According to this article from the BBC, PETA is pushing forth a case to argue that whales have a constitutional right to be free from enslavement.
To put this another way, there are apparently multiple people in the world who were told some variation of the following: please give us a lot of money, we're trying to put together an ironclad case to get whales their long-denied constitutional right of freedom.
These same people heard this notion and thought some variation of "this is the best shot we've ever had of getting whales (and hopefully then all animals) recognized as being just like people. I'm totally convinced this is not a waste of my money."
And for all of our whale readers:
beeeeeeyooooo. beeeeeyyyyyyyy. beeeerrrrmmmmmmmmm. drooooooo. drooooooobeeeeeee. beeeeeemmammammammmammamm.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes-Benz
I'm a car guy. At least, I think I am. See, ever since I was able to walk I've loved cars. All kinds of cars. Supercars made of lust itself all the way down to the ignominy so perfectly embodied in late 70s toyota corollas. So I've got the fascination and focus part down, but not that last and most critical step: possession. And that's 9/10ths of the law. Am I only 1/10th of a car guy?
Yes, I own a car. But you can really only describe it as "a car". A car-shaped thing on car-like wheels that moves very carishly. Perfectly adequate in all respects. It's a 10 year old Jetta and I haven't done anything to make it go faster. It doesn't give me great joy to drive. When I'm cruising around town in it, nobody gives it a second glance, and if it were beige, I would actually be invisible.
And that bothers me. I always hear from older adults who in their teens and 20s had all sorts of cool or generally impractical cars. People buy cars like mine because of boring virtues like reliability (hah) or safety. Mine is the sort of car bought by people whose most clear common denominator is that they need a car. And I like to think of myself as having a little more identity than "consumer of goods". Why didn't I, a person who actually cared about cars, own something with a little more panache?
So I investigated. I searched the internet for cars I could find fascinating. Cars I could see myself driving. Cars that grabbed my attention. Not that I'm jaded, but it takes a lot to pique my interest in a car. It can be old, but it has to be a certain kind of old, has to be made by a certain company in certain countries... the list of acceptable cars has more exceptions, and exceptions-to-those-exceptions than law school.
And that leads me to the parking lot of a Vons at high noon. I stared in awe at the car I hoped would be mine: a 1967 Mercedes 250se in light blue. Not the fastest, nor the most badass but it is a car with a certain amount of presence. When it shows up, you take notice without it having to make a scene. It draws attention to itself in a very refined manner. At least this is how I played it out in my mind. I would appear in the car and heads would turn. Not a spectacle, but something that the adoring public was viewing because deep down, they wanted to see who was arriving in such a classy yet accessible to the masses car. The car that would make people regret not buying a car like mine.
This was of course a fantasy, and I had to deal with the all-too-literal nuts and bolts of the matter. I was obligated to investigate the car further before I decided whether I wanted to buy. For context, I bought my Jetta on accident, sight unseen. Even a cursory glance before money exchanged hands is a step up from that, but car ownership is a serious responsibility. I wanted to be sure, to know in my heart of hearts that this was the one.
My desire to thoroughly scope out the car met the problem that it's not as though I actually knew how to investigate a car. It looked like the photos from online, it had the correct number of wheels and seats, and the owner drove it here under its own power. In the back of my mind, inspection over, get on with the driving. But I circled the car slowly, checking things, poking buttons and going 'hmmm'. I cranked the windows down and back up again. I adjusted the seats a little bit. I poked a button on the dash, which might have been the sunroof. I stared at the trunk. "You know, a lot of people have checked under the carpet for rust." he said. Ooh, that's a good idea. I'll do that too. It was metal; always a good thing to have a car made out of.
From the photos, I knew it wasn't going to be a perfect car, but... boy was it not perfect. Rips in the seat bottom, a crack on the dash, a trunk full of spare parts -- a gesture which is at once thoughtful and terrifying. It's like showing up to a campground where they give you your own bear trap "just in case." It was a 45 year old car that looked like a 45 year old car.
