Last night I stabbed a man 20+ times in a dream.

It was in self-defense, and in defense of three kittens that I had charge of, but geez... The guy wouldn't die. He kept staggering forward, with some cocky remark dripping with his British accent, and I just kept jabbing the [pocket] knife in.

"Is that really the best you can do, little girl?" he'd say pulling my little yellow knife from his ribs and tripping toward me.

More than myself, I cared about these three kittens that had been abandoned. If I lose this fight and die, I thought to myself while ducking through alleys and gardens of turn of the century New York, he'll get the kittens - and that was an unendurable thought.

Finally, I had him on the ground of a road median. He was gasping and reaching out for his knife that had fallen just outside the length of his arm. I threw my knife at him in one last ditch effort to stop him and when I missed, I resorted to throwing some little green and red mines at him, which were lying conveniently by my feet (anyone who's ever played Worms Armageddon will know the ones I'm talking about... yeah, it was that odd of a dream.)

By the end of the dream, I had killed the evil British man, saved the kittens, arranged a secret meeting, and used a table top in unintended and yet fabulous ways... all around, a memory-worthy dream.

While passing through Much Music in a fit of television boredom the other day, I witnessed the collapse of Western society on a small scale.

The obligatory "it" girl veejay with short spiked hair was out on the street, talkin' to the people. She had with her two dye-blond teen girls, characteristically bouncy and high pitched.

"So we're about to show the newest video from Eminem," says "it" girl. "What do you guys think about Eminem? Do you like his music?"

{In unison} "Oh yeah. He's great."

"So what do you like about it?"

"Umm," responded one blankly, staring up into space (I kid you not). "Well, I don't know, it's just really good, and I like to listen to it."

"It" girl was surprisingly challenging. "What about his lyrics? Do you agree with the things he talks about in his songs?"

The two girls looked to each other as if they were in History Honors, trying to whisper answers across desks. Deer in headlights: an appropriate phrase. It was as though they were completely unaware of the concept of understanding and appreciating music with meaningful lyrics; this line of questioning seemed blasphemous.

"Well, umm, I don't know," replied one. "I guess I don't really like his lyrics. But I still think it's great music."

"Yeah!" added the other with a little bounce.

And with that, "it" girl cued the video... and true art collapsed.

I hit a bird today on the freeway.

The hood of a car traveling at 81 miles per hour can rip the wing of a bird clean off.

I saw it coming - from the left and flying downward as if it had nothing to lose and might as well fall into traffic - but I only saw it coming for a third of a second. At 81 miles per hour, a third of a second means less than nothing. And yet, despite my helplessness in the whole event, I felt devastatingly guilty for not preventing it.

{Yeah, I know it was "just a bird," but I don't care.}

I feel like death incarnate.

Well, maybe I don't feel that strongly about my guilt. I think more than anything it just shocked the image of mortality back into my mind, an image that was fading slightly after a few nights of nightmareless sleep. I watched it fall into the hood - a THWUMP - and then watched the pieces separate: my eyes jumping up from the flattened body that slid like rain water from the hood to the rear view mirror catching a single wing flying over the trunk and onto the road behind. I gasped, my hands flew to my mouth, and faster than I've ever experienced, a pang of morose-tinged guilt flooded my brain. I thought, how pointless that life might have been and what a violent, painful end to it all... Maybe we're all just falling birds.

Psychomusical mood of the moment:

For Squirrels - Under Smithville
"It's a little bit harder just to hold your hand, and round and round and round we go."

Harvey Danger - Terminal Annex
"I remain, as ever, intrigued but no more astounded."

Smashing Pumpkins - Geek USA
"If by chance or circumstance, we should fail, don't be so sad."

I feel used and dripped dry, left hanging on a line in the stagnant heat, soaking in the smell of dust in the air and losing all the water I ever had. I'm empty these days. Don't come looking for it here. I'm all mirage these days, no oasis.

Do you ever find that during the day ten, twenty, maybe even twenty-one insightful and intelligent thoughts slide through your mind, only to completely disappear the moment you sit down to record them?

I'm not saying that that's ever happened to me... But just think, what if it did?

{ironic pause for pseudo-introspection}

I can barely even fathom it.

