The answer to non-questions is now yes.
This directive, from the departmental noncompartmentalism committee,
should reduce the backlog from the protocol department.
In the event that deliberations merit a reversal of the above directive, it should not be assumed that an opposite protocol (i.e. the answer to non-questions being
"no")will be implemented. Rather, in the event that a non-question is
not asked, various forms of silence will be considered appropriate, as outlined
in previous directives.
Employees should review the silence protocols, so as to avoid using a form of
silence that has not been approved by the appropriate committee.
Authorities in this sector are vigilant.
Thank You
samedi, mai 07, 2005
mercredi, avril 06, 2005
MexiCorp.
Open Letter from the desk of MexiCorp CEO David M. Black:
The Third World has been swirling around the bowl for half a century now. The time has come to either save it--and clean up the mess--or flush it down. Considering their debt, their abject lack of anything resembling technology, and the unwashed ignorance their proletariat, many have predicted the fall and utter ruin of third world nations--giving up to despair, conceeding defeat.
Not so at MexiCorp.
A dynamic conglomerate of venture capitalists and corporate partners has banded together to purchase the struggling nations, beginning with the closest: Mexico. Absorbing their debt and assuming cotrol of all their infrastructure, such as it is, MexiCorp and its shareholders will become the sole proprietors of the nation, transforming it from a faltering political entity into a corporate dynamo. MexiCorp will also become the caretaker of the rich cultural texture of this abused principality, and will retain the most marketable aspects of their history and traditions within the brand structure and graphic identity of the operation.
The former citizens of Mexico will recieve unanimous immediate preliminary status as employees of the corporation, with attendant benefits. All will then be subject to a performance review. Sadly, it is not feasable to retain all employees. Those deemed redundant or feckless will be given a severance package and two weeks notice. If they wish to list MexiCorp on their resume as they seek opportunities elsewhere, MexiCorp will be happy to provide a positive reference.
Given the sheer scope of corporate land holdings, we foresee the necessary relocation of several employees to areas of the operation deemed more cost effective. Those who do not wish to relocate can trade percentages of their 401K for property rights in locations deemed suitable by the board.
The corporate headquarters will be moved from Mexico City to Puerto Vallarta, where there is ample hotel space and more hygienic recreation for the executive body, which will be flying in from sundry American cities with great regularity.
During the first three months directly following the takeover/buyout, MexiCorp will be closed for repurposing. At the completion of this process, tourists will again be welcomed as part of the "MexiCorp Welcomes YOU" advertising junket.
There is still time to invest in this exciting venture. Obtain a prospectus at our current headquarters in Atlanta Georgia, or visit our website, mexicorp.biz.
Excelsior!
David Black
The Third World has been swirling around the bowl for half a century now. The time has come to either save it--and clean up the mess--or flush it down. Considering their debt, their abject lack of anything resembling technology, and the unwashed ignorance their proletariat, many have predicted the fall and utter ruin of third world nations--giving up to despair, conceeding defeat.
Not so at MexiCorp.
A dynamic conglomerate of venture capitalists and corporate partners has banded together to purchase the struggling nations, beginning with the closest: Mexico. Absorbing their debt and assuming cotrol of all their infrastructure, such as it is, MexiCorp and its shareholders will become the sole proprietors of the nation, transforming it from a faltering political entity into a corporate dynamo. MexiCorp will also become the caretaker of the rich cultural texture of this abused principality, and will retain the most marketable aspects of their history and traditions within the brand structure and graphic identity of the operation.
The former citizens of Mexico will recieve unanimous immediate preliminary status as employees of the corporation, with attendant benefits. All will then be subject to a performance review. Sadly, it is not feasable to retain all employees. Those deemed redundant or feckless will be given a severance package and two weeks notice. If they wish to list MexiCorp on their resume as they seek opportunities elsewhere, MexiCorp will be happy to provide a positive reference.
Given the sheer scope of corporate land holdings, we foresee the necessary relocation of several employees to areas of the operation deemed more cost effective. Those who do not wish to relocate can trade percentages of their 401K for property rights in locations deemed suitable by the board.
The corporate headquarters will be moved from Mexico City to Puerto Vallarta, where there is ample hotel space and more hygienic recreation for the executive body, which will be flying in from sundry American cities with great regularity.
During the first three months directly following the takeover/buyout, MexiCorp will be closed for repurposing. At the completion of this process, tourists will again be welcomed as part of the "MexiCorp Welcomes YOU" advertising junket.
There is still time to invest in this exciting venture. Obtain a prospectus at our current headquarters in Atlanta Georgia, or visit our website, mexicorp.biz.
Excelsior!
