The Battlestar Galactica finale is finally here, on my DVR, and I’ll be watching it soon. It truly is a momentous occasion. It’s time for this entertainment/cat fashion blog to look back on what any rational person would have to describe as The Most Important Show of All Time, Forever. Let’s make some bold predictions about a finale everyone else has already seen.
Today is Ada Lovelace Day. She was the world’s first programmer. She was so good, she was able to write code for a machine that didn’t exist. Time passed. Actual, physical computers showed up around town. The U.S. Department of Defense got in on that action. They created a programming language and named it for her. It’s still around. It’s a pretty advanced language, but she was a pretty advanced person. Not only was she a versatile mathematician and pre-computer proto-programmer, but she was also one of those 19th century social types who brought together all sorts of intellectual stars from different fields. She knew Lord Byron (as he was her father), as well as Charles Babbage, of course, the “father of the computer,” and a good thing, too, because without any program to run, his computer would look pretty silly indeed. A big, theoretical paperweight, really.
All the bloggy people were supposed to write something in honor of another woman in technology for Ada Lovelace Day, but I only just found out about this event, and the day’s nearly over, so I’ll just link to this very old post about Marie Curie. It may be slightly inaccurate. Another time, I’ll write something nice about Caroline Herschel, a lesser known woman from the history of science, and one of my personal favorites.
I’m watching Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse, even though the subject matter doesn’t especially interest me, because I believe that, like nature, Whedon will out. So far, it’s decent, though unrelentingly grim, which is exactly how Battlestar Galactica started out, so that’s promising. The difference is that I’m looking for more funny from Dollhouse. I didn’t expect Battlestar to have a sense of humor, and was pleasantly surprised to see how amusing Baltar could be, whereas so far Dollhouse’s only comic character is the tech guy, who isn’t funny. It’s like watching Joss Whedon write with the humor lobe of his brain tied behind his back – gross, and it looks painful, too.
Because the whole personality-changing assassin with amnesia thing doesn’t do it for me right now, I’ve spent the past two episodes coming up with questions. The show is fairly self-explanatory – this recent episode featured the line, “Tabula rasa. Or, blank slate.” Thanks, self-translating character! – but I still wonder about the technical details of this Dollhouse program, and hope that all these questions will be cleared up in future episodes, before it’s cancelled:
I saw Coraline the other day, and although I was really excited at first, I found myself getting more and more irritated at the wasted opportunities. It’s a very pretty, dark, stop motion animated film, and I think it might be interesting to watch with the sound off, while doing something else, but the story isn’t worth the amount of time and attention lavished on the visuals. It’s very dull, obvious attempt at a moralistic fairy tale. I don’t need to be told again that children should appreciate their parents, and parents should pay attention to their children. Yes, I knew that. Only a very small child wouldn’t be able to predict every single thing that happens in this movie, and unfortunately, the movie is way too scary for small children. So we’re left with a bunch of animation fans who are just happy that someone took 500 still photos of a doll saying “Boo,” and the people who find Neil Gaiman’s story imaginative and entertaining. Turns out I don’t. I haven’t read the book, though. Maybe the movie just took the very dullest elements from it and left all the creative ones? That wasn’t a good strategy.
It really came down to the sound. As I said, I would have preferred to watch it idly, without sound. Most of the writing would be obscured that way, and the experience could become mysterious, even magical, as it was supposed to be. Also, I wouldn’t have had to hear Dakota Fanning as Coraline. I don’t have anything against her, but she’s not a voice actor. She made this weird, alienated little girl sound like just another precocious, soulless Hollywood child star. Did anyone look at the character model and say, “You know who would be perfect for this role? Dakota Fanning! That is, if Lindsay Lohan is still busy with Shakespeare in the Park.”
Coraline also has a magical black cat who happens to be voiced by a good voice actor, Keith David. The cat doesn’t talk at first, but it’s clearly very wise and important. I’m not kidding here: the very first time I saw the black cat, I said to myself, “That cat is going to talk,” and shortly thereafter, I said, “That cat will be a black person’s voice.” I was leaning towards a black grandmotherly voice, but it was Keith David instead. So we get a magical black cat which reveals itself to be a Magical Black Man. The cat turns out to be wise and helpful, just when all hope is lost! Who’d have thought? I think at some point, he also teaches Coraline how to dance.
