So I was telling A. about how I was buying new curtains, because my puppy decided to rip the Venetian blinds off my windows. Here’s the text message conversation that followed:

A.: If it weren’t for the Venetians, it’d be curtains for all of us!

J-Ho: Yay. You get 6,003 points for that one.

J-Ho: Did I say 6,003? I meant 600,000,000,003.

A.: I do what I can.

J-Ho: It took me a few readings to realize exactly how funny that joke is. The answer is extremely.

J-Ho: Like, the pun works on its own, but then I picture the Venetians and how proud they are of their contribution to the world.

A.: Can you really picture a Venetian? I can’t.

J-Ho: They look like greasy gangsters, but they’re wearing togas and holding blinds up with one hand, and they’re giving the world the finger with the other.

A.: Can the leader be yelling, “Slats, motherfucker!”?

J-Ho: He has to be! I didn’t have audio in my vision before, but that’s absolutely what he’s yelling.

J-Ho: This is going on BC.

This is a new feature. If you can’t figure out how it works just by reading the title, you should probably kill yourself. Let’s get started.

Today, we get from ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus to the release date of Janet Jackson’s “Miss You Much” by way of kidney stones and the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. Learning is fun!

Epicurus was way ahead of his time. He thought the superstitious fearmongers in his midst ought to settle the fuck down and just try to live a decent, happy life, preferably by talking philosophy with friends (which, for him, included the women and slaves he admitted to his school). That’s right: This dude admitted women and slaves to his fancy school hundreds of years before people would fawn all over that guy Jesus for merely convincing a group of law-abiding citizens not to stone a woman to death.

Speaking of stones, it’s worth noting that our man Epicurus was this unrelentingly pleasant despite suffering from kidney stones — conveniently the next step on our journey through the intertubes. I cannot bring myself to discuss the particulars of kidney stones in this space, but do click the link if for some reason you want to learn more. All you really need to know is that sometimes medical professionals zap kidney stones with lasers, and that’s the page we’re headed to next.

Lasers kick ass. They can kill you or draw your attention to something. This is where the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office comes in.

Apparently the USP&TO told the physicist who first tried to patent the laser in 1959 to fuck off, but they were very happy to grant patent No. 5,443,036 — for a totally unheard-of, laser-pointer-utilizing “method of exercising a cat” — on August 22, 1995. This method now has its very own Wikipedia page, and it’s our last stop before the grand finale: August 22.

A great many things have happened on August 22, but historians agree that the most important was the 1989 release of Janet Jackson’s chart-topping single, “Miss You Much,” in which the singer demonstrates her love for an unnamed boy through dance and spelling.

We hope you’ve enjoyed this installment. If you have suggestions for the starting point of a future SDoW, post them in comments. I might take them if they’re any good.

When I first saw this story on CNN.com about two New Jersey convicts who escaped from prison by digging through a wall and concealing the hole with pictures of bikini-clad women, I remarked to A. that it was unforgivable that the writer didn’t mention “The Shawshank Redemption.” That’s since been fixed.

But there’s something even dumber going on in the new version of the story. It doesn’t have anything to do with style, though. It’s this line: “There is an $8,000 reward for the men’s capture.”

I imagine a conversation between the sheriff (an older, grizzled type) and a deputy (one of his green subordinates) that went something like this:

Deputy: We need to offer a reward for these guys. Ya know, to get the word out.

Sheriff: I agree. $8,000 for the both of ‘em.

D: That doesn’t seem like a whole lot, sir.

S: What, like you got $8,000 cash layin’ around?

D: No, I don’t, sir. But doesn’t it make sense to offer something like $50,000 or $100,000? Ya know, something that really lets the people know how serious this is?

S: This ain’t about the money.

D: But sir, these guys came up with an ingenious and daring escape plan, and they have long histories of violent crime. I just think we should offer an amount that stresses the importance of capturing them.

S: Son, times get rough, I trust my gut. And my gut’s sayin’ $8,000.

D: Could we at least round it up to $10,000? A one with a bunch of zeros after it looks pretty impressive, ya know?

S: Let me ask my gut. … Nope.

Here’s a transcript of a text message conversation I had with C-Ho last night. It started innocently, but things heated up pretty quickly:

C-Ho: Cars-for-xmas commercials and jewelry-for-xmas comercials should be banned.

J-Ho: Yeah. There should be a moratorium on selling anything over $1000 between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.

C-Ho: How uncreative, and how much of an asshole, do you have to be to buy your wife a Lexus for xmas?

J-Ho: Bitches. Love. Lexuses.

C-Ho: I gotcho back like chiroprac… tic.

J-Ho: Stuck on you like a dog got a black tick?

C-Ho: Correct. Keep your heart three stacks!

J-Ho: So much cash banks be runnin’ outta sacks?

C-Ho: Enough sacks to sell that crack from the back of my ‘Lac.

J-Ho: Car so hot I got rims on my rims. Bitches so fly been wit’ like fit-ty Kims.

C-Ho: If you fat I might take one for the team. But I gotta be drunk first, you know what I mean?

J-Ho: Posse roll 30 deep. Too much chedda to reap. Even got a lil midget to carry my grillz. Anotha wit’ a pad to tally my killz.

C-Ho: You win. You’re an awesome battle texter.

J-Ho: You give up, I jus’ keep on goin’. Like dem oompa-loompas don’t show no signs of slowin’.

C-Ho: Do you have Ghostface in the room? I’m impressed.

J-Ho: Ghostface use my cast-offs the last 10 years. My real shit so good would blow ya ears.