But there was a strange attraction to it. The interior smelt of rich though sadly non-corinthian leather. I stared down the long hood, down to that famous three pointed star that seemed to be acres away, the way a king looks out from his balcony over all the lands he owns. I know now why dictators love these cars so much. It's not a large car, but you feel like you're somehow so far removed from the outside world. The accident would happen somewhere far off in the distance, and you would remain unaffected.
But I had to drive the car too. I stared down at the gear-OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT THING? There was a P, some numbers, an R... none of this in any logical fashion. I was told it was an automatic transmission, but I had no idea that one could look like that. The owner offered to drive me around first because there was a... small trick to driving the car.
Oh dear.
The car would not idle properly, and gas had to be maintained to drive away from stoplights, stop signs... any time the car would come to a complete halt. Coming to a complete halt will happen literally hundreds of times on any of LA's numerous freeways, so this was the reddest of red flags. But maybe it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. If I could ride a unicycle, I was certain I could also learn this little trick.
The journey started with a magnificent, Wagnerian BRUMMMM. This was a lump of 1960s Teutonic iron, and it was not ashamed to sing loudly. Wind in my hair, being ferried around in the sort of car I wanted to be seen in, I was having the time of my life. The conversation turned to some of the issues with the car, the transmission's recent redo firing off another warning light in my head. The more we talked, the more I saw that dream slip away. Parts bills, the high cost of gas, and safety are all things that I should think about, albeit begrudgingly.
"would you like to try driving it?"
Would I ever. This was the moment I'd been waiting for. Maybe the ride would be as effortless as I'd hoped, and that driving the car, even with its little quirk would win me over. Maybe deep down this was a driver's car, the joy to drive that I'd imagined existed in the world.I slipped behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. Dammit, if this was going to be my car, I was going to enjoy it.
The steering wheel was a thin hard rim, and as I turned it, I felt... nothing. It had as much connection to the road as the steering wheel on a cozy coupe. There was what I would call a dangerous amount of play in the wheel. The gas was very sensitive, and a minute twitch of the foot would send the engine racing. Thankfully, I did all this experimenting with the car safely in park. I tried to keep the revs up, the gauges difficult to read and therefore functionally useless. I looked behind me, checking for cars. The mirror was the size of a canary and had a reddish splotch that tinted the teensy sliver of the world behind me. Come on, Nick. Drive the damn thing. Get out there and live the experience you've always wanted to.
Try as I might to muster up the courage and be that classy rogue I somehow fancied myself, I could not drive the car. I could not even bring myself to venture out into the essentially empty road. That was the final nail in the coffin, my dream of owning such a car now legally deceased and buried under a shady tree somewhere.
It did not need to be said that I did not want to go through with the purchase. I said it anyways, I needed to say something to validate that this was, at least to someone out there a desirable vehicle. Not for me. The harsh reality was sitting before me in the parking lot. This was not the car I had hoped for.
I can take some comfort in knowing that owning this car wasn't going to be another "what if". I had thought sweet dreams of parking it proudly; of a photo of me on the hood of the car, aviator shades on, looking like someone far cooler than me; of getting nods of appreciation from men driving mercedes of a similar vintage. These were the pleasant, but impossible dreams, and not the painful dreams that would remain as such because of my own failing to follow through on things I had felt strongly about.
But as he drove away, an elegant body mated to the V6 burble - a figure as open and shameless as lady godiva compared to the din of the lesser cars, I couldn't help thinking "You know... that could've been me"
Yes, I own a car. But you can really only describe it as "a car". A car-shaped thing on car-like wheels that moves very carishly. Perfectly adequate in all respects. It's a 10 year old Jetta and I haven't done anything to make it go faster. It doesn't give me great joy to drive. When I'm cruising around town in it, nobody gives it a second glance, and if it were beige, I would actually be invisible.
And that bothers me. I always hear from older adults who in their teens and 20s had all sorts of cool or generally impractical cars. People buy cars like mine because of boring virtues like reliability (hah) or safety. Mine is the sort of car bought by people whose most clear common denominator is that they need a car. And I like to think of myself as having a little more identity than "consumer of goods". Why didn't I, a person who actually cared about cars, own something with a little more panache?
