I was spending my Saturday evening looking through a local thrift shop for owl statues when I was overcome by a sudden technostalgia. I could not pull myself away from the abandoned and useless pieces of electronica past. One thing in particular demanded to be purchased. The ELECTRODEX PLUS.

This looks like it was Rolodex’s answer to the computer age. You can flip through screen using a wheel on the side, just like how you might flip through your rolodex. It allows you to keep a business card file, letters to write, reminder notes –that’s mine up above– a morning review and a monthly calander.

The calendar isn’t much good. The only date I am so far able to bring up on it is January 1989 and I doubt the Electrodex was Y-2K compatible. Also, some of the buttons are worn out. Like zero and A.

But I like the device. The wheels are fun to turn. I wish my computer had knobs and shit. It’s interesting to see how Rolodex attempted to adapt their interface to computing.  This weird mash-up between the office of the eighties and nineties gives it an unintentional Bladerunner aesthetic.

And it beeps. I like that.

Matt Kirkland has a fascinating page with pictures of stuffed toys and their robotic interiors. Some of these are pretty creepy. Each toy contains some nightmare version of itself. It’s cute –They think they’re people!

I knew it was going to happen. The people who brought us the smoking bans are now changing focus. “To what and who?” you might ask. “Isn’t obvious?” I would reply. “To your vices and you.” The WHO has developed a global strategy for “The War on Drink.”

And it’s based on their war on tobacco.

“Impossible,” I can hear you say. “It’d never happen. After all second hand smoke hurts people other than the smoker and drinking just hurts me.”

This is where I have to interrupt.

The science on second hand smoking has always been dodgey. It’s agenda driven. (I trust what anti-smoking groups have to say about it as much as I trust what big oil has to say about global warming.) But the results of second hand drinking are clear: Car accidents, fights, abuse, the list is endless.

Plus, talking to a drunk is as annoying as the smell of cigarettes.

Now that the puritans have laid the framework with second hand smoke, they’ll find it easier to use the same reasoning against alcohol. They’re already using it.

According to New Scientist, Ian Gilmore of, president of the UK’s Royal College of Physicians says: “The tipping point for banning smoking in public places was third party damage. Third party damage from alcohol is much greater, in terms of violence and the damage to unborn children, the first sexual experience and the percentage of unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases.”

The WHO plans to call for higher prices –more taxes– to protect the children who won’t be able to afford increased prices. Too bad children aren’t the only people without money. It will also protect the working classes from the solace of an after work pint and shot. I’m sure champagne will remain affordable to those who can afford it. Then the puritans want to move onto advertising bans and clampdowns on drunk driving.

They’re simply and openly applying their anti-tobacco strategy to alcohol. If you think it will end with higher prices and advertising bans, you’re out of your mind. These people will never stop. Every new solution will create a new problem. They banned smoking in pubs and restaurants and now they complain about butts littering the street. So they banned it there. Now they’re trying to ban it in people’s homes.

The same thing will play out with booze. First they’ll clamp down on people being drunk in the street and then they’ll complain that they’re all being noisy indoors. When they start drinking at home, then they’ll talk about the neighbors having rights and the poor abused children; adverts will feature a terrified wifes cowering in the corner while her drunken husband converts their home to a speakeasy. The cost to health care will be mentioned and everyone will forget that drunks pay for it too.

And it won’t even end with booze. It didn’t end with cocaine, opiates or pot, it didn’t stop with tobacco and it won’t stop with alcohol. These people need a hobby and they have one — they enjoy banning your hobbies. It makes them feel better than you. They will move into your bedroom, your wallet and everything else they find objectionable. You better watch the fuck out — these people object to anything fun.

When people talk about surveillance, they often mention “the chilling effect on dissent.” They should –but rarely– mention this when it comes to tobacco and alcohol bans. People often gather to drink and smoke and eat. These are the primary reasons humans gather. Laws like this only serve to divide people and a divided people are a conquered people.

Potheads act like they don’t smoke while a joint burns between their fingers. They complain about the health and societal effects of alcohol. Smokers act like they’re not intoxicated while that nicotine lights up their brain. Some fellow with scotch in one hand will use the other to wave away the second hand smoke from his face. None of them like Fatty. All act like their drug is superior to the other. We’re divided.

I even feel some grim satisfaction in watching the anti-smokers turn into anti-drinker. That’s what you motherfuckers get, I think. You invited the snake into the pub and now you’ll get bit too. But I have to fight this. You should too. Fat, drunk, high or smoking, our fight is the same fight.