David Black
mardi, avril 05, 2005
partisans and idealogues
I am in love with partisans and idealogues. They make me feel smart. I used to admire anyone with the stones to choose up sides. But both sides have become so thoroughly and equally ridiculous--the alienation is now delicious. The middle of the road is just as ugly, and non partisans were once relegated there. But the hot, fetid, rancorous and ignorant breath expelled by both sides now has the effect of billowing up the balloon of the observer. Breathing the purer air, one sees the abject foolishness of modern partisanship. All of it.
Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh are the same person. Ever seen them in a picture together?
Partisans on both sides have sucked the comedy out of the process. Leftist comedy is merely propaganda in a pitiful disguise. Rightists are rarely funny outside their little circles. And the aforementioned rancorous, fetid, ignorant breath from both sides obtrudes real laughter. So there you are. Go there at your peril. The Onion pulls it off. But they have been at it for a century.
Even Poetry suffers: in the Holier-than-Thou area of the world where poetry readings and the like are likely to occur, one begins to wonder how delightfully politically charged the scene is going to be before it implodes. This exceeds politics now. This is a poetic misgiving. If people are going to use this venue to propound their politicality, then it is a desecration of poetry that I have no interest in. Orpheus did not charm the trees into uprooting themselves by expressing his love or hatred for any political figure or matter.
In short: POLITICAL POETRY IS NOT POETRY. IT IS FECAL MATTER. And I'd rather flush it down than clean if from my ears.
It would take too long to formulate a full exposition, but I should clarify that I fear no opinion, and revel in the earnest expression of a well founded one. But poetry being sacred, we must ensure that the practioners thereof are pure in heart. Assuming eloquence, a lady with the tribute to the fighting boys, whether she leaned to the right or left, has a place. Greenday's American Idiot is compelling. It's a delicate issue, to be sure. Art is what the artist says it is. Poetry embraces all of life. But the poetic impetus is absolutely opposed to the political modus. Mixing them destroys one or the other, and it is usually the poetry that dies. Much of what is out there is interesting. Maybe even worth a listening. But it is decidedly antipoetical.
People must have and express opinions. The process is dynamic, necessary. Even beautiful. But the majority of today's entrants in the "Arena of Ideas" are so unqualified as to make the entire exchange ridiculous. I like subversive, but only when it is substantive. Let ideas be lived, and lived in, rather than ranted. That's where Morrissey lost me. He used to be a poet. He described. He took a deep feeling or an event and put it in a poetic context that the listener had to decipher, but was beautiful even if one didn't get it. Now he simply pontificates.
Emily observed:
Tell all the truth--but tell it slant
Poet types might generally lean, in their views, to the left. But true poets, in their poetry, lean ONLY toward poetry. In this sense, poets, and poets only, are to be forgiven for channeling thoughts through narrow banks.
A similar focus, when brought to bear in the form of partisanship, makes a mind like a car with the tires deflated on one side or the other. A passenger in such a car only wants out. Onlookers would be wise to give it a wide berth.
I am now officially bereft of sass. Time to put on the pants.
Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh are the same person. Ever seen them in a picture together?
Partisans on both sides have sucked the comedy out of the process. Leftist comedy is merely propaganda in a pitiful disguise. Rightists are rarely funny outside their little circles. And the aforementioned rancorous, fetid, ignorant breath from both sides obtrudes real laughter. So there you are. Go there at your peril. The Onion pulls it off. But they have been at it for a century.
Even Poetry suffers: in the Holier-than-Thou area of the world where poetry readings and the like are likely to occur, one begins to wonder how delightfully politically charged the scene is going to be before it implodes. This exceeds politics now. This is a poetic misgiving. If people are going to use this venue to propound their politicality, then it is a desecration of poetry that I have no interest in. Orpheus did not charm the trees into uprooting themselves by expressing his love or hatred for any political figure or matter.
In short: POLITICAL POETRY IS NOT POETRY. IT IS FECAL MATTER. And I'd rather flush it down than clean if from my ears.
It would take too long to formulate a full exposition, but I should clarify that I fear no opinion, and revel in the earnest expression of a well founded one. But poetry being sacred, we must ensure that the practioners thereof are pure in heart. Assuming eloquence, a lady with the tribute to the fighting boys, whether she leaned to the right or left, has a place. Greenday's American Idiot is compelling. It's a delicate issue, to be sure. Art is what the artist says it is. Poetry embraces all of life. But the poetic impetus is absolutely opposed to the political modus. Mixing them destroys one or the other, and it is usually the poetry that dies. Much of what is out there is interesting. Maybe even worth a listening. But it is decidedly antipoetical.