His head exploded, and we all wondered, "Is this the price of thinking too much?" No one said it aloud. In fact, we sat in silence for quite some time, rolling the new knowledge between our collective fingers like some piece of intellectual molding clay. This society thing had bothered him for some time, though he never discussed it with us. He was one of those men that never admitted that he needed help, too proud to let anyone see his weakness. The truth was, though, that he always needed help. It was an awkward situation: us knowing full well about the weakness he clung to and him trying to cover it with the desparation of a man falling from a cliff.

At least this last weekend before my return to college doldrums has been exciting.

Last night, we invited over some little Spanish chick named Margarita and a couple of her Mexican friends from the Corona family. Everything was good. Laughter was had by all. Bean dip was even involved. But then Tequila showed up with a gang of his friends, and all Hell broke loose. Damn, they're a rowdy bunch. And I have no idea who invited them anyway.

We managed to keep most things under control (if that's what you want to call it), until the Russian guy weaseled his way in. I really didn't think that with a house full of party people that we should let Mr. Vodka in, but he did have one of my very good friends, Mr. Bull, with him. I figured, hey, any friend of good ol' Red's is a friend of mine, so in they came. I was unaware of this until last night, but apparently, the Russians have a silent war going on with the Hispanic community.

Yeah, the fighting got pretty furious, but I tried to ignore it and just keep everyone happy... I mean, I was feeling pretty damn good, so why shouldn't everyone else? In the end, the little shindig was a great success, and I have a feeling that Jenni and Tony and I will be seeing our multicultural friends again soon enough.

{cheese ball smile}

Well, it looks as though my comments server feels like constantly being busy. If, when you read this, the comments section below is functional and tells you to babble back, then nevermind - it wants to make a liar of me. Otherwise, and more probable, the malfunctioning enetation comment system needs a replacement. Perhaps I should begin the search for one.

Disclaimer: The following post, which contains personal musings on physical states of being and the near future, may cause boredom, drowsiness, and/or strong feelings of apathy. Proceed at your own risk.

Another semester rolls around, and am I ready?
The answer: a deafening no.

Well, that settles that.

I have yet to get books. I haven't even paid tuition yet, despite the fact that it was due yesterday. My procastinating tendencies... sigh.

My brain, to quote one of my new song obsessions, is superfried. Work has been disastrous. Every machine in the place has joined in the revolt against profit and normalcy. Commie bastards. [insert sarcastic smirk here]

Sleep is evasive - and my body despises all attempts to bestow rest upon it. I think it's time to try beating it into submission. Off to the battlefield I go.

Get your war on.

I look through these and laugh.
And then I get depressed.
And then I laugh again, because hey, when you're fucked, why not have a sense of humor about it?

Maybe it's the age difference, or maybe it's just that I have a dirty mind when no one else around me seems to, but today as I was leaving a doctor appointment, I stepped into an elevator to go down to the first floor. At the second floor a late 50s something woman came on and said, "Going down?" The other woman with me nodded "yes," and the newcomer, in a chipper voice with not a clue about the inuendo she was making, replied, "It's always good to go down."

And how.

Time: An empty 2:26 in an empty afternoon in the final days of my last true summer
Feeling: Like a toy that's been kicked under the bed, left for years in the dark with only the dust bunnies for company
Hoping: Inspiration will show up, and that maybe it'll bring some seven layer dip with it
Current bubbling thought: I can't shake last night's dream from my head. It was elaborate, vivid, terrifying, and most of all, I'm sure it had to have happened to someone else in a waking state... How unsettlingly disturbing.
Last food consumed: Two wholly unhealthy White Castle hamburgers, microwaved on high for 1 minute and 20 seconds
Wishing I had eaten: A tasty turkey sandwich and salad
Latest revelation: This will be my last completely free Wednesday in a few months. Not that Wednesdays are any more important or deserving of being free than any other weekday, but it's a sad thought either way, don't you think? I think so. I also think that I need to shut up and actually go somewhere; utilize this final free Wednesday rather than just thinking about it. Yes, that sounds lovely.

Wow.

Really. That's all I can say to this post.
(Moment of reverential silence)

What are they so afraid of?

Instead of learning about and reaching out to other cultures, the Christian mob continue to close their eyes and ears to the world, stretching an accusing finger to any and every dissenter. This is exactly why we find the world in a perpetual state of cyclical violence and intolerance to begin with. If we don't start learning more about each other, rather than covering our eyes and shouting, "Evil! Evil!" every time someone who doesn't look like us walks our way, mankind can forget any kind of peaceful ideal. Oh, I know that the average person can do little to stop the slaughter of countless innocents every time one world leader has a squabble with another. Even Congress looks a little helpless these days. But maybe, if we just took the time to educate ourselves, more of us would care enough to speak up.

