Drinking the Kool-Aid
Pronunciation: 'dri[ng]k-ing [th]& 'kül 'Ad
Origin: 1978 Jonestown massacre, where members of the People's Temple cult were killed after drinking poisoned Kool-Aid given to them and who were instructed to drink it by cult leader Jimmy Jones
Function: Colloquial expression
1. Subscribing completely to a notion or doctrine given by a higher authority (e.g.: a boss at work or a government)
2. Disregarding any thoughts that may run contrary to the doctrine, defending it despite all opposing arguments and attacking others who disagree with the doctrine
3. In most cases, believing the higher authority (e.g.: work boss or government) is mostly or completely blameless in any situation, attempting to convince others that the higher authority is correct and morally, ethically or legally correct
4. Attempting to convince others to accept the doctrine with great effort and passion, occasionally using guilt to coerce them into acceptance and subscription

And he's the married one.

The night began at a strip club. Well, not precisely. The night began with me leading Francisco all the way the wrong way down Sunset Boulevard until we finally realized we should've gone the other way. Then we went to a strip club. Then we went to see the concert at the Roxy (which kicked ass, Stroke9 is awesome). Then we went across the street to the Hustler superstore and perused porn. Pictures were taken at increasing intervals throughout the night, which I'm sure will show up here at some point soon, detailing the night's debauchery.

To his wife: I swear, it was all his idea. I was just along for the ride. Don't blame me for corrupting him, he was already there without my help.

However, at the end of a very long week and an extremely long day, I'm almost exhausted enough to fall asleep over the din caused by the party in our fucking rude neighbors' apartment next door. Yes, the same neighbors who blocked in our cars and made us late for work this morning. Yes, the same neighbors who've done it before and annoyed the hell out of us. Yes, the same neighbors who had screamingly loud sex with a high-pitched nasal-sounding woman last night (probably just one of them, not both). This is getting out of hand.

I moderate an Internet message board that my company runs, and there's also a couple of other message boards that I hit every day to see if there's any information out there that might be useful. I've found that on all these boards, there invariably are ten tons of morons who post the most idiotic, sometimes off-topic, useless and occasionally incomprehensible things, and they do so with great frequency and fixation. They annoy me. They usually annoy the other normal people who come to the boards looking for the nuggets of goodness that I seek as well.

So, my idea was to round up all these mass-posting Internet morons, put them through intense training and redirect their focus towards making them into an unstoppable army of killer message board freaks that we could use to conquer the world. Isn't that a brilliant idea? I honestly can't remember the last time I had an idea that good.

Debate has arisen over at Dooce's place about stealing web design or content. Here's the deal, folks: Copyright law says that as soon as any material hits the web, it's copywritten. It does not even have to have that © symbol on it, though that kind of makes doubly sure. The creator has to give you written consent in order for you to use it. And it's not "public domain" or "fair use" unless the creator has denounced ownership or has been dead for 70 years. And since Al Gore invented the Internet only a scant 40 or so years ago, I seriously doubt that any content on the 'Net has been created by someone who's been dead for more than 70 years.

I just don't understand people who lift others' work and try to pass it off as their own. Why even bother putting the time and effort in to present it to the public? It'd be like if you were hosting a dinner party, bought the food already prepared from a caterer, but then spent 3 more hours fussing over it to make it look original by putting a garnish on top of a few of the dishes.

I had a problem once where I discovered someone was copying and pasting text from my site and putting it directly into hers. She was beginning all the entries with a one-word link to my site (though it wasn't anything saying something to the effect of "Keith says"). I found her site through my referrals and saw that she didn't actually have any original content; she had reprinted paragraphs from other people's blogs and she also had an affinity for many, many Salon articles as well. I wrote her and very politely said that I appreciated the fact that she thought that my writing was good enough to post on her blog, but I wanted her to take it down because it was my intellectual property and I didn't appreciate the fact that she just lifted my work without permission. She did take everything down and ended up just shuttering her site (which I was fine with -- I mean, it must've been a lot of work copying all those blogs and articles every day), but she wrote me back and said that she didn't really feel she was doing anything wrong because she was "giving credit" with that one or two word link at the beginning of each entry.

I have an ongoing discussion with one of my co-workers regarding Nikka Costa. I love Nikka. I think she completely kicks ass, I think she's gorgeous, you know I have a particular weakness for women who can sing -- even more so if they can sing and play guitar (Sheryl Crow, I'm looking your way too) and I was thoroughly impressed with her when I saw her in concert last winter both in her performance and in the personality that she emanated from the stage. My co-worker, who was there when Nikka played our annual convention last year, said that Nikka is kind of dumb and trashy.

