Bad wood underneath the veneer
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Donation Education
In this fast-paced, nuclear era, I find myself broke. Croe (also broke) and I decided, based on watertight financial advice from the movie, The Way of The Gun, that we needed money. Ryan Philippe's character says, "In this day of age, a quart of blood can fetch you $50. A shot of cum: $3000." Naturally, we looked into it. Apparently, such an unholy high number of altruistic souls exists here that they have no need to actually pay people for plasma. No, there are no such programs. There is one in Flint, I think, and it doesn't pay fifty dollars. More like twenty, which is barely enough to cover the gas. Onwards and upwards, we Googled the following:
A solicited shot of my boys does not, in fact, happen so seamlessly and rewardingly like in The Way of The Gun. Benicio Del Toro and Ryan Philippe's characters evidently scored three grand a piece and were in and out of the bank in a few hours. (They even gave the interviewer a shitton of trouble, asking "How come if a man comes on to a woman and she slaps him, people say she's standing up for her rights; but if a homosexual man comes on to a straight man, and gets his lights punched out, people say it's a hate crime?") You must see the inherent beauty in this scheme.
Here's how it really works, fyi. You have to spend a 6-8 week rigamarole of interviews, tests, samples of your jam, and so forth before you are accepted. If you pass muster, you're in "the program." Payment: $100. Once in "the program" you can do it up to 65 times a year (Arbitrarily. I have more than 65/year in me.), which amounts to $6,500 total. Once again, we were deceived by film.
Needless to say, we stopped jerking off. ¶ 8:48 PM 2 comments
- sperm+donation (I didn't like the word "donation." Sounds like we're giving it up for free.)
- sperm+bank (Most geared towards donor recipients, not the potential donors themselves.)
- sperm+bank+cash (mostly turned up shadey pseudo-porn sites)
A solicited shot of my boys does not, in fact, happen so seamlessly and rewardingly like in The Way of The Gun. Benicio Del Toro and Ryan Philippe's characters evidently scored three grand a piece and were in and out of the bank in a few hours. (They even gave the interviewer a shitton of trouble, asking "How come if a man comes on to a woman and she slaps him, people say she's standing up for her rights; but if a homosexual man comes on to a straight man, and gets his lights punched out, people say it's a hate crime?") You must see the inherent beauty in this scheme.
Here's how it really works, fyi. You have to spend a 6-8 week rigamarole of interviews, tests, samples of your jam, and so forth before you are accepted. If you pass muster, you're in "the program." Payment: $100. Once in "the program" you can do it up to 65 times a year (Arbitrarily. I have more than 65/year in me.), which amounts to $6,500 total. Once again, we were deceived by film.
Needless to say, we stopped jerking off. ¶ 8:48 PM 2 comments
Friday, June 23, 2006
Architecture in Mid-sinki
I called this kid something bad the other day. I said, "You are defective. You are the sort of person who would shoot a Springfield thirty-aught-six across the rooftops of our fair city and nail a pregnant woman between the eyes." Of course, I said it just to hear what it sounded like. He was a bit taken aback..."j/k" I said. Deadeye Dick's father, from Kurt Vonnegut's novel of same title, seems to be patterned after Alden B. Dow. Alden B. Dow's house looked like THIS. Now, when I read the story of the character's (Otto Waltz) house in the story, the description was uncannily similar to this asinine structure in my own town.
A. B. Dow's father, H. H. Dow, who was founder of Dow Chemical, which employs my dad, which outsources to China, which spews only 90 parts per trillion carcinogenic toxins into our air, which toxins are likely the cause of this town's neck and neck race with Hillsdale for most boring city in Michigan, which puts it in the running for most boring city outside of anywhere in Nebraska.
Well, H. H. Dow was a good businessman...sort of...perhaps he was simply unorthodox. I found this excerpt about Dow's repackaging scheme from this page:
About 30 German firms had combined to form a cartel, Die Deutsche Bromkonvention, which fixed the world price for bromine at a lucrative 49 cents a pound. Customers either paid the 49 cents or they went without. Dow and other American companies sold bromine in the United States for 36 cents. The Bromkonvention made it clear that if the Americans tried to sell elsewhere, the Germans would flood the American market with cheap bromine and drive them all out of business. The Bromkonvention law was, “The U.S. for the U.S. and Germany for the world.”
