the overall feel of disorganization.

Despite these shortcomings, Ichbiah’s “Roboter” is an entertaining and informative volume that will please the techno-geek in everyone. His informed vision of the future of robotics is exciting, and his enthusiasm for the subject is well-expressed and contagious. Anyone with an interest in technology, and the fusion of artificial intelligence with household appliances, could find a worse way to spend 35€.

Well well, the local teeny-bopper radio station has taken an interest in your humble host. There was an attractive young lady in the palatial YouBitch offices over the weekend, interviewing yours truly and the lovely Miss Moebius for a special on blogs, and the blogging bloggers who blog them. The interview was a lot of fun, but it brought to my attention a couple of things about myself. For example, I have no freakin' clue why I do what I do here at youbitch.org. I mean, really, how many of you bloggers out there could actually really tell someone with 100% honesty why you blog? I'm not really the interviewing type, so I couldn't really think of the proper bullshit platitudes to flesh out my meagre answers. Another thing I learned, was that I don't really know when to shut up once I get going. The interview was about 25 minutes long, and I got the feeling I talked for about 40 minutes of that.

I also got to hear myself speaking in German. I really thought I had this whole faking a native accent in German thing just about conquered. I've been practicing it for almost six years now, and thought I had it pretty much down. But goodness gracious, I sound like I just got off the plane and asked for the nearest McDonald's, goddamit, don't nobody speak English 'round here?! I guess I should try and figure out if German girls think a ridiculous American accent is sexy, and adjust myself accordingly. Then again, I can't imagine that German spoken with any accent can be sexy, but one can dream...

Du kannst träumen, baby. wink

I'll be posting a podcast of the interview after the show airs. It's in German, but you'll still be able to revel in the silky, dulcimer tones of the full-throated manliness that is Rube. Oh, and I think Miss Moebius Managed to get a word in, too.

According to this study, you shall all bow before the One True Rube:

A new study of 100 university undergraduates in Toronto has found that video gamers consistently outperform their non-playing peers in a series of tricky mental tests. If they also happened to be bilingual, they were unbeatable.

I am bilingual. I play video games. Fear me!

This is one of the awesomest things I've seen in a long time.

Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty's Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody's brother's car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone's Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I'm finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.

He's gone and done it again. I swear, I haven't seen this many people get the axe since Last of the Mohicans. Dax is an absolute terminatin' machine. I've read the stories like everybody else, and I know they all deserved it. But I was actually watching the CNN financial report today, and they had to come out and revise the unemployment numbers, right in the middle of the show.

You people may be wondering where he gets it from. Well, I've dug around and found the one person who inspired Dax's managerial style the most:

That would be Mr. Spacely, of Spacely Sprockets.

Let's see you top this Google Search!

This advertisement makes me feel happy. NSFW. I found it in the postcard bin last night, and scanned it in.

You never stop learning in that wacky little thing called life. And the world, big as it is, presents a moving target. What is it I'm trying to say? Waffle house is going to start accepting credit cards. As Sam says over there, "I just hope they do not change the grits policy". Amen to that.

In other Sam news, yesterday meant a trip to the Varsity. Poor dog.

You know, I'm getting sick and tired of all these towel-heads getting the good press. Do you think that Mohammedans are the only people who can hoot and holler and burn stuff? Cracka Pleez! I hereby call forth a hillbilly jihad on the following transgressors:

1. Warner Bros., for their insensitive, tasteless ridiculing of Southern sensibilities and history with that abomination of a show, The Dukes of Hazzard. This cut runs deep. It reduced one of our greatest historical figures' name to a car with a weird-ass sounding horn that even a Mexican wouldn't be caught dead with. Just check out this Google search result, and tell me the damage isn't already done. What's the number one hit for "General Lee"?

   

   The case, she is rested. Burn a cross on the Warner Bros. lawn, it's cookout time!

2. CBS Studios, for that slap in the face of Southern law enforcement, Deputy Dawg.

   

   It was bad enough to have that kind of patronizingly phoneticized name to deal with as a child, but how could an experienced Deputy Sherriff, who's such a cultured Southern gentleman, constantly get out-foxed by some hippy little half-blind rodent like Vincent van Gopher?

