“This must be Thursday,” said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer, “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.” – Douglas Adams

When roleplaying becomes identity theft (found via The Obscure Store):

David Dunn of Cleveland has become such a powerful warrior in the Internet fantasy game DragonRealms that others would pay thousands of dollars to assume his character, Bloodwrath. But shortly after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, a real-world impostor tried to kill him off and steal his online identity.

When life imitates art (found originally via memepool):

With his oval head, bulbous nose, shaggy eyebrows and tiny tuft of rod-straight black hair, the banana-yellow puppet is a favorite of children around the world. But this week, he shared space with terror lord Osama Bin Laden on posters wielded by anti-American extremists during violent protests in Bangladesh.

When getting from here to there becomes an unecessary ordeal (read at Abada Abada):

I have concluded that the only way Greyhound could possibly be safer now — as you have claimed in statements to the press — than before the regrettable bus crash is if you had been handing out knives to passengers in the months beforehand.

When boredom and no discernible talent collide. Diversions! diversions! my kingdom for diversions!

God, suggests Shannon Wheeler is an atheist. An amusing idea. I am reminded of a favorite Arthur C. Clarke short story, “The Nine Billion Names of God”. Go on, read it. I’ll wait. There is always a last time for everything.

Earlier this evening, I finished watching Trevor Nunn’s excellent and haunting adaptation of William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. The play has always been problematic. Laurence Olivier once called it “horrid, cruel, and one of the most popular plays in the whole collected volume of Shakespeare.” In college, as part of my Shakespeare course, my group had to argue that Shylock is in fact the tragic hero of the piece. I had my doubts before watching tonight, but it would be a wretchedly uncomfortable play, I think, were he not

“I want a life with a man who will ignore me and take me for granted and only pretend to be interested in me to get in my pants.” I now find myself watching Bedazzled for some reason. Brendan Fraser is goofy, and Elizabeth Hurley is…well, Elizabeth Hurley. I mean, c’mon, she’s dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl and she’s got that accent. I’m only human.

Well anyway, some more photographs, for what they’re worth.

Sometimes, I think when I am itching for a fight and want someone to argue with, I like to read the bad customer reviews of books that I enjoy over at Amazon.com. They all read roughly the same — full of grammatical errors, misspellings, angry rants and ill-informed opinions — and because I disagree with them, this makes me feel better about myself. I feel smarter, better read, and although I’m not, I can’t help but derive some amusement from the whole endeavor. Today, I share some of these comments about some of my favorite books. It might be interesting to see why other readers hated them so much.

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner: “Like being on a three-week drunken spree,” says a reader from Illinois. “Yuck.”

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald: “I dont like any of the characters,” writes a reader from Alabama. “They should all be destroyed b/c they are all awful people who would rather party than actually face their lives. I dont think that teachers should force students to read it b/c just because it happens to be by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Big whoop.”

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway: “I could not understand what the author was trying to convey,” says, a reader from USA, “except that all the characters in the book are drunks fighting over a woman on a picnic.”

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.: “O.K., I read it,” admits a reader from Maryland, “but I literally have no idea what this book is about. And I’m not reading it again to find out either. Apparently, people like almost anything in life, which is really a sad commentary on the human condition.”

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: “An ugly novel,” proclaims a reader from America, “not the less ugly for the undeniable talent with which it is executed. I do not recommend it.”

Pnin by Vladamir Nabokov: “In my opinion,” says a Michigan reader, “it should go out of print and stay there.”

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino: “I give this book a big ol’ ZZZZzzzzzz….” offers a reader from New York City.

Leviathan by Paul Auster: “Mr. Auster’s probably a great writer,” concedes a reader from Georgia. “He just depresses me.”

A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving: “Ugh, if burning books weren’t frowned upon, guess which one would be roasting right now?” asks a reader from Toronto. “Go on, guess.”

Some photographs, no commentary. Nothing to say. Today, we have been promised brilliant sunshine and warm weather, perfect, they say, for an afternoon stroll. Perhaps I will take more pictures at lunch. Perhaps they will be better than these.