We are all the common enemy of a bunch of meddling assholes. It’s time we realized that we too have a common enemy: Them. Not each other. Them.

I thought it may be interesting to take that political compass test. Sometimes I want to know what the thinks about me. This test measures not only left or right wing but authoritarianism versus libertarianism.

Here’s where some famous political leaders stand:

And here is where I am:

Hilary Clinton just won West Virgina. (The above clip is from her party with the people of that state.) It doesn’t even matter. At this point, her campaign reminds me an incident from a few years ago. I think her husband was still in power.

After some nightclubbing, I headed over to the Falafel shop with Amie. On the way a couple of big white guys, lots of muscles and shaved heads, obviously high on something cheap and chemical, tried to start a fight with me. I ignored them. These things happen. Sometimes you just keep walking.

While we were in the shop, I looked out the window and saw the same two guys kicking the shit out of some skinny little university hippie. Glasses, shaggy hair. Looked like some sort of humanities liberal. I had no doubt about who started the thing.

But, wow . . .

That kid must have been been stupid. These were not guys you try to take on. I don’t care how drunk you are, anyone should have that much sense. Sometimes you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes you fucking run. I doubt this guy did either.

And they were really laying into the stupid little shit. He was on the ground and they were kicking him in the head again and again. Then again. A few more times for good measure. A bunch of people were standing around watching it like a television show. The girlfriend was hysterical on the cellphone.

I’m stupid too. I ran out the shop and jumped in. Grabbed one of the guys and pushed him back. Amie, who has a big set of balls, grabbed the other. We’re holding them back, calming them down, telling them the guy has had enough. It’s over. I don’t care about someone getting beat up but I seriously figured these guys were going to kick him to death in front of a group of spectators.

Next thing I know, that fucking little guy is back on his feet, covered in blood. Listen up droogs, that red krovvy flowed like vino. I have no idea how he was standing. But, not only was he tottering on his hind legs, he actually tried to charge the guy I’m holding: “I’ll take you! I’ll gurgle-gurgley, gloop–”

I gave him a shove and said: “You lost. Fuck off.” Then to the hysterical girl. “Can someone get this guy the fuck outta here?” They load him into a minivan and take him back to the suburbs.

Then one of the big guys punched Amie in the head. I went after him, got him one in the face before I was suckered and ended up on the ground getting the boots. I don’t remember much after the first one. Maybe there was only one. I don’t know. I didn’t know who or where I was by the end of it.

All I knew when I came to was that cops were coming. That means it’s time for leaving.

One of my teeth isn’t right to this day. And my glasses? I started wearing them a few years after this night — when I became worried that my constant headaches indicated some brain damage. Imagine my relief when I found out it was just my eyes. Thought I was going out Stu Sutcliffe style.

Plus, I never got my fucking falafal.

And I’ve taken some fine beatings. Some worse ones than that for causes worse than that. You could even say this one was noble. You could say that. You’d be wrong.

I took that beating because two guys were drugged up assholes who like to fight. Because some fucking student engaged a situation he could not handle. And because spectators, with no knowledge of violence outside their televisions, think someone can be kicked in the head all night.

Well, Hilary Clinton reminds me of that bloodied-up guy. She’s done. It’s over. But she will not shut the fuck up and go away. She no longer cares who she drags into this mess. She’s not thinking clear and she has nothing left to lose. The only thing she’s standing on now is pride. And that’s impressive because it’s so fucking stupid.

But it’s still stupid. And stupid gets other people hurt.

She’s riling up resentment of white against black, man against woman, us against them. She doesn’t know how this will end nor does she care. She’s playing with the unpredictable. There could be consequences to her race baiting, sexism and war mongering. Real ones. And she won’t have to face any of them. She’s already lost.

It’s time for the spectators to step in and for Bill to put her in the minivan. Take her back to the suburbs. Who the fuck is she trying to fool anyway? She’s poor, white working class now? Does she even know the common people? Does she care? Of course not. I know these people and I don’t even care.

They’re fucking hard to care about. Mainly I want them to hurry up and buy their lottery tickets so the lineup can move and I can get my bag of chips. Seriously, how many lotto-tickets does one person need? It’s not like you’re going to win. But that’s beside the point.

Hilary — you lost. Now fuck off.

Just the other day, I was offered a bribe to post about cufflinks. I have a fairly strict policy about advertising on The Grumpy Owl. It has to be worth my while and it has to be for a decent product. These two things tie in because the bribe is typically in the form of the product. The offer from Cuff-Daddy Cufflinks was no exception. For a pair of cufflinks, they wanted a post. They’re getting one. And I’m getting two pairs.

