Giro means 'ride', not 'tasty meat sandwich.'

Things That I Hope Happen at the Republican Convention

- George W. Bush throws a kegger for Texas delegation.
- Dick Cheney openly embraces lesbian daughter, then openly takes pictures as she embraces her partner.
- Republicans against Drug War get George Sr. stoned.
- Colin Powell beats The Rock in a Steel Cage Grudge Match.
- Dick Cheney does one-armed push-ups on stage.
- Laura Bush wears an "I'm With Stupid" t-shirt whenever she is standing next to George W.
- Alan Keyes and Gary Bauer announce ultra-conservative coalition and then declare their love for each other.
- Iowa delegation arrested for streaking in South Philly.
- Dick Cheney runs up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art like Rocky and only has two heart attacks.
- George W.'s frat brothers dare him to eat six cheesesteaks from Chubby's in one sitting; he makes it to number five before puking.
- George Sr. and Barbara doing the lambada.
- Republican kingmakers tell everyone that George W.'s candidacy is really a joke and nominate John McCain instead.

Well...a man can dream, can't he?

Thursday, August 3, 2000
10:02 a.m.

Technology will not save us.

Fish tacos, on the other hand...

Monday, July 31, 2000
04:47 p.m.

If I Ran The World (Part 734)

Misuse of the apostrophe would be punished by public flogging with soba.

Monday, July 31, 2000
10:44 a.m.

Just what in God's name do you do when, after months of lathering out hate and bile against the Forces of Evil (whose ranks include the far left, the far right, the far out, and any other uptight motherfuckers who don't want me to breathe clean air, drink clean water, eat clean food, and have lots and lots and lots of good, dirty sex), you find there's nothing to hate? What do you do when you suddenly find yourself in a pretty good job, riding your bike to work, having lunch at your favorite restaurants, monkeying in the garden, playing with your friends, and seeing a quite cool woman?

Well, duh. You quit complaining and go enjoy it while it lasts, doofus.

Friday, July 28, 2000
11:28 a.m.


I don't usually write about politics, but something is slowly coming over me. Maybe it's because of the bike, or because of the time, or because I've known for a while that there is something fundamentally wrong with America. I don't write about it 'cause I don't like to preach. I also tend to connect my heart with my keyboard, which means that, while my intentions are good, they don't translate well into intelligible speech.

I've learned that I have to think before I fire off on something, especially when it comes to matters of government. The practice of governing a nation is one that should not have any emotional connections. I'm sorry, but this is code. This is a machine. This is engineering, and you have to be cold and calculating and get shit done. I'd never go near a bridge that was built because the designer said, "Well, the construction just felt right, y'know? Like, on a deep, fundamental level, I knew the way to put it together." Bullshit; run as far as you can from that bridge, 'cause it will not only collapse, it was probably built with radioactive materials and other poisons because they, y'know, "glowed pretty."


The same goes for government. We should be electing people who are going to represent us and protect us and do what's right. They should vote their conscience; their vote is supposed to be ours. Our political leaders should not be rock stars; they should be as boring and straight-laced as possible. That doesn't mean they should be uptight and conservative; they should know their constituencies and act accordingly. And I mean the whole constituency, not just the ones who line their campaign coffers.

I know what you're thinking. "What planet is Rakunas on?" This one, baby. The one where I can see that Gore and Bush are two heads on the same lumbering creature (and don't even try to talk me out of that idea, bucko. How are America's poor in the Clinton administration? How's that environment? How much harder are you working to get by? How safe do you feel? How much cash do those fuckers have in their coffers? And just how rock star is our President?), the one where cash runs the show. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong...this is not the nation I want for my children. This is not the world I want for them.

So, get ready. I will do my best to hook up my heart, mind, guts, and genitals to my writing over the next month and see what I come up with. Dammit, I want us all to matter. I want the cynics to eat their words. I want this all to work.

Wednesday, July 26, 2000
06:08 p.m.

Sitting up here, eleven stories off the ground, I remember what it's like being inside a Building. I get to see everything below me, and I can understand why height equals status. I can see the city go to sleep before me, see the way the sun goes down and the lights come up, how the darkness falls and the fog rolls in. I can hear the swirl of air and traffic outside the window, a rolling swish of sound that reminds me of the ocean. Everyone should have an office.

Monday, July 24, 2000
01:56 p.m.


O Deities of the Universe, you who bless us lucky sods with Good Fortune and Groovy Things, I thank you for the blessings of this weekend. I thank you for a clean house and fresh laundry. I thank you for good traffic as I delivered a friend off on his journey to Estonia. I thank you for roasted red pepper spread and pomegranate molasses and coconut milk and Austin Powers. I thank you for Venice sunshine and Incredibly Unhealthy Desserts. I thank you for laying some Good Shit on my hetero life mate. And, as always, I thank you for playing music at the Right Time.


Monday, July 24, 2000
01:43 p.m.

Green-Eyed Girl

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

This is one of the questions she asks my friends when they first meet. She asked me that on our fourth date as we sat in the darkened movie theater, listening to kids buzz about Pokemon.