Dow entered bromine production with these unwritten rules in effect, but he refused to follow them. Instead, he easily beat the cartel’s 49-cent price and courageously sold America’s first bromine in England. He hoped that the Germans, if they found out what he was doing, would ignore it. Throughout 1904 he merrily bid on bromine contracts throughout the world. After a few months of this, Dow encountered in his office an angry visitor from Germany - Hermann Jacobsohn of the Bromkonvention. Jacobsohn announced he had “positive evidence that [Dow] had exported bromides.” “What of it?” Dow replied. “Don’t you know that you can’t sell bromides abroad?” Jacobsohn asked. “I know nothing of the kind,” Dow retorted. Jacobsohn was indignant. He said that if Dow persisted, the Bromkonvention members would run him out of business whatever the cost. Then Jacobsohn left in a huff.
Those like Dow who tried to compete with the cartel learned quickly what “predatory price-cutting” meant. The Bromkonvention, like other German cartels, had a “yellow-dog fund,” which was money set aside to use to flood other countries with cheap chemicals to drive out competitors. Dow, however, was determined to compete with the Bromkonvention. He needed the sales, and he believed his electrolysis produced bromine cheaper than the Germans could. Also, Dow was stubborn and hated being bluffed by a bully. When Jacobsohn stormed out of his office, Dow continued to sell bromine, from England to Japan.
Before long, in early 1905, the Bromkonvention went on a rampage: it poured bromides into America at 15 cents a pound, well below its fixed price of 49 cents and also below Dow’s 36 cents. Jacobsohn arranged a special meeting with Dow in St. Louis and demanded that he quit exporting bromides or else the Germans would flood the American market indefinitely. The Bromkonvention had the money and the backing of its government, Jacobsohn reminded Dow, and could long continue to sell in the United States below the cost of production. Dow was not intimidated; he was angry and told Jacobsohn he would sell to whomever would buy from him. Dow left the meeting with Jacobsohn screaming threats behind him. As Dow boarded the train from St. Louis, he knew the future of his company - if it had a future - depended on how he handled the Germans.
A. B. Dow's father, H. H. Dow, who was founder of Dow Chemical, which employs my dad, which outsources to China, which spews only 90 parts per trillion carcinogenic toxins into our air, which toxins are likely the cause of this town's neck and neck race with Hillsdale for most boring city in Michigan, which puts it in the running for most boring city outside of anywhere in Nebraska.
Well, H. H. Dow was a good businessman...sort of...perhaps he was simply unorthodox. I found this excerpt about Dow's repackaging scheme from this page:
About 30 German firms had combined to form a cartel, Die Deutsche Bromkonvention, which fixed the world price for bromine at a lucrative 49 cents a pound. Customers either paid the 49 cents or they went without. Dow and other American companies sold bromine in the United States for 36 cents. The Bromkonvention made it clear that if the Americans tried to sell elsewhere, the Germans would flood the American market with cheap bromine and drive them all out of business. The Bromkonvention law was, “The U.S. for the U.S. and Germany for the world.”
Dow entered bromine production with these unwritten rules in effect, but he refused to follow them. Instead, he easily beat the cartel’s 49-cent price and courageously sold America’s first bromine in England. He hoped that the Germans, if they found out what he was doing, would ignore it. Throughout 1904 he merrily bid on bromine contracts throughout the world. After a few months of this, Dow encountered in his office an angry visitor from Germany - Hermann Jacobsohn of the Bromkonvention. Jacobsohn announced he had “positive evidence that [Dow] had exported bromides.” “What of it?” Dow replied. “Don’t you know that you can’t sell bromides abroad?” Jacobsohn asked. “I know nothing of the kind,” Dow retorted. Jacobsohn was indignant. He said that if Dow persisted, the Bromkonvention members would run him out of business whatever the cost. Then Jacobsohn left in a huff.
Those like Dow who tried to compete with the cartel learned quickly what “predatory price-cutting” meant. The Bromkonvention, like other German cartels, had a “yellow-dog fund,” which was money set aside to use to flood other countries with cheap chemicals to drive out competitors. Dow, however, was determined to compete with the Bromkonvention. He needed the sales, and he believed his electrolysis produced bromine cheaper than the Germans could. Also, Dow was stubborn and hated being bluffed by a bully. When Jacobsohn stormed out of his office, Dow continued to sell bromine, from England to Japan.
