How can something so destructive be so beautiful … check out the wonderful pictures the International Space Station captured of our new friend Isabel as she sneaks up to tour the Washington Monument. They just blow me away (sorry).

Doesn’t it look like it would be fun to go snowboarding on top of Isabel?

I think my favorite picture so far from all the hurricane hijinks is the one seen with this story. It moved on the wire while I was at work and instantly cracked me up. Then made me sad. Maybe I’ve just been a copy editor too long.

Never underestimate the illiteracy of Americans. Or their penchant for writing messages to forces of nature that can’t read.

Speaking of things most people don’t want in Washington, there was a great little piece in USA Today’s recent “Media Mix” column on Fox News once again showing its true colors. Christiane Amanpour was on CNBC talking about the fact that CNN “muzzled” itself during the war because it was intimidated as the Bush administration and Fox News created a “climate of fear and self-censorship.” The Fox spokeswoman replied: “Given the choice, it’s better to be viewed as a foot soldier for Bush than a spokeswoman for al-Qaeda.” Nothing but class.

Speaking of al-Qaeda, Mike Peters’ latest editorial cartoon is brilliant. I always wondered how terrorists funded their exploits.

Speaking of terrorists, there’s a very informative (and fun! it has a quiz) special section on the neocons at the Christian Science Monitor. (Thanks, voxpopgirl!)

It’s funny how when you’re super-ass grumpy and having a foul day at work things happen that make you smile and realize it all will be OK.

For instance, the news wire moves a shot of Paul Bremer making out with an Iraqi cleric … with Colin Powell visibly excited, watching the action. You know they were sitting around, doing shots, playing Truth or Dare when Colin clamored to his feet and said “Dudes, I totally dare you two to start making out in front of this AP photographer!” Bremer, who never turns down a dare, jumped up and yelled “Man, fuck you!” as Saeed, already hot and bothered, grabbed him and sent him into the throes of Islamic passion with a kiss the likes of which he’ll never feel again.

Or your 70-something-year-old editor calls you from the road to tell you that he heard on the radio that Ben just dumped J.Lo. I mean, what the hell? This guy, who is way cool in his own right, just stares at you blankly in news meetings when you talk about popular culture … and now he’s updating you on news that’s below your age level.

Or a shitty-ass R&B singer who nails underage girls and pees on them while videotaping it comes up with this brilliant quote: “Osama bin Laden is the only one who knows exactly what I’m going through.” Then, thinking he hasn’t hit intellectual bottom, proclaims: “I’m pregnant by music.” Within the week, bin Laden will release a tape to al-Jazeera in which he states: “Sure, I’ll kill thousands of innocents in order to teach a lesson to the infidels, but peeing on 12-year-olds … man, that’s frickin’ gross! I do believe I can fly, though.”

Or your friend who helps run the Asia bureau, who’s in the area for a mind-numbing management seminar in the backwoods of West Virginia, stops by so you can go grab “a beer” after deadline. Properly translated, this means three beers. Three very much-needed beers. Mmmmm, beer.

Once home, you put on some Johnny Cash on vinyl, which leads to some Clash (it’s a natural progression). And poking around, you remember why some songwriters are such ass-kicking music icons:

“Johnny Cash has always seemed larger than life to me. He is a true American hero, beloved the world over as much for his kindness and compassion and championing of the underdog as for the power of his art. He’s been my inspiration, my faithful friend, my champion — a constant oasis of unconditional love and support. His fiercely independent and free spirit, balanced with his love of family, children and his fellow man, will stand as a shining example of the best of what it means to be human. And he was damned funny, even in the darkest times.
I love you, John
In the cold and Holy darkness
You were always shining brighter than a star
God bless you, John
For the love and joy you’ve given
And the living inspiration that you are.”
– Kris Kristofferson

Shoot me in the head, run me over with a car, whatever it takes … the mental images I get from this story really are no way to start a groggy Sunday morning, trying to motivate myself to go to work. Please, Paris audience, do not snip anything.

The Chicago Sun-Times, I think, captures what Johnny Cash was all about. Mike Ness has been saying it onstage for years. I’m glad someone in the media got a clue.

Now you can have even more love in an elevator! I remember reading about lofty ideas for a space elevator a few years ago, probably in Wired, but now scientists are meeting in New Mexico to figure out how to pull it off. NASA’s even throwing in some cash. I’m sure eventually people will be able to buy rides on this new contraption … if they don’t have any “wrong” purchases on their records.

I know – this post is nothing but crap.

My yesterday was greatly improved by reading the news of a Pixies reunion in April. Knowing their history, I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but I will keep my hopes up. Why? Because the Pixies fucking rock.

My one and only Pixies concert was in the Fall of 1989 when they came to my campus. I was on the concert board doing hospitality, so I got to set up their dressing room and hang with them a bit. I brought a preview I wrote for the campus paper, a screed on how much the Pixies fucking rock. The band seemed to think it was neat. Kim gave me a giant hug. I had wood for days.

The show was a beautiful swirl of sweaty chaos both on and off the stage – bodies flying everywhere, Black Francis screaming like an ADD kid on crack while Kim smiled and rocked back and forth, seemingly making love to her bass while singing with a perpetual demented grin. All the guys up front had wood for days. They are one of the tightest bands I’ve ever seen live – they fed off each other’s energy and the Raaar! of the moment grew exponentially.

After the show the band wanted to hit a bar, so I took them to Chuck’s, an underground, dimly lit madhouse that would scare the crap out of any outsider but held the fierce dedication of us all. Kim did not go. Black Francis either was in a bad mood that night or is a cranky egomaniac, I couldn’t figure out which. Joey and David were super nice, though – I spent most of the night drinking with them while girls hit on Black.

It’s hard to explain how amazing the Pixies were at that time in history. There was no commercial alternative radio format – they didn’t sound like any other band out there (though many bands since have tried to sound like them). They were that brief moment of crossover, bringing the inspiring rage of punk rock bands most kids would never see into a sound and image that would pull them in. They petered out a bit toward the end, but their early stuff will rip your face off. Their fans are still die-hard and numerous. Their music still makes me want to jump around the room in a frenzied fit and scream a lot.

I don’t know if their reunion will capture their glory, but it can’t be as bad as other music coming out of Boston lately.