So I investigated. I searched the internet for cars I could find fascinating. Cars I could see myself driving. Cars that grabbed my attention. Not that I'm jaded, but it takes a lot to pique my interest in a car. It can be old, but it has to be a certain kind of old, has to be made by a certain company in certain countries... the list of acceptable cars has more exceptions, and exceptions-to-those-exceptions than law school.
And that leads me to the parking lot of a Vons at high noon. I stared in awe at the car I hoped would be mine: a 1967 Mercedes 250se in light blue. Not the fastest, nor the most badass but it is a car with a certain amount of presence. When it shows up, you take notice without it having to make a scene. It draws attention to itself in a very refined manner. At least this is how I played it out in my mind. I would appear in the car and heads would turn. Not a spectacle, but something that the adoring public was viewing because deep down, they wanted to see who was arriving in such a classy yet accessible to the masses car. The car that would make people regret not buying a car like mine.
This was of course a fantasy, and I had to deal with the all-too-literal nuts and bolts of the matter. I was obligated to investigate the car further before I decided whether I wanted to buy. For context, I bought my Jetta on accident, sight unseen. Even a cursory glance before money exchanged hands is a step up from that, but car ownership is a serious responsibility. I wanted to be sure, to know in my heart of hearts that this was the one.
My desire to thoroughly scope out the car met the problem that it's not as though I actually knew how to investigate a car. It looked like the photos from online, it had the correct number of wheels and seats, and the owner drove it here under its own power. In the back of my mind, inspection over, get on with the driving. But I circled the car slowly, checking things, poking buttons and going 'hmmm'. I cranked the windows down and back up again. I adjusted the seats a little bit. I poked a button on the dash, which might have been the sunroof. I stared at the trunk. "You know, a lot of people have checked under the carpet for rust." he said. Ooh, that's a good idea. I'll do that too. It was metal; always a good thing to have a car made out of.
From the photos, I knew it wasn't going to be a perfect car, but... boy was it not perfect. Rips in the seat bottom, a crack on the dash, a trunk full of spare parts -- a gesture which is at once thoughtful and terrifying. It's like showing up to a campground where they give you your own bear trap "just in case." It was a 45 year old car that looked like a 45 year old car.
But there was a strange attraction to it. The interior smelt of rich though sadly non-corinthian leather. I stared down the long hood, down to that famous three pointed star that seemed to be acres away, the way a king looks out from his balcony over all the lands he owns. I know now why dictators love these cars so much. It's not a large car, but you feel like you're somehow so far removed from the outside world. The accident would happen somewhere far off in the distance, and you would remain unaffected.
But I had to drive the car too. I stared down at the gear-OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT THING? There was a P, some numbers, an R... none of this in any logical fashion. I was told it was an automatic transmission, but I had no idea that one could look like that. The owner offered to drive me around first because there was a... small trick to driving the car.
Oh dear.
The car would not idle properly, and gas had to be maintained to drive away from stoplights, stop signs... any time the car would come to a complete halt. Coming to a complete halt will happen literally hundreds of times on any of LA's numerous freeways, so this was the reddest of red flags. But maybe it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. If I could ride a unicycle, I was certain I could also learn this little trick.
The journey started with a magnificent, Wagnerian BRUMMMM. This was a lump of 1960s Teutonic iron, and it was not ashamed to sing loudly. Wind in my hair, being ferried around in the sort of car I wanted to be seen in, I was having the time of my life. The conversation turned to some of the issues with the car, the transmission's recent redo firing off another warning light in my head. The more we talked, the more I saw that dream slip away. Parts bills, the high cost of gas, and safety are all things that I should think about, albeit begrudgingly.
"would you like to try driving it?"
Would I ever. This was the moment I'd been waiting for. Maybe the ride would be as effortless as I'd hoped, and that driving the car, even with its little quirk would win me over. Maybe deep down this was a driver's car, the joy to drive that I'd imagined existed in the world.I slipped behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. Dammit, if this was going to be my car, I was going to enjoy it.