Before long, in early 1905, the Bromkonvention went on a rampage: it poured bromides into America at 15 cents a pound, well below its fixed price of 49 cents and also below Dow’s 36 cents. Jacobsohn arranged a special meeting with Dow in St. Louis and demanded that he quit exporting bromides or else the Germans would flood the American market indefinitely. The Bromkonvention had the money and the backing of its government, Jacobsohn reminded Dow, and could long continue to sell in the United States below the cost of production. Dow was not intimidated; he was angry and told Jacobsohn he would sell to whomever would buy from him. Dow left the meeting with Jacobsohn screaming threats behind him. As Dow boarded the train from St. Louis, he knew the future of his company - if it had a future - depended on how he handled the Germans.
On that train, Dow worked out a daring strategy. He had his agent in New York discreetly buy hundreds of thousands of pounds of German bromine at the 15-cent price. Then he repackaged and sold it in Europe - including Germany! - at 27 cents a pound. “When this 15-cent price was made over here,” Dow said, “instead of meeting it, we pulled out of the American market altogether and used all our production to supply the foreign demand. This, as we afterward learned, was not what they anticipated we would do.”
Dow secretly hired British and German agents to market his repackaged bromine in their countries. They had no trouble doing so because the Bromkonvention had left the world price above 30 cents a pound. The Germans were selling in the United States far below cost of production, and they hoped to offset their U.S. losses with a high world price.
Instead, the Germans were befuddled. They expected to run Dow out of business; and this they thought they were doing. But why was U.S. demand for bromine so high? And where was this flow of cheap bromine into Europe coming from? Was one of the Bromkonvention members cheating and selling bromine in Europe below the fixed price? The tension in the Bromkonvention was dramatic. According to Dow, “The German producers got into trouble among themselves as to who was to supply the goods for the American market, and the American agent [for the Germans] became embarrassed by reason of his inability to get goods that he had contracted to supply and asked us if we would take his [15-cent] contracts. This, of course, we refused to do.”
The confused Germans kept cutting U.S. prices-first to 12 cents and then to 10.5 cents a pound. Meanwhile, Dow kept buying cheap bromine and reselling it in Europe for 27 cents. These sales forced the Bromkonvention to drop its high world price to match Dow and that further depleted the Bromkonvention’s resources. Dow, by contrast, improved his foreign sales force, often ran his bromine plants at top capacity, and gained business at the expense of the Bromkonvention and all other American producers, most of whom had shut down after the price-cutting. Even when the Bromkonvention finally caught on to what Dow was doing, it wasn’t sure how to respond. As Dow said, “We are absolute dictators of the situation.” He also wrote, “One result of this fight has been to give us a standing all over the world. . . . We are . . . in a much stronger position than we ever were.” He added that “the profits are not so great” because his plants had trouble matching the new 27-cent world price. He needed to buy the cheap German bromides to stay ahead, and this was harder to do once the Germans discovered and exposed his repackaging scheme.
The bromine war lasted four years (1904–08), when finally the Bromkonvention invited Dow to come to Germany and work out an agreement. Since they couldn’t crush Dow, they decided to at least work out some deal so they could make money again. The terms were as follows: the Germans agreed to quit selling bromine in the United States; Dow agreed to quit selling in Germany; and the rest of the world was open to free competition. The bromine war was over, but low-priced bromine was now a fact of life.