Education, not more bombs, is the only way we'll all survive.
Can someone please tell that to these bigots?

Who else thinks that John Mayer is insultingly unoriginal and trite?
Let's see a show of hands.

The Hives. The Vines. The Strokes. The White Stripes.
And all four sound like bored, suburban ritalin kids who set up camp in their garage.

Don't get me wrong, this may be perfectly fine music. I mean, hell, it beats the crap that's on most corporate America radio now: Creed, Michelle Branch, Pink, anyone? And yet, there's still that part of me that can recognize pretentious elitism when I see it. This is coffee house, cat's eye glasses, and aren't-we-all-so-cool music. And that makes my skin crawl.

There's crap that poses as music, but there's also music that just poses.

Ever feel just completely off it?

I'm talking anxiously, edge-of-your-seat, silently listening for the sound of any other human voice, maybe even the sound of glass breaking down the hall, just for a bit of excitement?

Well, if you have, you might know where I am right now.

(Jenny continues to mouth these words out in her head in an accent dripping with her own brand of the Scottish tongue... Trainspotting, {and in heavier accent}, fucking brilliant)

Yeah. I'm there. And I'm not liking it a bit. I feel lonely, restless, tired, excited, angry, pensive, sad, and giddy all at the same time, and it's going to make my mind pop. For some ungodly reason, this inkling of an idea is slithering through my mind that if I go run out into the street completely topless - not a stitch of shirt nor bra - my mood might be alleviated.

Why?

No idea.
Hopefully I won't act on it.

Nothing is more painful than regret. I have to believe that it's one of the most unendurable human emotions. The real strength of it comes from the fact that no matter what you do, it remains by your side.

Well, according to Google, it looks as though I'm the person to come to for "free encantations and spells." Nice.

Hooray for pagans.

In completely unrelated news, I'm both physcially and mentally exhuasted and am clawing at the cliff's edge of emotional sanity. Work has been utterly horrendous this week. I don't care for it one bit, and retirement sounds quite lovely right about now... Now if only I were 65. Damn.

Bush vs. Women

Don't say I didn't warn you.
Bush was, is, and always will be a threat to the world.

The following link has nothing whatsoever to do with the subsequent rant, almost. And with that, bring it on.
Nobody here.


Ever think that maybe, just maybe, your entire existence is futile and pointless? Maybe we'll all just yell and shout and waste and kiss and lie and cheat and rot and die, and at the end of it all, we get stuffed into a hole in a satin-lined box to spend the rest of eternity in nothingness. Maybe, just maybe, we're all suffering and bickering for nothing. We'll all be dead in a universal blink of an eye, no, the slightest twitch of an eye and after all our pain and worry and effort, we'll mean nothing. Just think, 100 years from now: yes, you'll be dead, but maybe some couple generations descendent will still have your name written down somewhere. 200 years: who knows? Maybe the country you live in will have collapsed to the ground in some capitalist debacle of greed and mismanagement. 300 years, 400 years, a millennia or two? No one will remember you. Your corpse probably won't even have survived. And the world we work so hard on now may be handed off to an irked Mother Nature; Man bequeathing it to her in his will, signed by one hand, the other hand holding a nuke. Yeah, maybe, just maybe, nothing survives.

(Whew.)

How was that for defeatism?

(Woo! Jenny does a prancing dance of negativity! Woohoo!)

- Score -
Optimists, 7
Pessimists, Who cares?

"Is the problem with reality the fact that there's no background music?"

Sometimes I wonder why Tony can't just have a mundane day job. You know, maybe something in the paper sorting sector...

{Jenny sighs and ponders imponderables.}

I feel pretty helpless to change anything now.
I feel like I should be out there ruffling feathers. But
I feel like I'm shouting at walls. And
I feel like I'm losing all hope.

They say we should protest. The boomers want us out there on the streets, doing it like they did,
taking the tear gas, and fighting the system on the only front it knows.
Writing about revolutions won't make them happen. But

I feel unequal to the task at hand, and
I feel empty when I'm faced with walls.
I feel I've nothing to give and nothing to say that can change how
you feel.

So should I even try?

What I love about art criticism...

"To worship a goddess is easy, but to love a human -- especially one who offers no hint of reciprocation -- is far more work, and infinitely more thrilling."