   3. Hanna-Barbera, for the Arkansas Chugabug with Luke and Blubber Bear.

   

   Let's see here. I guess if you be coming from anywhere South of New York City, well, you'll jes be drivin' top-speed away from the revenuers in your whisky-still-powered jalopy with your feet on the wheel. Oh, and not to mention we all drive while sitting reverse cowgirl on goddamn grizzly bears. So, we'll just be hanging around here, whislting Dixie. On Hanna-Barbera's skulls!
   

I can think of seven people that I know right now, off the top of my head, that eat their own snot, right out of their nose. Boogers! I can remember a period of my childhood where I actually did that. I was a world-class, pre-kindergarten gold-digger. I got busted by a grown-up once, and was immediately, irrevocably cured of the habit. That particular grown-up ridiculed me to the point that it almost became an obsession busting other people that do it, not to get too Freud on you, but probably to reaffirm my estimation of my self as a passable human being.

It's strange when you see it. You notice that light flick of the wrist, which sends the pinky into the nose, and then a non-discript motion that brings the nail down to the tongue, delivering the golden payload. It's probably a subconscious thing that people do, when they're under stress or in their cups. But still, I always wondered what would happen if I called somebody on it. How would that happen? What would be the best thing to say in that situation? Could I just say, "Hey, man, you just went diggin' and ate it. Give a hundred dollars."

A buddy of mine in college had a co-op job at an engineering contractor in Atlanta. He told me once that his boss, who was the owner's daughter, was an incorrigible, albeit extremely clever booger-eater. He said you'd be talking to her in a meeting, and if it got stressful, her hands would be all over her face. She'd pull amazing sleight-of-hand tricks and diversions, like scratching her eyebrow with her middle-finger, while her pinky was buried in her nose. Then, she'd rub her hand down her face, delivering the goods to her tongue, all while speaking to 15 to 20 people about a million-dollar job. He was horrified, and could only talk about it in hushed tones. I understand completely. I mean, how do you tell your boss that her booger-eating freaks you out?

I've not seen the color green for about 4 months now, except for the Christmas tree. Man, I could use some warm weather about now. In Europe, spring marches into town like a conquering hero, with maypoles and lusty maidens and flower petals strewn across its path . And I'm starting to see why. I don't recall ever getting teary-eyed over the weather in Georgia before I moved to Germany. I see pictures of myself now from childhood, and think, "Wow, I have pants without legs! Where'd they get off to?"

In brighter news, I actually walked across a lake today. I'm not Jesus, despite what you may have thought. You see, here in Germany, it gets so cold outside that water actually becomes hard enough to walk upon! That ain't right, my friends.

Soccer. Fussball. Futbol. Call it what you will, but don't ask me to get it. I've tried to assimilate, even bothering to learn the rules, and to participate in a soccer tournament last summer (a losing effort, obviously). It was a curiosity as I was a wee lad, the sport that dare not uses its hands, but now it seems there's soccer everywhere. When the local team wins, the locals here in Dogpatch lose their shit, and drive around town honking their horns and shooting AK47's in the air like a Turkish wedding. There's not much occasion for that, luckily, as the Augsburg soccer Club is a miserable failure. And anyways, it's not like there's any Augsburg natives playing for them, the team being mostly manned by drunken Chinamen, so what's the big deal? Like American professional sports, I assume it's a celebration of the winning style of locally owned and operated businesses, instead of a confirmation of the superiority of local gene pool in all things kicking.

Anyhoo, I'm getting pretty drunk now, and the yahoos in the bar here are getting roudy, owing to a 30-inch plasma in the corner showing the eagerly awaited Milan vs. Tobago game. I should quit now, and start rooting for Tobago. If I knew what the flag looked like, I'd strip off my shirt right now and paint it on my hairy, distended beer-gut.