People must have and express opinions. The process is dynamic, necessary. Even beautiful. But the majority of today's entrants in the "Arena of Ideas" are so unqualified as to make the entire exchange ridiculous. I like subversive, but only when it is substantive. Let ideas be lived, and lived in, rather than ranted. That's where Morrissey lost me. He used to be a poet. He described. He took a deep feeling or an event and put it in a poetic context that the listener had to decipher, but was beautiful even if one didn't get it. Now he simply pontificates.
Emily observed:
Tell all the truth--but tell it slant
Poet types might generally lean, in their views, to the left. But true poets, in their poetry, lean ONLY toward poetry. In this sense, poets, and poets only, are to be forgiven for channeling thoughts through narrow banks.
A similar focus, when brought to bear in the form of partisanship, makes a mind like a car with the tires deflated on one side or the other. A passenger in such a car only wants out. Onlookers would be wise to give it a wide berth.
I am now officially bereft of sass. Time to put on the pants.
mardi, mars 29, 2005
it is time
It is time to tell the story of the women's pants.
It starts with a political movement, which is a good deal like a bowel movement, minus the satisfaction. It was called "NOT ONE DAMN DIME DAY." It came to me by e-mail. It was supposed to cripple the economy, which, apparently, is the only way to bring innocent Iraqis back to life. It might even bring back the Saddam Hussein magical mystery tour. I had to at least consider it.
Not one damn dime. Underground, baby. They had me at "not."
Most of the planning was easy. Whereas I live a contemplative, almost monastic life, stopping the simple spending was, well, simple. But I'm nothing if not thorough. Not one dime, they said. And they meant it.
Not one damn dime for credit cards, which I payed off so as not to accrue interest on the 20th. Hope you all did the same. And the mortgage--more interest. Payed that off as well, knowing there was a movement behind me doing likewise. Called PG&E, told them to shut off my power for the day. But they left me uncertain as to whether or not they could honor my request. And the PCWA. (Water isn't free!) They said, "just don't use it." Which made sense, but took all the wind out of the symbolism. Or the symbolism out of the wind. Or both. Still, I was on a roll. This was not going to be some empty gesture. I asked the IRS if they would kindly hold off on taxing me for the paycheck I was to receive by direct deposit on the 20th, but they would have none of it.
So I decided to forget it. I'm an all or nothing kind of guy. If I can't go all the way with something, then never mind. I went to work Thursday wishing that futility was more convenient.
But then something magical happened: Women's Pants. I had discovered this really great pair of pants by Dickies. A delicious cut. Very sexy. I purchased them straightway and took them home. But as I tried them on, I realized: My ass looks way hot in these pants. Too hot. I had to wonder what was up. I noticed there were no back pockets. Only when my brain at length gave up on figuring out how people can live in a world of pocketless pants did I realize my error. Without further thought, I lamented the loss of the pants, and decided to give them to my hot wife.
Thursday morning, I was down about not being able to participate in the protest. I was envying all those who were somehow able to live up to the high ideals of mass forwarded e-mail activism. The pants seemed to speak to me: "If sexy clothes can't cheer you up, nothing can." So I decided to wear them. Caution to the wind. Total freedom. A little protest of my own. Why should the ladies get all the great gear? So I put them on, and went to work--feeling sassy, even though I KNEW that all my beloved brother and sister protesters where skipping work that day, so as not to enable or necessitate the exchange of ONE DAMN DIME.
Work was blah blah blah as usual.
The magic happened on the way home.
I stopped for a treat. (All the compliments I got on the pants had made me a little hungry.) I put it on the counter and reached for my wallet. But there was no wallet. There was not even a pocket wherein to place a wallet. Only a perfectly cradled and lusciously framed buttock. The irony hit me right away. Here I was, thumbing my nose at the protest, forced to participate in it by my own escapism. My participation was minor, but the solidarity I felt with really unhappy people all over the country surged in my veins. This was not a day to go down quietly. Our voices would be heard.
On any other day I might have simply lied to the clerk and said I forgot my wallet.
But not this day.
I thought of all the money he had taken in from all the fat cats and war mongers that had come through the 7-11. I looked him in the eye, and said, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the store to hear:
"Sorry. I can't make this purchase. Not today. You see, I don't have my wallet." I turned and lifted my shirt, showing him my pocketless rear. "THESE ARE WOMEN'S PANTS! THEY DON'T HAVE POCKETS!"
I left that store with my head held high, feeling--no, KNOWING--
I made a difference.
It starts with a political movement, which is a good deal like a bowel movement, minus the satisfaction. It was called "NOT ONE DAMN DIME DAY." It came to me by e-mail. It was supposed to cripple the economy, which, apparently, is the only way to bring innocent Iraqis back to life. It might even bring back the Saddam Hussein magical mystery tour. I had to at least consider it.