And for the record, no, I didn’t see it in 3D. I hear that’s how it’s supposed to be viewed. Perhaps those other two dimensions are Goodness and Not Sucking. Too bad I saw the other version, rather than the one everyone loved so much. Oh well. Sometimes it’s hard being on the Internet, you know? The Internet likes what it likes, and there’s no use arguing with it. But for the record, Snakes on a Plane wasn’t such a good idea, either. Coraline is Snakes on a Plane with Dakota Fanning, but nothing good comes of it. There’s your blurb.
Rest in peace, John Updike. You could have written more, but you wrote enough. As an affectionate tribute, here’s a useful quiz to help you determine if you’re a John Updike character.
Are you a character in a John Updike novel? Take this quiz and know the truth!
[From the May, 1973 issue of Fictional Character Quizzes Monthly]
If you answered “Yes” to Question 12, you are an Updike character. You’ve just admitted it. Don’t feel bad that you never figured it out, because Updike characters are notoriously oblivious to their own motivations. You should, however, feel bad that by the end of your story, someone will die, everyone’s affairs will be revealed, and the rest of your life will become one long, relentless sad-stravaganza. Good luck with that.
I’m not attending the inauguration. I’ll be watching it on TV. Why is that, asks the rest of the country? Isn’t it very easy for you to go downtown and see President-elect Obama become Full-on-Finally-President-for-Real Obama, in person? Well, since you asked, no it isn’t, rest of the country. And it’s all your fault.
The city expects massive Metro delays, as well as major traffic jams from bridge and road closures, all because a bunch of people who do not live here have decided to come and block our view of this historic event. I’m just a little annoyed that someone from South Dakota is standing in my spot. I don’t care if you voted for him. Everyone knows that D.C.’s votes are the ones that put him over the top. We had dibs.
How would you like it if you went next door to welcome your new neighbor, and you couldn’t get in to see him because thousands of yokels from the state of Washington were milling about on the stoop? I could’ve used South Dakota again in this example, but I don’t really have anything against those decent, hardworking folks. Washington state, on the other hand, is cold biting off D.C. anyway, and should fall into the ocean immediately.
I’m so tired of being confused with stupid, lame Washington state. “Where are you from?” “Washington, D.C.” “Oh, I love Soundgarden!”
Oh, phoo, enough bitterness, this is starting to sound like a blog. I really don’t mind watching from home. It’s probably a better view, and I’ll be able to flip around if it starts to get boring. As for witnessing history, I’ve got that covered with my case of Obama-themed “Orange you glad for change” Cola. In case you didn’t know, all the grocery stores are selling Obama shirts, Obama party supplies, and even little Obama figurines by the checkout counters. I was lucky to get out of my last grocery run with just this soda. I’m drinking one right now!
Hm. That’s odd. This doesn’t seem to be alcoholic at all. They said it was for parties. I don’t understand.
It also doesn’t taste anything like Obama.
It tastes like orange. Not the fruit, the color. Know what I mean?
What’s this on the bottle? “Barack Obama does not endorse Jones Soda and Jones Soda isn’t affiliated with the President Elect.” Wait, really? You lied to me! I thought that drinking this stuff was like voting twice! I thought I had to buy this, as a patriot, and drink it all, despite all my diabetes.
I’m going to write to these Jones Soda people in … let’s see … Seattle. What state is that in, again? Hold on a min … Google’s still working on it …
Oh, hell no.
If you’ll excuse me, I have to go cross the country and break someone’s window.
On this week’s Top Chef, Melissa (she was raised on a horse farm!) was nearly sent home for a crostini with too much Gorgonzola. “All you can taste is the cheese,” the judges told her. “It overwhelms the other flavors.” This was probably true. These damn judges have impossibly high standards. They want every dish to be perfectly executed in limited time, to follow the spirit of some silly challenge, and to be some kind of imaginative new flavor combination. Often I can’t really tell what the dish is supposed to taste like, much less evaluate it based on the subtle twitches and tics playing across Tom Colicchio’s big, shiny face. But I think I see what Melissa (from the horse farm) was aiming for: fancy-ass diner food. And that’s a good thing.
