Tags: gertrude, halloween, i bet when sam waterston hires a hooker she has trouble keeping a straight face, weekend journal
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Why Barack Obama Is Guaranteed to Win Reëlection in 2012: A Statistical Analysis of Battleground State Polling
24 OctBefore I became an obscure blogger and show business peon, I was an aspiring academic. I have a B.S. in Cognitive Psychology and have studied many statistical and data modeling techniques for dealing with large multivariate data sets. I’ve tried to stay fresh in these skills over the years.
As such, I’ve been following the election polls closely. And playing around a bit with some of the polling data; looking into the methods and models of the various polling outlets. I’ve discovered a pattern in a few battleground state polls, particularly Ohio, which I can’t find anyone else noticing, at least anyone you can google. Pollsters are almost uniformly under-weighing a couple unsung but key variables in “likely voter” data. In my opinion, the correctly weighted model points to a clearer Barack Obama electoral victory than anyone in politics or the media anticipates. To explain what I mean, look at the latest “poll of polls” from Ohio via the Huffington Post:
Which shows debate-driven fluctuations, and a slight Obama lead, but essentially a race that could go either way. I’ve taken what raw data I could find and re-weighted it a bit according to my hypothesis, into a new graph below:
How Was Your Day
23 Oct
I was awake. There was a bird outside my window performing a miracle. He had memorized the calls of dozens of other birds after hearing them just a few times and was performing them flawlessly. Some of this bird’s brain cells die in winter and grow back in spring in time for him to learn new songs. Discovering this fact led scientists to conclude they had been wrong when they’d said your brain is just slowly dying. In fact it can build new skills and learn new ways of being for your whole life. It was revolutionary. There is hope for us all. I was annoyed at the bird for waking me up.
Cigarette. Honey Nut™ Cheerios®. Coffee. Read things on the internet. Take a shit. Always a good one; I haven’t had a bad shit in years. Hot shower. Another miracle worn into banality by enjoying it every day. The hiss of warm water, the warmth like the womb. Safe and private. I washed my ass at least seven times. Car. Radio, NPR. Old people talking about old time musicians no one gives a fuck about. Or no– about people who were once in those dead old time musicians’ orbit. How on Earth does anyone give one single fuck about the guy who served as the archivist for Ira Gershwin, brought to you by Mercedes Benz of Southern California. The only way this could be less interesting is if they interviewed the archivist for the archivist of Ira Gershwin. “The Dow” is up seventeen points. Again, who gives a fuck. That tells me absolutely nothing. Continue reading
Goodbye Greta
13 Oct
The head gasket was blown. I drove it too hot, and now the engine is dead. Repairs too unwieldy to do on my budget. The coolant would just boil over in 10 minutes.
Also, there was a sound like a rake being dragged across the undercarriage when you made a hard right turn. Or too hard a left turn. The front windows didn’t roll down. Or they did, but they would just drop into the door at a diagonal. The stereo was stolen. The driver’s side seat belt didn’t work; you’d have to reach over and stick it in the passenger side and if you had a passenger you’d have to entwine their seat belt with yours and explain this rather unsafe-seeming process to first dates you were getting to go back to your house. The sunroof was stuck closed. The back rear window was always open about four inches because I’d replaced it myself while drunk; I had shattered it with a rock when I locked my keys in the car. Also drunk. Unbeknownst to me the left rear door lock didn’t fully lock and I could have just opened the door. The hood latch didn’t open. Or it did, but you had to reach into the innards of the car with vice grips and yank on the hood latch cable. Eventually the cable would have come off its moorings completely and snaked into some impossible rusty depth of the body and the hood would have been sealed shut. The brakes were going. The master cylinder. The vacuum pump was going. There was no heat. There was no air conditioning. There was not a god damn motherfucking thing you could do about it when it was a hundred nine degrees and the car, with half its windows not rolling down, was like a greenhouse, and you were basically microwaving yourself getting in it on an August day in Los Angeles. It didn’t want to start when it was cold. The starter just cranked over and over and over, first slowly, then quicker and quicker with a horrible metal-on-metal grinding until it turned over and spat out a huge and weirdly stationary cloud of white smoke that smelled like parts of your car that you really need burning, and then you had to lay on the gas for a minute or else it stalled out when you put it in gear. It needed a paint job. I always meant to get a paint job over that worn out silver that looks like primer gray. The signals didn’t work; they didn’t flash and you had to flip the lever up and down by hand trying to keep a rhythm. I got a ticket for a burned out license plate light and it was impossible to fucking fix because every time you tried the bulb just got sucked up into some weird hole behind the impossible-to-get-your-fingers in soot covered bay for the license plate light. Continue reading
Reader Mailbag: Are You Dead or Something?