Mary Elizabeth Williams paints Manet in a modern light: the original shock artist. Discover Manet's "Olympia."

God, I hate customer service.
The customer is usually wrong.

One day....

"Rise like lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number
Shake to earth your chains like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you
Ye are many, they are few!" -- Shelley

That is all for now. Over.

I read somewhere tonight that normal life is not profound. Okay, this seems easy enough and believable in almost every imaginable way.

But then I stopped and thought, "Maybe everyday life is profound. Maybe we only fail to see how meaningful every second is." It's a noble thought.

I took another swig of my Capri Sun and decided it was time for bed.

"It isn't pretty to think so, but I can't feign interest now...
I remain, as ever, intrigued but no more astounded."
Harvey Danger

The delicate balance of social interaction is tiring, and sometimes, I think, not worth the time. I value those relationships that don't need words or games or dances - just simple moments of silence and smiles. And everyday I grow more grateful for them.

"Bush is installing a government by fiat."

The problem with political indignation lies in the fact that, by it's very nature, it is liminal and marginalized. The happy, "normal" suburbanites of America want no part of things that will disrupt their automaton lives. So, who are we shouting to? Who do we turn to to listen?

Within my circle of family and friends, for instance, nearly every single person would rather watch three straight hours of sitcoms than to learn about the disgraceful state in which we find the American government. The blissful ignorant only block you out and cast you aside. Who can blame them, really? It's depressing to know the truth.

At some point, you have to wonder why the hell we even persevere? Why continue shouting at walls? Short of military coups (Revolutionary War style), how do you change an entrenched and ever more government-controlled state? With voting? (Yeah, we've seen how far that can get you.)

Sooner or later, something's going to give.
But I don't think it will be for the good.

They're cute. They're fluffly. And they'll make you think you're a chicken.
Beware... the HYPNOKITTIES!

"You're getting very very sleepy... Now feed me, damnit."

Nightmares. They're like near-death experiences: they may not be fun in progress, but afterwards, you can say that you've at least had some excitement. I've been sleeping with nightmarish bedfellows on a near-nightly basis for a couple of years now. They began with the classic (or what I would assume classic nightmares to be): being chased and killed. I've died so many times that I stopped counting.

-Stabbed
-Suffocated
-Execution as a war prisoner
-Crushed
-Shot
-Dropped
-ELEVATOR
-Set ablaze
-Eaten by wild animals
-Capital punishment

You name it; I've probably died from it. After a while, you get used to it you learn to live with it. In fact, when I go a few days without one, I feel deprived of my own brand of masochistic subconscious excitement. Go figure.

Things lately though have gotten out of hand. People are dropping like flies in my sleep. I'm talking about loved ones - friends and family - committing suicide, being executed and/or mangled, dying in accidents, and just plain dying for no reason in particular. I can deal with my own death at this point, but watching the people I care about being ripped from my life night after night is where I draw the line, damnit. My family lay in a hole in the backyard, their rotting corpses twisted around each other, and as I came back into the house and saw my sister's orphaned pets, the realization broke me. The night before, I had walked into my nightmare bathroom to see a cousin draped over the sink, wrists dripping, floor flooded with blood.

Oh no, it's not pretty. And I call for a stop to it right now.
So, whoever holds the controls for my psyche, I'd like to make a request. More bunnies, less death.

Thank you.

The Waiting For Godot Interactive Adventure
Existentialism at its finest.

Ever go searching for your own name online? It's slightly disturbing in a "whoa, that's weird" kind of way to think that someone's out there scampering around with your name.
My other self lives in Farmerville (I kid you not), Louisiana and sings in Music Cavalcades.

Hm. Well I guess that proves that names don't determine personality. {..Though the name page does tell me that I "enjoy being stroked verbally and physically." And, boy, is that ever dead on.}

I don't know...

I'm a jumper. I'm good at it. I see an array of all possible conclusions wobbling precariously on strand-thin podiums of knowledge, and I jump to the first one that pleases my fancy (or displeases, according to my mood). More often than not, everything begins crumbling beneath me before I've landed on both feet. From there, more jumps, successive falls, and piles of opinion rubble below me. And when innocently bystanding emotions get crushed beneath them...

But I just keep jumping.
Why?

Ever notice how some people, no matter how much you try to persuade them otherwise, cling to the notion that they are all-knowing? Must be an unfortunate genetic defect.

