Least Romantic Gestures, Historically (number x in a series of x):

In college, was dating an artsy girl. We were both fans of the band Nine Inch Nails. Bought a card from a convenience store because it had a crying baby dressed up as an angel. Took it home and wrote some NiN lyrics from the latest album inside: Your god is dead / and no one cares.

Mailed it off to the girlfriend, thinking she'd enjoy the pairing of weird cutesy baby image and nihilistic lyrics.

Turns out, when a girlfriend gets a card in the mail, she's expecting something nice. Maybe a note about how you're doing. Kind words. Not 2nd person gloating about the end of hope, or somesuch.

Whoops.

Hey, grandpa, you know that Twitter thing that those of us who fought the jerries hate? Well, every once in awhile it proves its worth, mostly in the hands of comedians. Go figure.

Comedian-slash-legend-slash-cooking-rat Patton Oswalt just set out on tour today with bearded up-and-comer Kyle Kinane and lucky us, the two of them have decided to document the occasion by insulting each other on Twitter. I'll be seeing them in three weeks when they hit Cobb's Comedy in San Francisco, so I'm hoping there'll be weeks of this ahead of us:

@kylekinane: @pattonoswalt a veggie sandwich from Subway? Act your tax bracket already.

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@kylekinane: It's adorable to see @pattonoswalt adjusting the dashboard vents like he's tall enough for them to be effective.

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@pattonoswalt Asheville update -- @kylekinane just bought a bag of pemmican and 10 min. w/ a clean woman for 3 skunk pelts.

Link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hey,_Rube!

When a carnie was attacked or in trouble, he would yell "Hey, Rube!" and all carnies in earshot would rush to his aid. Circus pioneer and legendary clown Dan Rice called it "a terrible cry, [meaning] as no other expression in the language does, that a fierce deadly fight is on, that men who are far away from home [traveling circus workers] must band together in a struggle that means life or death to them."

— Wikipedia entry for "Hey, Rube!"

Weekend's highlight:
Out walking around in El Cerrito and Amanda and I came across a discarded book on the sidewalk: Women Who Run With Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, PhD. There's been a copy in our personal library for awhile, as the book is about topics that interest us such as myths, fairy tales, Jungian analysis, women... what it's not so much about is "wolves."

Which made it all the more hilarious when we realized that right beside this discarded book was a plastic supermarket bag full of loose, large dog biscuits.

I can only imagine that some lady mistook the book's title, assumed the book was perhaps an instructional on how to lure and tame your own wolf pack, supplied herself with the requisite snacks... and a few pages in to the book just dropped everything to the sidewalk and went home.

The last page, so you don't have to read it:

  Blinking, the Old Man looked up him, brushing con-
fused fingers across his forehead, perhaps to still the
tumor nestling there. "I have only wanted what was
good for my country," he said, with that familiar firm-
ness that Justin had known so well. "All else was an
error, a lie, Justin." Standing, he held out thin arms in
awful supplication. "Kill me now, Justin. I know what
is happening to my brain. Shoot me there, Justin, be-
fore I do more harm."
   But because Justin loved him, he shot the Old Man
through the heart. Then he and Willie destroyed the
caves with demolition bombs. Sperm, metal, and all.
Tourists and residents in San Miguel below heard the
explosions and saw a large red flash, accompanied by
smoke and flames.

  Out in space, the comet also saw. And glided with
increased speed and passion. The sacrifice had been
made as usual, and the comet was satisfied. Soon
now, it would show itself to earth, passionately.