I took another swing at the Worst Bar in the World last weekend, after taking in Walk the Line with my doll. It's the Chestnut Tree of the Augsburg bar and café scene: Just a bunch of aging socialite wannabes who've given in to horrors of Room 101, and now spend their days waiting on the lethargic service to bring their gin and tonics, talking nonsense about things that interest no one. And, like the denizens of the Chestnut Tree, they pray for death with each passing moment. I wouldn't have gone there had it not been for the after-movie party, hosted by Johnny Cash's German biographer, Franz Dobler. And while his knowledge of the Man in Black borders on encyclopedic, his public speaking skills lack flair. I settled, ordered some food; and, par for the course, I left before eating, lest I die of rickets and spider-bites before it got there. I wound up eating somewhere else, and coming back once the crowd had thinned out. I half expected them to arrive with my food when I walked in the door. But I jest; food, here? My view of the Worst Bar in the World has not improved after this last trip, but there's nothing new there. I've spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on them, compared to what they've spent on me.

There are a lot of bars here in Augsburg; some are good, and some are bad, and some are really, really bad. Right now, I'm whiling in the very acceptable corner bar, Barium. It's about 30 yards away from my front door, staffed by cheerful, attractive waitrons, and they serve cheap German beer to morons like me, without mocking me for tapping away on a laptop in a social setting. And, they bring me beer. I'm not sure why I ever go anywhere else, actually; force of habit, I guess.

That picture, by the way, was taken in a bar that's far from the Worst. It's called Annapam, and is a salt o' the Earth kinda bar, a reliable standby with good food and ugly waitresses. The people in the picture are Italians, who were apparently visiting Augsburg for the falafel and having a hell fo a time doing it.

Nice tat, Boogah:



Make sure to check out the bandage photo, too. This may be a little much for most Mac-fanboys. It would be cool, though, to put a big "Q" on your other arm. Then you could do that Constantine thing with your forearms, and whatever you pointed them at would go away.

From the New York Times:

The [27-3 vote] is the climax of a two-and-a-half year campaign by the Bush administration to convince the world that suspicions about Iran’s nuclear program are so serious that the issue must come before the Security Council for judgment.

If it turns out that they were not only developing nuclear weapons, but were also developing delivery systems for targets in Europe, Iraq, and Israel, will the New York Times be repeating that it was a "campaign by the Bush administration"? I imagine if that's the case, they'll be crediting Mohammed ElBaradei with the whole thing.

Tip #1: Never put a man named 'Mohammed' in charge of keeping the peace.

Making your mouse point look like a little dinosaur

Ever get tired of that little white arrow that moves around when you move your mouse? Despite the feeling of overwhelming responsibility one feels when pushing around a little arrow (it's a weapon, for G-d's sake!), the pointer serves an important purpose in the Windows user interface: It let's you know what you're going to click on, before you click on it! It's like a little psychic helper, letting you know what's going to happen next!

But if you're going to have a little psychic helper, why not make it a dinosaur!? Well, dinosaurs may be extinct in the boring old so-called "Real World", but there in your computer, in the wonderful world of Cyberspace(!) you can not only find dinosaurs, you can even find Friendly Psychic Dinosaurs!

Here's how!

First off, go to the "Start" menu at the bottom left hand side of your screen, choose "Settings", then "Control Panel", like so:

You still with me? Good, now double-click on the mouse control panel, like so:

Now, this next pop-up screen might seem a little busy, but you need to concentrate! At the top, there's a row of words like "Buttons", Motion", and even the scary word "Hardware", but we're looking for the one that says "Pointers". Click on that, and you'll see something like the following picture:

Now, choose that little box that says "Scheme". It'll scheme for a bit, and then show you a list of things to choose. Most of them are boring old do-nothings, but there, stuck in the middle, are our little psychic dinosaur friends. Choose that, and they'll just pop-up and say, "Hello there, Mr. User"! Like this:

Now, isn't that better than that war-mongering "Arrow" set of pointers? I think so, too! I hope you'll have fun with your new dinosaur friends, and I'm sure your network administrator will be amused, and amazed! the next time he sits down to work on your computer. Nothing says "Have a nice day, Mr. Computer Guy!" better than showing him that a computer can also be FUN! FUN! FUN!

That's all for this installment of YouBitch Worthless Windows Tips! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it for you. Next week, I'll show you how to turn that boring-but-amazingly-helpful little paper clip that knows everything about Microsoft Office into something that's not only informative, but FUN! FUN! FUN!

See ya in the Funny Pages!

- Screens are from the English edition of Windows 2000. Actual screen appearance may vary.