"The only thing I know is that I know nothing." - Plato

Until one is willing to admit that they are fallible, they will never truly know anything.

And now, it's time for a comic interlude. Enter...

Sinfest

"I'm riding high upon a deep depression."
Garbage

A new study has devised that people with low self-esteem are more resistant to things that might change their mood for the better. The researchers seem astounded by this finding, but I could have told them that long ago. The article mentions that those on the low rung of the confidence ladder seem to prefer sadness to an altered mood. "They also believe sadness is not something you get rid of and that you learn and grow from sadness."

Ahem.
Yep.

Why is that such a difficult concept for people to understand? True inspiration and experience can only come from suffering.
And don't even try to tell me otherwise. Nope, not listening. (covering ears) Laaa la la laaa laaa.

Time: For another fact by fact rundown of the moment
Feeling: Unwilling to work
Hearing: Zwan - The Spy Tra La La
Thinking: There must be a better way to obtain money than having to work for it.
Happy Recent Memory: Winning $20 on Megabucks at 2:00 AM. Not the multi-million dollar jackpot, but more than I had to begin with.
Expecting To Feel: Lonely tonight as Tony works until midnight
Wondering: Whether or not Jenni will be working all day too
Hating: Capitalism
Lyric: "I poured my heart out. It evaporated."
Video Moment: Weezer - Keep Fishin: "Good job, penguins!"
Plea: If you plan on going to a dry cleaner with only one person working there at the time, be courteous enough not to show up five minutes before closing with 18 pieces. It only makes the worker less likely to return anything they may find in your pockets.

And with that, I bid you good day.
Off with you.

Scottish accents are incredibly attractive... mmm.

I had no idea that the wolf was a member of the fish/shellfish family. Good thing I found this.

What baffles me is why a Portuguese man knowing barely any English and equipped with only a haphazard Portuguese to French to English method of translation would be compelled to write an English phrase book.

What's more unsettling is that it actually reads like an average American ninth grade essay.

"This letter is arrears.
It shall stay to the post. This pen are good for nothing." - Pedro Carolino

Wow... I've said that I don't really care to engage in the battle of the operating systems, but when someone makes a comment like this, I simply can't resist.

"But Macs have style, class, elegance and the best hardware and software available. Sure you can compute using a PC. And you can get to the store using an Edsel. But why not go in style?

By the way, did I tell you that people who buy Macs are more intelligent? It's true. You can find it on the Web." - David Saraceno

{shaking head in disbelief}

Okay, not to offend my friend Jenni or other VW owners out there, but I'll liken this line of thinking to that of new Beetle owners. "Sure, the cars have numerous design flaws and technical failures, but damnit, they're stylish. They're trendy. They make me feel cool. And that's all that matters, right?" Apparently Mac owners and VW owners are cut from the same cloth. [In fact, Jenni once suggested that every new Beetle should come with an iMac in the trunk. Heh. :) ]

It's all about the look, the advertising, the "I'm cool" lifestyle. Packaging matters. Read any Macintosh rave and you'll need to take a breather every now and then to recover from all the usage of the word "stylish." Don't believe me? Head over to Drew Hamlin's blog and slip the word "stylish" into your browser's Find box. You'll scroll through all the instances of it - most of them in posts beaming with trend-concerned slickness. Likewise, Saraceno's article whips out the "style" ointment and applies it liberally - not to mention "elegance" and "class."

Maybe the Mac OS is more stable and reliable than Windows (and Mac people make sure to point this out at some point or another), but what is never omitted is the idea that their computers are "stylish." "I'm cool. ...Oh yeah, and don't you forget it."

Look, I'm not saying that just because Mac owners are obsessed with superficialities that that makes the Macintosh operating system any better or worse than Windows or Linux. At this point, I don't even care about the technicalities of the operating system war. But I worry about a subculture that places such a heavy emphasis on appearance and in the next breath proclaims a superior intelligence. I just want the arrogant superficiality to stop. We have enough of that in the music world at the moment.

The biggest mistake you can make
is to take it for granted
that you'll wake up.

According to the all-knowing Spark tests, particularly the Death Test, my expiration date (with an 11% tie of it being caused by drowning or alcholism, beat out by a 36% risk of cancer) is:
November 7, 2049

To test for accuracy (you know, because one must verify the scientific foundations of one's internet death tests), I poked and prodded at two other tests and came up with these intriguing results:

The Death Clock decrees, "No more for you, Jenny" on:
August 26, 2047
The Life Clock apologetically whispers that I'll die on:
November 06, 2066

One thing's certain, Fall's not turning out to be the best season for me. Nope.