All the ingredients work well together. You’ve got your
So, why do all these tastes work together? (You’re probably ahead of me on this one.) Because it’s a cheeseburger. Bun, cheese, beef, ketchup. Who doesn’t like a cheeseburger? Even Internet cats covet them. In fact, the hell with this crazy crostini thing, I’d just like a nice, well-cooked diner style cheeseburger right about now. That’s probably why I fixated on this minor dish in an old episode of Top Chef.
So, to put all this more succinctly,
Mos Def turns thirty-five today. Doesn’t it seem like Mos Def should be older? He should be surprisingly, then unsurprisingly old. For example, let’s say he’s forty-three. You’d think, “Wow, I feel really old. Forty-three? Dang. He looks so young! But I guess he always looked young. He had to have time to be a rapper, then an actor, and then both simultaneously. Yeah, that makes sense, forty-ish. I don’t know why I was surprised. I bet Wil Smith is like sixty-four by now.”
Happy Birthday, Mos Def! The older you get, the older I get, too. Say, how old is Macy Gray right now? She’s forty-one. Surprised? Then, not so surprised? Yeah.
This morning’s edition of Morning Edition had a story about the Republican governors’ convention in Miami. First of all, wheeee! That sounds like a lot of fun, hanging out with a bunch of Republican governors. Imagine being in a room of Libertarian attorneys general. It’s better than that! These people have no reason to hold back now. It’s like: daiquiri, cry a little, daiquiri, bitter accusations, double daiquiri, Governor Tim Pawlenty (of Minnesota) takes his shirt off. And he makes that face right there, but without a microphone.
Speaking of Governor Tim Pawlenty of Minnesota, he just dropped some major word knowledge by describing the new target demographic as “Sam’s Club voters.” This is the first time I’ve heard that one. Is it the new big thing? I’m not a member of Sam’s Club – yet! – do they talk a lot about how they’re going to vote? I’m with Costco. We pretty much just buy huge tubs of mayo. (Please don’t consider that an endorsement of mayonnaise. I think mustard also has a lot of good ideas.)
I’m glad there’s a new super-thin slice of the demographic hoagie, because I was getting very annoyed with hockey moms, for various reasons. Did you know they don’t play hockey? No, their kids play hockey. Common misconception. They don’t even watch the kids, they’re up in the stands secretly texting, and they just stand up to cheer with everyone else. What are they texting about? They’re asking their friends if they want to meet up at Sam’s Club later, to buy 40 pounds of, I don’t know, hockey sauce. Technically, they’re Sam’s Club voters, not hockey moms. So now everyone please stop saying “hockey mom” forever, ok, thanks.
Really, Sam’s Club voters are too diverse for anyone to predict their voting patterns. Republicans should focus their efforts on an even smaller subset: Front of Cart voters, as seen here. They sit in the front of the cart and try to play with everything in the cart, but are notoriously stingy when it comes to actually purchasing the items. Their voting patterns are similar. You take them to the polls, but once in the booth, they’re like, “I just want the sticker.”
“No, you have to choose a candidate first.”
“Sticker!”
“Sticker isn’t running. Do you mean Nader? I’ll put you down for Nader.”
“Waah! You threw my vote away!”
Republicans, if you want to lure Front of Cart voters away from the insanely popular Sticker party, you need to offer something better. Once in power, will you let them play with your keys? The remote control? Are you willing to say that in certain circumstances, if the world situation demands it, you will let them eat a bug? This is what they’re looking for. Or you could make up a scary story about your opponent, call him an evil baby-eating monster or something. That ought to work again someday. Good luck!