And that's the most interesting story about Midland (only true one, that is). ¶ 3:01 PM 1 comments
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
fingerdicking
I am a doting man up to a certain point concerning modern slang. That certain point hopefully (unlikely) lies just short of smug as fuck. For instance, I know and use the word fingerdicking (no hits on google image search. sorry), which, is hard to define in a sentence or two, but is done aptly here. Say I rolled over my phone charger with my chair. This particular phone charger has a typical pin insertion thingy which probably has a propername but I'm too lazy to figure it out. Here's a picture so you can get the idea. Anyway, I bent the little insertion thingy. The charger still kind of worked, but no, I don't know the meaning of "kind of." It's either working or not working. Brilliantly, I stuck a needle into the insertion thingy to try to straighten it out. It didn't make much of a difference, but I had a better idea. Heat it up with your bic, then bend it with the needle! Surely it would work, so I heated it up. Unforseen, the tiny plastic tip on the insertion thingy melted completely over the tip and hardened before I could stick the needle back in. Slightly flustered, I panicked momentarily, then composed myself with more flame from my bic. Once again, the plastic melted, then hardened before I could puncture it with my needle I repeated these steps a few more times until I finally punched through it with the needle. Unfortunately, the new hole was too small for my cell phone, so I had to heat it up again (wisely with the pin still in it, mind you). As I was working the needle back and forth surgically, the heat had made the needle malleable enough to break off whilst still inside the little insertion thingy. Realizing defeat, I decided to melt the plastic tip over top the insertion thing once again, just so my fingerdicking episode would not seem halfassed.
Then there is the proverbial chotch. The word was introduced into my vocabulary long after I had met all the chotches I currently know. I think urban dictionary also provides the most detailed and accurate description of a chotch. Here it is. Chotch = Generic, well-dressed, slightly meathead-ish dude who only cares or knows about bars, chicks, and looking good. Gel, vertical striped shirts, designer jeans, and sleek black shoes are a must. In middle school, chotches wore "No Fear" and "Coed Naked" T-shirts; in high school, white baseball caps and all Abercrombie; in college, visors, wife beaters, and cargo shorts. Chotches are 'huge' football fans, but end up checking their cell phones more than paying attention to games on TV. And a true chotch almost certainly received Scarface on DVD this last Christmas. I saw at least seventeen chotches last night at Lucky Bar or Drop the vertical striped shirt right now, dude, or I'm going to start mistaking you for that chotch on the Real World. I mean, at least the emo and goth kids get by most of my scorn just by virtue of bewildering me. The chotch has no warm place in my heart. They made me feel bad growing up for having a large Adam's Apple
and bacne. The problem with chotches is that they are on the good side of the social scale (assholes, douchebags, etc. are not on the good side.) So it's very trying to make a solid case against a chotch, because they come off as nice as a George W. Bush or a Cuba Gooding Jr. But you really only remember them as the ones whipping you with a wet towel after gym class.
I would also like to commemorate yesterday's two very chotch-like sports moments. Yesterday was the Carolina Hurricanes' day to win the cup and they did it handily. Congrats to Brindamour and Wesley for finally getting to hoist the cup. Moving on, yesterday also was the sad 20th anniversary of Len Bias' overdose on cocaine. Bias was the 1986 first draft pick of the Boston Celtics, who was touted as the next Michael Jordan. He O.D.ed before he even suited up for a game. Him + Larry Bird + the rest of the Celtics and you might have had a very different NBA. A much forgotten case in basketball, but one of those defining moments. Just think. If Len Bias had taken away some of that spotlight from Michael Jordan, we'd have never gotten Space Jam.
Studio session three. Tomorrow. 10-4
¶ 8:03 PM 1 comments
Then there is the proverbial chotch. The word was introduced into my vocabulary long after I had met all the chotches I currently know. I think urban dictionary also provides the most detailed and accurate description of a chotch. Here it is. Chotch = Generic, well-dressed, slightly meathead-ish dude who only cares or knows about bars, chicks, and looking good. Gel, vertical striped shirts, designer jeans, and sleek black shoes are a must. In middle school, chotches wore "No Fear" and "Coed Naked" T-shirts; in high school, white baseball caps and all Abercrombie; in college, visors, wife beaters, and cargo shorts. Chotches are 'huge' football fans, but end up checking their cell phones more than paying attention to games on TV. And a true chotch almost certainly received Scarface on DVD this last Christmas. I saw at least seventeen chotches last night at Lucky Bar or Drop the vertical striped shirt right now, dude, or I'm going to start mistaking you for that chotch on the Real World. I mean, at least the emo and goth kids get by most of my scorn just by virtue of bewildering me. The chotch has no warm place in my heart. They made me feel bad growing up for having a large Adam's Apple
and bacne. The problem with chotches is that they are on the good side of the social scale (assholes, douchebags, etc. are not on the good side.) So it's very trying to make a solid case against a chotch, because they come off as nice as a George W. Bush or a Cuba Gooding Jr. But you really only remember them as the ones whipping you with a wet towel after gym class.