11 Oct
My 4 fans ask:
How come you haven’t posted in so long– did you die?
No, I just took a week off.
It was just such a weird week that I didn’t even beat off. Or I did, but less than usual. I have beat off just about every day for the past 26 years, but this week– the car was dead; I would have to take the bus home. The 218 half an hour over Laurel Canyon, drop off at Sunset and Crescent Heights, wait half an hour for the 2– not the 302, which Google Maps had assured me in its public transit directions would pick me up and take me home toute fucking suite— the 2. Because the 302, which is the bus that comes by two minutes after the 218 reaches Sunset and Crescent Heights, that one will just blow right by you as you stand hanging half off the sidewalk holding your briefcase like a jerkoff in a whirlwind of leaves and wrappers stirred up by the 302 and you’ll swear that the driver had a malicious gleam in his eye. Black guy. I assume he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you, cracker!” as he deliberately ignores my stop. In reality, he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you cracker!” As he goes about his prescribed route which does not include my stop. Go ahead and think “fuck you, cracker,” by the way, black people. None of us care. Continue reading
The Way Things Should Be
27 SepAll work is beneath me. I should spend my days enthroned, being sexually serviced by sixteen year old virgins. I should just be constantly impregnating our nation’s teens. All of womankind should exist solely to serve as vessels for my offspring. I should have a variety of fruits constantly available to me, regardless of whether they’re in season.
Diary 9-17-12
19 Sep
Man, but what the fuck am I gonna do? What’s out there? It’s the worst economy of all time and hobos with Humphrey Bogart stubble are getting shooed away from picking up yard apples by an angry apron-wearing fat man with a shotgun and heading back hungry to hobo camp with their belongings in a bandana on a stick. They’re combing their hair with a fish skeleton before using a tissue to turn it into a harmonica on which they blow mournful tunes about being hopeless and broke. College graduates are having lethal shiv fights in a firelit railyard over a lone kidney bean in the bottom of a can being cooked over a burning tire. The bean came to life; it had a face; it said “kill for me.” Families are slaughtering their pets for shish kebabs, probably their kids too. Abortion clincis have become Hardee’s Buffets. The elderly are being burned for heat. Our cars are broken down and being pulled by donkeys, but we had to eat the donkeys; our daughters are sucking cock for nickels and our sons are wrestling pumas in a chickenwire cage in front of a warehouse of leering Mexicans for sport. You see the gleam of a glass bottle on the side of the road, and you see another guy seeing it too, looking at you askance; there’s a tense second of mutual eyefucking before it’s like two Tasmanian Devils wrestling over a bitch in heat. The bottle is crushed beneath you; you reach for a shard to slash the other guy’s throat and then weep and fumblingly try to mash the bottle back together, that precious five cents…
Continue reading
Wild Kingdom
14 SepFucking flies all over me, in my house. And ants who come in seeking water. It’s a hundred and eight degrees and I’ve left some chicken bones in the trash and instantaneously dozens of flies appear; swirling around the kitchen like that witch woman’s planetary machine in THE DARK CRYSTAL. What the fuck are those things called. Something-ary. Anyway, like one of those things. Throw away the chicken and immediately, flies. Their life cycle is so short– born, maggot, fly, fuck, shit die. Do they even eat as adults, or do they just look for a place to lay eggs. They’re dying of natural causes now and the chicken bones have only been in there for three days. I am forced to contemplate the fleeting nature of life. Fucking flies.
Born, baby, eat, adult, fuck, shit, die. In the span of geological time our lives are three days long; we’re born in a trash can eating a chicken bone, we fuck and make a baby once or twice if we’re lucky, and we fucking die glued to the window, trying to get out into the sun. We just want to die outside. Continue reading
Art Tuesday: Cities of Ref Splooge (NSFW)
11 SepSomeone was talking about “Cities of Refuge,” apparently an old Hebrew tradition where if you killed someone and sought sanctuary in certain towns, vengeance seekers couldn’t come get you. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 