Then, this morning I see this interview with her (link courtesy of another guy in L.A. who works in the same kind of job as I do at a rival magazine who's also named Keith, imagine the coincidence of that), and I was about to triumphantly send the interview to my co-worker and say, "Look, she's coherent and intelligent and not at all trashy in this article!" Then I remembered that on a daily basis, part of both our jobs is to clean up people's quotes and writing to make them come off sounding intelligent and coherent and not at all trashy (unless that's what they want to sound like).

I'm starting to realize that in this town, finding out the reality behind the perception is a very valuable commodity. Get dirt on someone, and you gain power.

Speaking of dirt, what the hell is that brown stuff on his nose? Looks like Halloween came a bit late this year...

"Alcohol: the cause of -- and solution to -- all life's problems."
-- Homer J. Simpson

So, I've had a couple of strong margaritas and a pleasant dinner with a friend/co-worker who happens to be a hot chick. It's funny, because she denies it and she says that she just talks to people and people talk back, and that she thinks guys are nice to her because they're naturally nice, but secretly, I think we both know otherwise.

Today was spent waiting. Waiting for 2 hours to find out I didn't need new brakes. Waiting for an hour and a half to change the address on my driver's license. Waiting for an hour for them to give the material I needed to finish my workday (which was only supposed to be 5 hours and turned into 8 1/2 so I was late for my dinner date). But after a couple of strong margaritas, the level of suck just goes down.

I'll rate today as only 4 suck-points.

I've always wanted to come up with a unit of measurement so my name will be forever preserved in the annals of science, since they sometimes name the actual unit after the person who came up with it. Unfortunately, the only unit I've been able to measure is a quantitative figure of how much something sucks. It's not that I don't think the Council of Weights and Measurements won't accept it, it's that I don't think I'd want that forever associated with my name.

So, I have this deep loathing for Avril Lavigne and her lack of talent, despite the fact that she seems to be the most popular thing now since peanut butter and jelly combined in a single jar. Either way, I was more than a little annoyed to read that she got kicked out of a bar in New York last week after getting into a wedgie fight with Sum 41. Why? Because the girl's 17 years old. What the hell was she doing in a bar? If she can get into bars at 17, I should've been able to get into bars at 17. Just because she's famous, that shouldn't have any effect on her entry. Rules are rules, and if they can bend them for her, why can't they bend them for me?

When I was younger, I used to really be into astronomy. I mean, the mystery of the Great Outhere really intrigued me. It still does, though not to the point where I'll sit and stare at it for long periods of time.

One of the things that stuck with me was Orion. Orion is a constellation that comes out for us Northern Hemisphere residents only during the wintertime, and it's one of the constellations that I can still pick out. So it's kind of something that always reminds me of cold and winter and snow. I can remember growing up in the middle of nowhere, looking up into the clear, cold night sky and seeing thousands of stars and picking out Orion.

The dichotomy of walking outside in a t-shirt and looking up and seeing Orion is still blowing my mind. The harbinger of frigid temperatures has been defanged, and it's seriously screwing with my internal calendar.

I don't normally post forwards, but this one was too good to pass up...

Remember the book, Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus? Here's a prime example offered by an English professor from the University of Phoenix:

"Today, we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. As homework tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that paragraph and send another copy to me. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story and send it back also sending another copy to me. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and anything you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached."

The following was actually turned in by two of my English Students: Rebecca (last name deleted), and Gary (last name deleted).

FROM: Keith
TO: Jennifer Lopez
RE: Ben Affleck

Jennifer:

Main Entry: date
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): dat·ed; dat·ing
Date: 15th century
transitive senses
1. to make or have a date with
intransitive senses
2. to go out on usually romantic dates
- dat·able also date·able /'dA-t&-b&l/ adjective
- dat·er /'dA-t&r/ noun

Dating comes before marriage. Especially before three failed marriages, especially when you proclaim each person to be "the love of your life" just before each failed marriage. You're pretty much making a mockery of the institution of marriage.

Methinks "Jenny From The Block" has been around the block a few too many times.

The day couldn't have gotten off any worse. After 6 hours of sleep fraught with nightmares, I woke up with a splitting headache and the leftovers of food poisoning from last night's dinner. I trudged off to work, where I was informed that I was in the negative as far as vacation time goes and that I wouldn't be able to take any more days off until at least February. When I looked at the date to see how far away February really was, I realized that tomorrow is my mom's 55th birthday and since I'd totally lost track of time, I hadn't gotten her a present.

At the end of a long day, I trudged off to the gym. As Sir Edmund Hillary said regarding Mount Everest, "Because it's there." And I made up my mind. The day was going to suck no longer. I wanted to be like Mikey.