It’s been almost a year, and my last dumb attempt to singlehandedly transform the English language has been proven a dismal failure. I tried to get people to use the phrase “fighting like hats and dogs,” and to date, I’ve only heard four people say it. Both were attempting to put a hat on a dog, and although that’s a natural place to bust out the phrase “fighting like hats and dogs,” I was really going for something more widespread. Oh well, I tried. I fought that battle like canines and chapeaux.
This year’s selection is: “All that and a bag of spiders.”
It indicates that someone has an unrealistically creepy self-image. For example, “Look at this Facebook. Someone sure thinks she’s all that and a bag of spiders.”
Or, “I can’t believe you wanted to hold this séance in a graveyard. Look at you there, Baron von All That and a Bag of Spiders.”
Or, “I’m having a bowl of muesli for breakfast. What are you having? Spiders? A whole bag of them? Well, I guess you think you’re all that.” [In this usage, “and a bag of spiders” is implied.]
So go forth, try it at least once in this coming year. It’s the perfect takedown for someone who continually tries to rub your face in their spiders. I mean, I’m all for spiders, of course, but don’t make a thing out of it, people. Don’t be all, “I like spiders more than you do,” because unless you’re some kind of arachnologist, you’re nothing special. We all like spiders, OK? We all love to hold them, and kiss them, and spend most of our waking hours writing poems for them. So climb down off your high spider and stop acting like you’re “all that and a bag of spiders,” because you’re SO NOT. For real asdpi344rhtdc
Whoops, what was that? Oh, just my spider, on the keyboard. Yeah, that’s right, I let my spider crawl out onto the keyboard. Oh well, better put him back in the bag, with my many, many other spiders. And yes, I am all that, too.
Hey y'all, let's play a game. I'll give you an recipe, then a list a few down-homey names for the dish. Which one is the actual name used by down-home TV cooking lady Paula Deen, and which are nonsensical dysphemisms?
Canned black eyed peas, corn kernels, tomatos. Chopped bell pepper, jalapeños, onion, pimentos. An entire bottle of Italian dressing. No, I'm not kidding. A bottle of Italian dressing. No cooking, just mix it up in a bowl.
a) South Georgia "Caviar"
b) Texarkana Try It Once
c) Oh God, West Virginia, What Have You Done
d) Your Lunch Will Rise Again
Just a sandwich, but instead of legitimate sandwich fixings, it's made with: Chicken fingers. Mozzerella sticks. French fries. All covered in marinara sauce. That's right. I'm surprised you don't just fry the sandwich again, just to make sure it's dead.
a) "Fat Darrell" Sandwich
b) A Big Ol' Greasy Diner Between Two Slices of Bread
c) "E. Normous Thygh's" Choke-It-Down Holy Shitwich
d) Gobble As Many Meaty Cylinders As You Can, Darrell, I Accept Y'all For Who Y'all Are
Beef Bourguignon. A dumbed down Beef Bourguignon.
a) Beef Bourbon Y'all
b) I can't make up anything worse, it's a.
Krispy Kreme Donuts. No, wait, there's more. Chop up two dozen, two dozen, Krispy Kremes, put them in a casserole with condensed milk, two cans of fruit cocktail, two eggs, a box of raisins, cinnamon, and salt. THEN YOU BAKE THAT FUCKER. And then, you top it with "Butter Rum Sauce": a whole stick of butter, a pound of confectioner's sugar, and "Rum to taste." You're damn right, Rum to taste. Rum till I can't rum no more.
a) Kollosal Kreme Kasserole Klusterfuck
b) Puddin' A Whole Meff O'Donuts In My Mmmouf
c) How To Give An Oven Diabetes
d) The Gentle Plink, Plink, Plink of Teeth Hitting the Table
(Trick question. All of these are made up. I bet you picked the first one!)
Bonus: "BLT Soup" is the name of the dish. Which one of these instructions is not an actual step in the recipe?
a) Sauté lettuce.
b) Mix together mayonnaise, sour cream, and add to a soup which already has heavy cream in it.
c) Top the bacony, soupy monstrosity with more mayonnaise, and more bacon.
d) Apologize to everyone forever.