I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching something on a computer screen counting to 100. I've been a Computer Guy for going on 18 years now, and I've probably installed 1000 computers, and untold tens of thousands of programs, and they all use the same lame-ass little percentage meter to tell you how far along they are. And they're always dreadfully wrong in their calculations, for some reason.

Starting with Windows 2000, Microsoft even decided to put a little progress bar on the boot screen. Apple followed this with OS X, with the goofiest booting-progress bar ever conceived, the placebo startup meter, which signifies practically nothing:

I mention this only because for the last 45 minutes I've been looking at an installation screen that started out with "Time Remaining: About 16 minutes". Lying sacks.

A lot of people don't realize this, but when it's 4°F outside, you can smoke a cigarette in, like, 45 seconds. It basically involves optimizing workflow. When you cut out all the John Wayne grimaces, the french inhaling, the smoke rings, you've trimmed the cigarette down to its absolute barest essence; and it keeps you from getting the rats from nicotine withdrawal.

Whuuuh? I think my favorite is this stuffed bicycle accident:

via Tim Blair

Got a big fish to start off the Hillbilly Jihad with: one Mr. Scott Adams, author of Dilbert.

I suppose he thinks this caricature of our people is funny:

But one of our (unfortunately rather sour, humorless) operatives set him straight:

Your cartoon “killed” an inebriated hillbilly. He was lying on a log with a jug at his side (probably moonshine?) and wearing bib overalls. He was booted off the log into a chasm and a certain fate. Now, let me ask you a question. Would you have drawn that cartoon of a drunk Irishman, a Jew, a black person, an Hispanic person?

It's not quite the beheading I was hoping for, but, you know, baby steps.

From the official Handelsblatt page on the Düsseldorf Blog Reading:

Julius Endert, Managing Editor of Handelsblatt.com, demonstrates with barrier-tape what a 'Trackback' is.

At which point, a member of the crowd walks on stage and kicks Endert in the groin, demonstrating what 'comment spam' is.

As you might have noticed, I, along with A-Heldin, live-blogged the Handelsblatt event in Düsseldorf on Wednesday. I was a little disappointed in the general direction of the event. It was a blog-reading, and, as such, was more about little stories people have written on their blogs than about the uniquely dynamic nature that makes blogs what they are.

Although I managed to get all the names wrong while live-blogging, here are some of the writers that were showcased:

• 'ix' from Wirres.net; worst punctuation ever. Why do thousands per day visit a website without capital letters, all written in an undersized monospaced font? Because the German blogosphere is a ripe apple, waiting to be picked, that's why. his account
• "Melancholie Modeste", who I wrongly accused of eyeing my unit. In retrospect, it may well have been 'ix'. She really doesn't get that many hits, so I'm kind of wondering why she was chosen to represent the biggies. It must have been her perkiness.
• Don Dahlmann, from "Irgendwas ist ja immer". Didn't catch it, as I was busy pinching the bottoms of unsuspecting bar wenches.
• Frau 'Nuf' from 'dem Nuf'. I cannot actually recall her being on the stage, as this was during my 'blackout period'. No telling how many hits she gets, either; she has 4 counters on her page, and all of them are closed to the public.

In retrospect, I didn't do a very good job of covering the event. I'm not even sure who won, although it looked like Dahlmann was a shoo-in owing to a strong showing in the swimsuit competition.

So, enough readin', let's see some pictures!

click the pics for bigger versions

Rube Liveblogging

The bar, she was open

Free tucker

The madding throngs

Ok, they just announced the actual bloggers. But I'm already on beer number 4, so I'm not sure I've got all the names right. Just scroll for updates or, more likely corrections.

UPDATE 8:27 PM:
First speakerette, Modeste, from Melancholie Modeste! All she's doing at the moment, is reading a favorite post for the crowd. What she is not doing, however, is telling the crowd how, about 30 minutes ago, she was eyeing my unit at the bar. Which she was, I caught her. Once my honey-baby came back from the bathroom, though, Modeste saw she had not a chance, as my honey-baby is looking mighty fine indeed this evening.

UPDATE 8:31 PM:
The next guy is up, and I have no idea who he is. He's from Cologne, apparently. He speaks an irritating mixture of English and German, because it's cool, and there's a sign behind him that says "Rebels without a Market". The Modeste is gone, and didn't even bother to mention me. Lesbian.