The steering wheel was a thin hard rim, and as I turned it, I felt... nothing. It had as much connection to the road as the steering wheel on a cozy coupe. There was what I would call a dangerous amount of play in the wheel. The gas was very sensitive, and a minute twitch of the foot would send the engine racing. Thankfully, I did all this experimenting with the car safely in park. I tried to keep the revs up, the gauges difficult to read and therefore functionally useless. I looked behind me, checking for cars. The mirror was the size of a canary and had a reddish splotch that tinted the teensy sliver of the world behind me. Come on, Nick. Drive the damn thing. Get out there and live the experience you've always wanted to.
Try as I might to muster up the courage and be that classy rogue I somehow fancied myself, I could not drive the car. I could not even bring myself to venture out into the essentially empty road. That was the final nail in the coffin, my dream of owning such a car now legally deceased and buried under a shady tree somewhere.
It did not need to be said that I did not want to go through with the purchase. I said it anyways, I needed to say something to validate that this was, at least to someone out there a desirable vehicle. Not for me. The harsh reality was sitting before me in the parking lot. This was not the car I had hoped for.
I can take some comfort in knowing that owning this car wasn't going to be another "what if". I had thought sweet dreams of parking it proudly; of a photo of me on the hood of the car, aviator shades on, looking like someone far cooler than me; of getting nods of appreciation from men driving mercedes of a similar vintage. These were the pleasant, but impossible dreams, and not the painful dreams that would remain as such because of my own failing to follow through on things I had felt strongly about.
But as he drove away, an elegant body mated to the V6 burble - a figure as open and shameless as lady godiva compared to the din of the lesser cars, I couldn't help thinking "You know... that could've been me"
Friday, February 3, 2012
Allegedly Snoop Dogg's favorite drink
So my friend Bill works at a recording studio, doing bitchwork for whoever shows up that day. This being Hollywood, some big names drop in from time to time, and the D-O-Double G is no exception.
After some time in the studio breakroom, or wherever Snoop was offered snacks, Bill noticed the following items had been consumed: Apple juice and Patrón. Could it be that Gin and Juice just isn't good enough? Is this a combination that actually tastes good? Well, I was determined to find out and so with my friend Bill in tow, a-shopping I did go. Whereupon I learned that Patron is expensive and I'm unwilling to part with that much money in the name of tequila science.
Cheaper stuff in hand, we decided on the following ratio: 1 shot tequila, rest of the glass apple juice. It didn't fizz or turn funny colors or give off any weird odors, so that's the scary part over. Only one thing left to do; find a suitable Snoop Dogg lyric to turn into a toast and down the hatch it goes.
It's surprising that this combination works, and it works damn well. No real overpowering tequila hit, just a cinnamon, spicy kick right near the end that adulterates the drink and makes everything juuust fine.
Of course, you can never order this drink at a bar. People will look at you like you're crazy. I don't even know if bars have apple juice. I mean, I get stares for tequila and tonic, and that's something GQ told me to order if I want to be classy. So you will always be my guilty pleasure, tequila and apple juice. You don't roll off the tongue quite as well as gin and juice, but gin tastes like you're drinking trees and I don't like that.
After some time in the studio breakroom, or wherever Snoop was offered snacks, Bill noticed the following items had been consumed: Apple juice and Patrón. Could it be that Gin and Juice just isn't good enough? Is this a combination that actually tastes good? Well, I was determined to find out and so with my friend Bill in tow, a-shopping I did go. Whereupon I learned that Patron is expensive and I'm unwilling to part with that much money in the name of tequila science.
Cheaper stuff in hand, we decided on the following ratio: 1 shot tequila, rest of the glass apple juice. It didn't fizz or turn funny colors or give off any weird odors, so that's the scary part over. Only one thing left to do; find a suitable Snoop Dogg lyric to turn into a toast and down the hatch it goes.
It's surprising that this combination works, and it works damn well. No real overpowering tequila hit, just a cinnamon, spicy kick right near the end that adulterates the drink and makes everything juuust fine.
Of course, you can never order this drink at a bar. People will look at you like you're crazy. I don't even know if bars have apple juice. I mean, I get stares for tequila and tonic, and that's something GQ told me to order if I want to be classy. So you will always be my guilty pleasure, tequila and apple juice. You don't roll off the tongue quite as well as gin and juice, but gin tastes like you're drinking trees and I don't like that.
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