It’s odd but my greed and laziness is my integrity’s best defense.  I can’t be bothered writing about products I don’t want.  And, at first, I wasn’t sure that I’d do this post. I didn’t see anything I liked enough to wear, let alone write about, on the front page of their site. Then I looked around and stumbled into these.

How could I refuse?

Aside from the crystal-eyed silver owls, I also liked the smiling fishbones. (I actually wrote about these a while ago. For free! Like a sucker!) There were quite a few other pairs that I liked, including the bullets, but I have it on good authority that someone is buying me these as belated birthday gift. Some of the others, I might pay for. Like a sucker!

Having looked through their site, I’d say Cuff-Daddy has a good selection. They’re not hamstrung by a theme. They basically carpet bomb the cufflink world. It’s not quite one stop shopping — nothing is– but it’s about as close as you can get. They offer novelty cufflinks, gold cufflinks and silver cufflinks. If I found something I like, you’re almost sure to find something you like.

If you can’t, they offer a style that you can personalize at home.

Some of their selection is, of course, not to my liking. This is, more or less, as it should be. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Cufflinks are about self-expression. They’re the only part of a suit that is properly permitted to speak directly to the person wearing it and not to the logic of the suit itself. I don’t like most people, it only stands to reason that I wouldn’t like most cufflinks.

But Cuff-Daddy does better than average.

Letter: Robots Taking US Jobs: Some letter to the editor. People like this drive me crazy. They always see a threat, never an opportunity.

Robots Serve Up Fiery Cocktails in San Francisco: Here’s some robots who want to take my job. They can have it.

Waiter Rant, Iron: But those iron men will need iron souls.

When the post-apocalypse gets here, we humans will only have one concern: Fashion.

It’s not enough to survive, we will also form tribes based on clothing. Rap music has taught me that in parts of California, where the post-apocalypse has already appeared, people are killed over wearing the wrong colors. If Toronto took things that seriously, we could really be a fashion capital.

But someone in Holland is finally taking post-apocalypse fashion seriously. Tim Smit has designed the “Urban Security Suit.” Doing away with the dated look of Mad Max, he had decided that post-apocalypse style need not be cobbled together out of old football equipment. It can be elegantly designed.

His suit is made from neoprene and body molded kevlar. There is a handy pocket for your gas mask — a definite do — and a handsome hood to help obscure your identity from anyone you may be killing, robbing or raping. Come the post-apocalypse, you’ll want to be seen — briefly — in this.

I dislike manufactured scent.

Fresh coffee, honest sweat and the tears of a kicked child; these are the sort of odors I enjoy. I dislike the stink that I routinely find in my shampoo. The smells that you can buy for their own sake are cloying and revolting. The people who wear them even more so. The only thing lower than a woman who wears too much perfume is a man who wears too much cologne.

There is nothing worse than some gelled up douchebag, dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned, blazer worn with jeans and jeans with dress shoes, stinking like a regency fop while strutting about the street in an alcohol-induced, sex-mad stupor. Colognes have an awful smell and men should not wear them. Men should smell like smoke, booze, leather and sweat. Like a drunken cowboy. Or a leather daddy.

If there is anything worse than a cologne-wearing man (I am not so bold as to suggest that there is) it would be the scented candle. They usually reek of fruit and often smell worse than the fecal stink they were designed to mask.

I cannot understand or sanction their recreational use.

Burning candles to relax in the bath is the sort of eccentricity one must occasionally tolerate from a woman. (It’s just the sort of stupid bullshit that makes them so lovable.) But a man has no business doing this. If you ever catch yourself sniffing candles at The Body Shop, you should hand in your testicles at the door. The Body Shop actually has a booth for that.

Having said all this, I must confess — I like the look of these Modern Alchemy Candles. “Speak Easy” promises to smell like gin, pipe tobacco and wood. Basically my living room. “Tincture of Winchester” is wood stock, 19th century lacquer and smoky gunpowder. And, if you fancy yourself as an intellectual, you could always go for “Ex Libris,” which is leather bound volumes of handmade paper and parchment.

They’re still scented candles but they beat the hell out of lavender. Anything would.

Sadly, the meat and bone that reacts to that name is staying on Earth. I put my name into this “Send Your Name to the Moon” thing. I’m a child. Maybe you are too. They give you a certificate you can print so that’s cool. Right? Anyone? C’mon . . . Your name on the moon!