UPDATE 8:46 PM:
Another dude has token over the mike, a guy named 'ix', apparently in refence to the home planet of the Harkonnens in Dune, because he's fat and hairy. I'm starting to get the hang of this presentation. For the last 10 minutes, he's been reading his blog for the people, in an uninteresting, droning voice that's slowly lulling me into the "y'now, maybe I will have that 5th beer" frame of mind. Blah...blah... Blah! Outside of the open bar, the whole event to this point could have been taken care of with a couple of emails.

UPDATE 8:55 PM:
Veterans of Georgia blog-meets might want to sit down for this update. It's a blogger meet here, with an open bar, that means free German beer and French wine, and I, Rube, am the only one who's drunk! I can't imagine the carnage of an open bar at the Wreckyll, for example.

Some chick just spoke for the crowd, but I missed her name, and, frankly, never really got into her presentation.

UPDAET 9:02 PM:
Honey-baby says she's also drunk, and expressed displeasure that they don't serve whiskey here at the open bar. I'm inclined to agree, but am reluctant to raise a stink about it.

UPDATE 9:08 PM:
I may have forgotten to mention that the peanuts here on the bar are excellent!

UPDATE 9:13 PM:
Some little cableknit sweater-wearin' bald-headed love-parader just bummed a cigarette from me, with the explanation, "whew! after a beer, I just haaaaaave to smoke a cigarette!" A beer? Don't wear yourself out, Moby! But then I saw his girlfriend who, in stark contrast to him, is a bald-headed, sweater-wearin' love-parader. I guess beer and ecstasy don't mix.

UPATE 9:15 PM:
I sense a certain restlessness among the service personnel. The little blondie who brought me a beer earlier just offered to replace my current one with a fresh one. As I just received it about 4 minutes ago, I must assume 'a fresh beer' is a clumsy euphemism for cheap, filthy, back-alley sex.

UPDATE 9:20 PM:
The buffet will be opening shortly. I'll have to remember to keep the elbows up.

UPDATE 9:25 PM:
The little lady and I are now sloppy with drink, and the buffet is not yet open. The management will be hearing of this.

UPDATE 21:32:
You know, I tell Ihnen what: Zee problem wizz zee Event right now eez: the buffet isn't open yet. I'm gettin hungry. And Rube's eating all me peenuts (no euphemism, i swear). --ann

UPDATE 21:35:
Rube's hitting his head... 'v gotta look after his laptop... wonder why all the hutchy men in here're wearing a suit and ties... but Hut ab: their baldy heads are so shiny you wouldn't dare asking what they've used to scrub'em... --ann

UPDATE 21:38:
I mean: they serve free beer!! Sounds like a bestechung to me, huh? --ann

UPDATE 21:39:
But the beer is served in tiny little mustache-glasses... don't think I hit the proper word with mustache... but: the beer... the glasses it's served in... is way toooo small.... --ann

UPDATE 9:55 PM:
The E-Heldin just showed up with her dude, and of course, the buffet is immediately opened.

Ok, cheesy music comes up, in preparation for the first speaker. Sounds like a German version of Justin Timberlake, only now with 25% more gay!

He starts of course with the whole "what is a blog?" thing. Wrong audience. He should've got this out of his system with the investors, before they signed off on the whole Open Bar thing. Then, of course, the important question is not "What is a blog?", instead, "Do all bloggers drink like Rube?"

Goodness, the guy just said that Martin Luther was the first blogger. I don't know how many hits this dork gets, but I'm aching to call shenanigans.

Nevertheless, a cute little Aryan blondie just brought me a beer, so all is right with the world, at least here on the Rhein.

UPDATE: Upon further inspection, the first speaker is in fact named "Thomas Krüwer", and not "Thomas Gruber". My bad.

UPDATE II: That would be Thomas Knüwer. Names is hard.

hey there, folks I'm in a swanky Gucci-infested hotel restaurant in Düsseldorf, attending a blog-meet. The place is pretty swanky, if I'm any kind of judge, and the German version of Forbes, Handelsblatt, is picking up the tab.