At least I won't miss out on the "accelerated environmental decline, increased religious conflict, and a wholesale plunge into virtual reality by citizens in the developed nations (to escape mounting stresses)."

Can I get a woohoo?
Oh yes. I'm feelin' it.

Donnie Darko.
This quiz tells me that of all the characters from the movie Donnie Darko, I'm most like the man himself.

Considering all these prophecies of schizophrenia swirling 'round me lately, it's no surprise and actually rather flattering.

On a related subject, there's something I need to address. Many of the people who wander here by way of lovely Google roadmaps are searching for Roberta Sparrow. I quoted her a while ago, and I'll do it again.

"Every living creature on Earth dies alone."

Do we reach resignation to this idea by the end of the movie? Is it true?

Donnie Darko is a thought-provoking movie, to put it in the most basic terms. There's enough material and symbolism there for a few weeks worth of discussion at least. And though I'm tempted, I simply can't wrench the energy out of my lazy self to write a full review of it. Instead, I'll just say watch it - and then think about it - and then watch it again. After all of that, there are others that have something to contribute. Contemplate these:

Cellar Door
Donnie Darko Fan Page
Salon.com Review
IMDB: Donnie Darko
And of course, the ever-enigmatic official site

Doorway Moments by Julie Winningham

"It is the lot in life of a dream vagrant, to wander the landscape of another's sleep because you cannot do so yourself; to wait in the doorways of their hopes, their fantasies and choose with or against them, desperate to bring your exile to an end."

For a long time, it was my way of easing myself into sleep. I'd curl up into bed, slide on the headphones, and just lullabye myself to sleep with the sound of whatever songs I happened to be obsessing over at the moment. But now... just like the headphones that have become tattered, foam dangling, the idea of sitting alone in bed - awake with music - has worn down and become ugly. I'm sitting here now with trusty winamp going (Foo Fighters - February Stars floating melancholically from the speakers), and it's only half as lonely as it was minutes ago with a discman and my pillows.

Still...

"We're pretty sure it was not meant as a derogatory term."

Do Sloppy Joes qualify as food? I only ask because that's what the whole shindig here today is centered around, and for some reason, I'm getting the feeling that a loose meat sandwich that shares its name with a sweater can't be real food.

And there stand Dubya and his cohorts, fingers together in spiny, mock steeples of doom, chuckling softly to themselves...
{-and the camera zooms in slowly-}

"Mmmhmmawahaha.... Yesss, an earth-shattering kaboom! Muahahahahaha!"

You know, since the rest of the country doesn't seem to care that the proposed Yucca Mountain nuclear repository in Nevada (a state without a single nuclear power plant, by the way, ahem) is both sitting on an active fault line and surrounded by dormant volcanoes. Must be nice to have control over the lives of apathetic milions.

{-and the camera pans out - insert stock footage of a mushroom cloud here-}

Powers Of Ten

Kind of makes you feel like a whole lot of nothing, doesn't it?

Democratic Congressman Howard Berman is a terrorist.

I'm not saying that he's a terrorist in the sense that the Al Qaeda are terrorists. No, he's much more insidious than that, and you won't be hearing about any wars against him on CNN any time soon. Howard Berman is a terrorist because his complete disregard for the Bill of Rights makes him a threat to freedom.

Berman is introducing a bill into Congress which proposes the eradication of what he calls "unintended legal constraints on technologies." In other words, he wants to give our dear old friends the Recording Industry Of America (and others) the ability to check out your computer to see if you've been doing anything they think is naughty. That's right. By eliminating "unintended legal constraints," otherwise known as the fourth amendment of the Constitution, Berman believes that we can crack down on these heinous criminals who share music online rather than paying $18.99 for a CD like any other self-respecting American.

Fuck Berman.

The Constitution ensures, and I quote:

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized."

"Uhh, what search and seizure? Umm, Bill of Rights? Whaaa? All I want to do is give the RIAA the chance to hack into people's computers and sift through their files..."

California voters elected Howard Berman.
It's no wonder America is becoming a police state.

Why aren't we trying to do anything about it?

{And as a little sidenote: Berman has received at least $186,891 from entertainment companies this election cycle. (Shock and amazement sweeps through the crowd.)}

{golf clap}

Well said, David Hoffman. Well said.