There's a girl at the gym who I've seen there for a long while, and I knew I recognized her from someplace. It clicked in a couple of weeks ago -- we used to work out at the same gym in Boston. I just never had the balls to go up and talk to her. I mean, it's a gym, and she probably gets hit on all the time. And if I was wrong, I'd come off looking like a schmuck. But I sucked it up tonight and went and talked to her. And I was right, we used to work out at the same gym back East. And as she was leaving the gym, she got a pen and paper from the front desk and left me her number. Score.

Because it's there, people. Because it's there. I should've done it sooner.

Each year, it seems the Christmas season starts a little earlier. I was under the impression that the season kind of officially started around Thanksgiving, but I'm looking at the calendar and Thanksgiving is still almost three weeks away. Can we at least see some turkey and pilgrim decorations before the lights and the Santas go up, please?

The area is already getting into the spirit. The local stores are putting up their window displays and their trees, the trees along the streets in my neighborhood are already lit up. All in all, it's a bit surreal to me because... well, it's still in the high 60s outside and I'm able to walk around comfortably in a t-shirt and sometimes a light sweatshirt. I'm not used to this. I'm used to cold and snow and wind that cuts through you -- that's what signifies the beginning of the Christmas season to me. At least they're trying -- yesterday, I spotted several faux-snow-and-frost-covered trees made out of plastic while the motley crew of L.A. and S.D. bloggers walked up and down the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica.

I was out in L.A. last year around Christmastime as well, and I was really surprised to see that the most garish display of lights was up on the local Mormon temple. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Christmas lights. I think they're very pretty, and I enjoy looking at them. But there's a point at which I think the line needs to be drawn. When the building is lit up with so many Christmas lights that people on the International Space Station could probably see it, then we have what's called "overkill." So I was especially surprised to see it on a religious institution rather than just some random house. I've always wondered, if people took the money that they spend on all these Christmas lights and the enormous electric bills that they're generating and saved it up and donated it to charity -- as is the Christmas spirit, of course, since the needy can't eat pretty lights (or shouldn't, at least) -- how much money would we have if we all collectively pooled our costs?

Eh. Don't listen to me. I've discovered the wonder of Tilex and have coated my shower in it to disinfect it. The fumes are making me woozy.

Even more than broccoli, cauliflower and snakes, I hate it when people try to tell me what I'm thinking, what my intentions are or what I mean. Unless you're running around in my head -- which I seriously doubt that anyone is -- you have no idea of any of that. It infuriates me when people do that.

Southern Californians breathed a sigh of relief this morning when they woke up to sunny skies and dry pavement. The storm front has moved through the Southland, and people are free to go about their normal business. Some, however, didn't immediately believe the circumstances. For that, we go to our intrepid correspondent, Trisha Takanawa. Trish?

Well, Steve, sprinkers are not like Santa Claus. They don't know if your lawn's been bad or good... or watered by Mother Nature, in this case. So, they turn on at a certain time because the clock tells them to. Unfortunately, many people's cars were still parked out on the street, and residents of many areas looked out their front windows this morning and saw their wet cars and wet sidewalks due to their hyperactive sprinkers. They assumed the worst and immediately retreated back into their homes in terror at the prospect of yet another day of rain.

Fortunately, their neighbors were able to coax them out of their apartments, condos and homes... an easy task, given that these terrified residents hadn't left their homes in two days, so they were running out of food.

All in all, L.A. has survived this latest debacle, and we're a little more prepared should it happen again. But not much. Steve?

Thanks, Trisha. In other news, a group of people were seen making asses of themselves along the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica last night. Witnesses report that they "got a little crazy with the digital cameras" as they roamed the street, meeting up first at Gotham Hall, eating at Crocodile Cafe where one man bared his nipples to the camera, while a female got everyone in their party envious by intimating that she had "been there, done that, got the hookup" no matter what the situation.

The group proceeded onto Yankee Doodles -- a selection based on another man's claim that the place housed something called "hot women," but it was later proved to have a scarcity of them -- where they consumed mass quantities of beer and other spirits and discussed hitting on waitresses while playing fiercely competitive games of air hockey. Their night ended at Gotham Hall after several more alcoholic beverages and more hitting on the waitress, which was mostly done by the unmarried men of the group.

The organizer of the gathering has deemed it a success, despite her difficulty in playing air hockey with heels on. After their rampage, the damage toll has been calculated at 2 dead, 183 injured.

Coming up next, we'll have Tom on Sports tell us what a "good ol' fashioned trouncing" means. Stay tuned.