Dear Scott,

I realized as soon as I started school that I would never be able to read the New Yorker again. It’s not that they don’t print great stuff (including this from George Saunders, who is apparently the only person in the world other than me who didn’t think “Borat” was the most brilliant piece of cinematic satirical genius in the history of humanity) sometimes. Mostly, my problem with the NYer is that the entire magazine seems to be written, laid out, edited, printed, and shipped from a compound located several miles up its own ass. I can’t explain it any better than that. I think you know what I mean.

The point is, that review makes me angry for the same reason the rest of the magazine does. The most insulting part is not that SF-J makes a total douche of himself –

[Oh, and he does. Who gives a flying fuck what a guy who says things like “I’ve spent the past decade wondering why rock and roll, the most miscegenated popular music ever to have existed, underwent a racial re-sorting in the nineteen-nineties” with a straight face thinks about rock and roll (or anything else)?]

– it’s that he gets people who like Pavement for the right reasons (people who heard them and thought Finally, music that celebrates my suburban bookworm lameness and makes me feel smart and loved and maybe just a little bit cooler than I felt yesterday and so on) to defend themselves by invoking the same ironic detachment that allows douches like him to thrive! Don’t fall for it, Scott (or anyone else) — your sincerity is in fact sincere.

On my way home tonight, I saw a guy on the train who looked just like Scott. The resemblance was uncanny. I thought for sure Scott was at BC HQ 700 miles away, but I decided I would test the look-alike just to be certain. I was like, “How vital do you think organizations such as the Elephant 6 collective are in this era of digital media, especially considering the RIAA’s hostility toward artists and consumers alike?” He was like, “Excuse me?” I was like, “For what? Not being the real Scott?” Then I stole his iPod.

Two years ago, a few friends and I went on a post-graduation road trip that took us all over the country. I put together a DVD to commemorate our journey, but for some reason I left out one of the best parts. When I was at the latest BC Summit in Chicago a few weeks ago, Drew reminded me of that fact. So here’s the missing two minutes.

A little setup: On our way from Portland to Seattle, we stopped at the Vagabond Motel in South Tacoma, Washington, and it turned out to be one of the most vile places on Earth. This clip doesn’t do it justice (the light was terrible so it looks pretty washed-out), but it should give you a sense of what we had to deal with that night.

Ever have one of those days when your dog chews up one of your cigars, but you realize it was the cheap one and not the expensive Romeo y Julieta? You’re like, “Aw, that’s a total bummer, but not really, because it puts things into perspective. Kind of like that line about how sometimes a cigar is half-full.”

(A.: This is your cue for the follow-up line.)

j-ho: wow, linkin park are the worst
Scott: least interesting band ever
j-ho: they should have told them the wrong city
Scott: send them to the south pole and hope they don’t make it back
j-ho: yeah… who actually has to perform in Antarctica?
Scott: band of scientists
Scott: remember how al gore’s wife tried to kill rock n roll? maybe she is just gathering rock stars together so she can destroy them all at once
j-ho: you might be on to something
Scott: woke up with no power this morning
Scott: i thought it might be the big one ala the fire sale in “live free or die hard”
j-ho: why are the chili peppers wearing so many clothes?
j-ho: flea has pants on
Scott: he’s very old
j-ho: flea never wears pants
j-ho: and why does kiedis have those wrist guards on? the kind that bowlers wear.
Scott: hiding track marks
j-ho: sounds about right
j-ho: david holmes and karen duffy are hosting… woooowwwww
j-ho: they scraped the bottom of the former-VJ barrel for those two
Scott: It’s called “recycling.” dave holmes actually lost that be a vj contest to the spaz
j-ho: i wonder how jesse camp died
Scott: his scarf got caught the propeller of a small plain
j-ho: that sounds about right
Scott: “In late 2006, he was reportedly working at a Los Angeles-area pet supply store.”
Scott: wikipedia
j-ho: that’s noble
j-ho: pets gotta eat
j-ho: we should start a band with jesse
Scott: nah
Scott: pets gotta eat
j-ho: this rihanna song is one of those that when you hear it the first time, you’re like, “hey, as far as silly pop songs go, this one isn’t terrible. maybe this summer won’t be as awful as the rest.”
j-ho: then you hear it a couple more times and you realize it’s gonna be a crappy summer

Disclaimer: If you’ve ever read this blog or talked to me for more than five seconds, you probably know that nothing is sacred to me, so this might be pretty goddamn offensive to some of you.

—

So I was out all night with my friend Eric yesterday, and I ended up crashing at his place in East Hills, just outside of Grand Rapids. We got up around noon and went to Wolfgang’s, a diner on Lake Drive in Eastown. Around 12:30 people were lining up along Lake, and we realized the the dead prez was gonna be rolling through soon! Roads were closed, city and military police were out in force. So we did what anyone in our situation would do: We watched the procession and made snide comments.

Some things that actually came out of my mouth during the procession:

“This is the worst parade I’ve ever seen.”

“Why did he have to die in the winter? It’s fucking cold.”

“Why did he have to die the day after James Brown and totally steal JB’s thunder? James Brown did so much more for this country. He invented three of the greatest genres ever.”

“This is probably the only time a president can ride in a parade without having to worry about snipers.” (Re: People sitting on a rooftop across the street)

“Betty Ford looks like shit.”

—

Here are some pictures. You can blame the quality on Eric, because I was busy manning the vid.

Yep. All these people lined up to watch a hearse pass.

“Welcome home!!! Sorry you’re… dead.”

What did this poor MP do to deserve Gerald Ford funeral procession duty in Grand Rapids, Mich.?

Eric captured only the back of the hearse it would appear. I guess that’s the important half.