I would also like to commemorate yesterday's two very chotch-like sports moments. Yesterday was the Carolina Hurricanes' day to win the cup and they did it handily. Congrats to Brindamour and Wesley for finally getting to hoist the cup. Moving on, yesterday also was the sad 20th anniversary of Len Bias' overdose on cocaine. Bias was the 1986 first draft pick of the Boston Celtics, who was touted as the next Michael Jordan. He O.D.ed before he even suited up for a game. Him + Larry Bird + the rest of the Celtics and you might have had a very different NBA. A much forgotten case in basketball, but one of those defining moments. Just think. If Len Bias had taken away some of that spotlight from Michael Jordan, we'd have never gotten Space Jam.
Studio session three. Tomorrow. 10-4
¶ 8:03 PM 1 comments
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Progeny
Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Mell is pregnant. We should see her the offspring by mid-July. Anybody want a kitten? I suspect the father is a Hillsdale cat, being as she hasn't been out of our house since her arrival.
Other than that, she also has worms. So she's got some medicine to take care of that. Other than that, she's a healthy cat. We might keep one of the kittens...I dunno...I'll probably bring Mell back to Hillsdale in the fall, and leave one of the kittens for my sister to look after. ¶ 12:10 PM 2 comments
Other than that, she also has worms. So she's got some medicine to take care of that. Other than that, she's a healthy cat. We might keep one of the kittens...I dunno...I'll probably bring Mell back to Hillsdale in the fall, and leave one of the kittens for my sister to look after. ¶ 12:10 PM 2 comments
Friday, June 02, 2006
Epiphany
Okay, I know this word makes it on the top ten "most-overly used" word list, but I had a few regarding my album.
1. Voice. I paid a visit to my demos and found that my voice was most pitch-perfect and full when I was singing in a more "let-it-all-hang-out" tone of voice (See "Rabbit Byrd"). I was so sure I had done the best ever on "Lunita," but my voice sounds almost whiney and is certainly not as on-pitch as it should be, due to the fact that I'm trying to smooth out my tone into this Sam Beam meets Sufjan Stevens tone. Those guys manage it fine, but my voice tends to be somewhere between Neil Young and Joanna Newsom on the tone scale. So that's what I'm going with.
2. I finally kind of figured out the studio. Guitar Sound in Coleman seems to be the right place. They don't have Pro-Tools (although, contrary to popular opinion, there was music recording before Pro-Tools) and they don't have a close-mic drum set-up (there was drum recording before there was close-mic drum recording as well.) Despite these "flaws," the engineer/producer seemed genuinely interested in my music. He's a songwriter himself and has 150 tunes to his name. Price: $35/hour vs. $55/hour at Big Bear.
3. I bought an I-pod, because music is about the only thing I'm interested in and it's worth it to me. Should be getting it tomorrow. It was $150. ¶ 1:47 AM 0 comments
1. Voice. I paid a visit to my demos and found that my voice was most pitch-perfect and full when I was singing in a more "let-it-all-hang-out" tone of voice (See "Rabbit Byrd"). I was so sure I had done the best ever on "Lunita," but my voice sounds almost whiney and is certainly not as on-pitch as it should be, due to the fact that I'm trying to smooth out my tone into this Sam Beam meets Sufjan Stevens tone. Those guys manage it fine, but my voice tends to be somewhere between Neil Young and Joanna Newsom on the tone scale. So that's what I'm going with.
2. I finally kind of figured out the studio. Guitar Sound in Coleman seems to be the right place. They don't have Pro-Tools (although, contrary to popular opinion, there was music recording before Pro-Tools) and they don't have a close-mic drum set-up (there was drum recording before there was close-mic drum recording as well.) Despite these "flaws," the engineer/producer seemed genuinely interested in my music. He's a songwriter himself and has 150 tunes to his name. Price: $35/hour vs. $55/hour at Big Bear.
3. I bought an I-pod, because music is about the only thing I'm interested in and it's worth it to me. Should be getting it tomorrow. It was $150. ¶ 1:47 AM 0 comments