Not one damn dime. Underground, baby. They had me at "not."
Most of the planning was easy. Whereas I live a contemplative, almost monastic life, stopping the simple spending was, well, simple. But I'm nothing if not thorough. Not one dime, they said. And they meant it.
Not one damn dime for credit cards, which I payed off so as not to accrue interest on the 20th. Hope you all did the same. And the mortgage--more interest. Payed that off as well, knowing there was a movement behind me doing likewise. Called PG&E, told them to shut off my power for the day. But they left me uncertain as to whether or not they could honor my request. And the PCWA. (Water isn't free!) They said, "just don't use it." Which made sense, but took all the wind out of the symbolism. Or the symbolism out of the wind. Or both. Still, I was on a roll. This was not going to be some empty gesture. I asked the IRS if they would kindly hold off on taxing me for the paycheck I was to receive by direct deposit on the 20th, but they would have none of it.
So I decided to forget it. I'm an all or nothing kind of guy. If I can't go all the way with something, then never mind. I went to work Thursday wishing that futility was more convenient.
But then something magical happened: Women's Pants. I had discovered this really great pair of pants by Dickies. A delicious cut. Very sexy. I purchased them straightway and took them home. But as I tried them on, I realized: My ass looks way hot in these pants. Too hot. I had to wonder what was up. I noticed there were no back pockets. Only when my brain at length gave up on figuring out how people can live in a world of pocketless pants did I realize my error. Without further thought, I lamented the loss of the pants, and decided to give them to my hot wife.
Thursday morning, I was down about not being able to participate in the protest. I was envying all those who were somehow able to live up to the high ideals of mass forwarded e-mail activism. The pants seemed to speak to me: "If sexy clothes can't cheer you up, nothing can." So I decided to wear them. Caution to the wind. Total freedom. A little protest of my own. Why should the ladies get all the great gear? So I put them on, and went to work--feeling sassy, even though I KNEW that all my beloved brother and sister protesters where skipping work that day, so as not to enable or necessitate the exchange of ONE DAMN DIME.
Work was blah blah blah as usual.
The magic happened on the way home.
I stopped for a treat. (All the compliments I got on the pants had made me a little hungry.) I put it on the counter and reached for my wallet. But there was no wallet. There was not even a pocket wherein to place a wallet. Only a perfectly cradled and lusciously framed buttock. The irony hit me right away. Here I was, thumbing my nose at the protest, forced to participate in it by my own escapism. My participation was minor, but the solidarity I felt with really unhappy people all over the country surged in my veins. This was not a day to go down quietly. Our voices would be heard.
On any other day I might have simply lied to the clerk and said I forgot my wallet.
But not this day.
I thought of all the money he had taken in from all the fat cats and war mongers that had come through the 7-11. I looked him in the eye, and said, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the store to hear:
"Sorry. I can't make this purchase. Not today. You see, I don't have my wallet." I turned and lifted my shirt, showing him my pocketless rear. "THESE ARE WOMEN'S PANTS! THEY DON'T HAVE POCKETS!"
I left that store with my head held high, feeling--no, KNOWING--
I made a difference.
samedi, mars 26, 2005
un
This is too daunting to tackle--everyone is doing it. I can't get my head around it.
I don't have a stream of conciousness.
I don't have a witty anecdote.
I don't have a desire to connect or to alleviate suffering by sharing.
Or a penchant for observation. Or insight.
None of it. An element of blank.
I have pretension (where there should be humility). And judgement (where there might have been forgiveness). Sleep deprivation (which is a much better rush than simple fatigue).
And years of wanting to tell it all slantways--that have culminated in a fond wish to not.
I really do think I'll just start posting my poetry from high school.
I don't have a stream of conciousness.
I don't have a witty anecdote.
I don't have a desire to connect or to alleviate suffering by sharing.
Or a penchant for observation. Or insight.
None of it. An element of blank.
I have pretension (where there should be humility). And judgement (where there might have been forgiveness). Sleep deprivation (which is a much better rush than simple fatigue).
And years of wanting to tell it all slantways--that have culminated in a fond wish to not.
I really do think I'll just start posting my poetry from high school.
samedi, février 12, 2005
Happy Birthday to Me
I, Scott Namanny, am the luckiest man ever to wear girl pants. Why? Because my friends are the most kind and generous people a fetishist such as myself could ever hope to know. Not only did they buy me an iPod, dancing girls, and A NEW CAR!!! for my birthday, but they each donated a kidney as well. The only thing that could make this day better would be tickets to this year's Burning Man.
Namaste,
Scott
Namaste,
Scott
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