She wants to own and run her own bookstore. I think she's probably going to do it, too, 'cause she's that smart and that ambitious and, frankly, no living human being will be able to fend her off when she says, "You know, I think you'll really like these books, too."

And I still have no idea. Really. Whether I want to keep being a mechanic or actually finish the stuff I start, writing-wise, I don't have a clue. But I'm looking forward to the next time I see her, when I can tell her, "Hey...guess what fun things I did today."

Thursday, July 20, 2000
11:00 a.m.

What do we have to talk about if all we do is complain? How much of our voice have we compromised because we're too busy being snarky and afraid to be anything else? How much bloody effort does it take to say, "My God, it's a beautiful day, and I'm really happy to be alive?"

If all you're going to do is stand around and put other people down and think that's going to make you a better human being, then up yours. Really. Life is too short and we're all too imperfect for us to waste time with your postures and poses. If you're better than I am, prove it. Make me a better burrito. Make me a better flower arrangement. Make me a better world. If all you're capable of is cutting someone down 'cause he doesn't shop at the same Pretentious Boutiques as you or read the same self-referential talk-out-your-ass drivel (aka modern literature) as you, then I have no time for you. Get out of my way, you sad-looking wanker. I got a world to change.

Besides, it's a beautiful goddamn day, and I'm not about to let you ruin it.

Monday, July 17, 2000
03:10 p.m.

And this is not to say that I don't love my father, 'cause I do. It's just disconcerting to see scenes from my own life acted out on television.

Actually, the more horrifying part of Revelation #2 is that if my father is Red Forman, then that makes me Eric Forman. Or, Kevin Arnold with Jack Arnold. Which, of course, means that I have either Donna or Winnie Cooper.

In theory, that is.

Thursday, July 13, 2000
06:33 p.m.

Two Horrifying Revelations Brought About By Watching FOX On A Monday Night

1) I actually like Titus. I really don't want to; it's yet another FOX show about a dysfunctional family. We all know that FOX's bread and butter is America's Fucked Up Side: shows like Cops and Married...With Children are what made FOX what it is today (yes, yes...I know. Same with The Simpsons). These shows wouldn't have spawned anywhere else but Rupert Merdoch's bastion of American broadcast integrity. That's what I keep telling myself. Yet, the writing is sharp, the timing is deft, and I actually care about the characters, as messed up as they are. What's next for me: pro wrestling?

2) Red Forman is based on my father. As is Jack Arnold. God help me.

Thursday, July 13, 2000
06:18 p.m.

That's Butch, Pal

At my feet sits a box that costs roughly forty thousand dollars.

It is matte black, with two dark blue foam triangles holding it upright. On top are two lights, one green, one blue. It hums like a sports car at the stop light, a gentle hum that speaks of a mighty engine at idle, a beast that, when revved up, will rip your face off before you even know it.

At my feet is a box that will cost less and be a hell of a lot cooler than whatever curvy, translucent compational fruit salad you might buy. It will take over your homes, seduce your daughters, enrapture your sons. You will fall to your feet in geek worship once it is out of the styrofoam and sitting in your entertainment totem.

At my feet is a PlayStation 2 development system, and I intend on doing something with it that my employers don't know about. I, Adam Romas Rakunas, am going to learn how to make this box sing.

Thursday, July 13, 2000
05:56 p.m.


My body rebels. No matter how much I will it to heal, to get better, to knock this shit off, it refuses to listen. My lungs rattle, my throat sounds like I've spent the past twenty years sucking down Pall Malls by the carton, I make sounds with my nose that would terrify lions. And this is only a cold! The doctor said so! The pretty med student said so! Go home! Drink fluids! Blow your nose!

We live in an age where disease is, for many, an inconvenience rather than a threat. I know that this hardy little virus I've picked up (and why can't you white corpuscles work harder? Do I not pay you enough? Do I not feed you enough fish tacos and oatmeal? What is with you immune cells?) will not kill me, that it is merely keeping me from doing things like biking and drinking and having sex, but these are all small pleasures, and I am a man who enjoys his small pleasures.

And I am so bloody sick and tired of blowing my nose every ten minutes. Out, out already!

Thursday, July 13, 2000
05:48 p.m.

Two Items

1) Despite all of the pain and suffering those damnable mutants caused me over the past six months, I'm really looking forward to seeing X-Men this weekend. Yes, I know they don't look like the comic book characters. Yes, Wolverine looks and sounds like a pansy. Yes, the directors could have shelled out a few more bucks for a better wig for Halle Berry. You know what? I could really care less. I think this movie is going to stomp all over everything else this summer, which means that more people are going to read comics, which means that more movie executives are going to decide to finance movies based on comics, which means that we'll be one step closer to seeing Spider Jerusalem raining down prose and bile on the big screen. Yes.

2) If Neal Stephanson can keep this up for the next 872 pages, I will have a new literary hero. We shall see.

Tuesday, July 11, 2000
11.10 am

A Small Request (Part II)

My, it certainly is a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everything's great.

Monday, July 10, 2000
2.13 p.m.

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