My baby had this rattle which she really liked to chew on. It looked like this:
It's made of woven plastic wire thingys. You can almost see inside to discover what's making the rattling sound, but not quite. So I checked the Internet, and discovered that they often contain a bottle cap and two beans. Not good! Bottle caps leach rust into a baby's mouth, and beans teach them that dried beans (or "rustic beans") are edible without soaking. The baby gets addicted to un-moistened foods, and ends up eating dry pasta and bouillon cubes her whole life. Sad.
I cut it open to discover:
A bottle cap and THREE beans! That's right, she got an extra bean. This is definitive proof that my baby is better than other babies. 50% better, to be precise. And that bottle cap is from Superior, a nice Mexican beer, enjoyed by banditos (and li'l bandidas) for its many atributos superiores. What a coincidence! My child has lots of those, too, and her bubbly personality is cool and refreshing on a hot summer day.
So thank you, homemade rattle. I no longer need to fret about what will be my baby's first beer. Of course, no cerveza for bebé until she's old enough. She doesn't even have teeth yet. How would she open the bottle?
Funk panini. Funk it to hull!
Everybody acts like panini is the snit, they're all, "I don't want a sandwich, I want a pa-ni-ni." The toasty bread, the gooey center, whatever. It's a load of wool-snit, is what it is. Making a panini is funking impossible.
So I get my bread, I get my ingredients, I slap that smock-shucker together right quick, and I toss it in that lease-of-snit panini press. Then check this out. I try to close it, and it won't close. Slowly funking snit! What happened?
I over filled that hover-funker! BTF?
Made me feel like a total grass-pole. Hull with that, I'll make that sandwich fit.
So I push down on the top, as hard as I can, and I just barely get it to lock in place. Now I'm cooking it up, it seems fine, but wait, something smells weird. Like it's burning. And then I realize - slowly plow! My smock is in the panini press! I'm not funking snitting you! I had to pull my smock out and run it under cold water.
My smock was severely burnt. And the panini got messed up, too.
It kind of looked like a minotaur's rectum.
Anyway, I wasn't going to let all my hard hover-funking work go to waste, so after pricking around with it for a while, I got the panini out of the press and made it look halfway edible. And I only ate half of it before I was like, funk this snit, I'm not eating a sandwich that tastes like greasy, burnt smock.
So I ate a big ol' hoagie instead.
[Some portions of this story were edited for content. For example, the word "panini" has replaced the potentially offensive "melty bullshit sandwich," and the phrase "ate a hoagie" has replaced several hundred words describing a sexual activity involving a minotaur's rectum.]
So Paolo Nutini writes this song "New Shoes" about how Paolo Nutini feels a little low one day. In the song, he puts on some new shoes, feels better, and discovers that his friends have thrown him a surprise party. I guess it's like the shoes' birthday?
Whereupon his song gets immediately licensed for a shoe commercial in which he plays, live, while a dance troupe acts out the joys of fresh Pumas. Whereupon he, presumably, receives a crate of free shoes since he adores them so.
So I'm wondering, how can this method apply to other free items (for me)? Do I have to write a catchy song or can I just write one for something that needs a lot of positive PR and which I also covet? For example, I want a radon detector and it'd be mighty nice to get in on some of that sweet, sweet radon swag. What about:
Hey, I'm gonna get my rad-on and suddenly everything's keen
I say, hey, gonna get my rad-on and shortly thereafter I am radiating laughter
Oh, feeling hopeful with my noble gas
Breathing tiny particles of shake that ass
And I'm a-ccosting strangers and stroking their clothes
Cause I'm getting my radon dose
Stok coffee shots, available at your local supermarket, are simply creamer containers with 40 mg of caffeine, which one pours into a cup of coffee. They're only reason you're reading this sentence, for I am one low and sleepy puppy. The whole concept is kind of silly, because I could get 40 mg of caffeine by drinking more coffee or a single shot of espresso. If nothing else, they provide an opportunity to test one's ability to make similes.
Stok in a Cup of Coffee
is like a poisoned cup of coffee. That's the best way I can describe it. The coffee just tastes slightly suspicious. I couldn't tell that it woke me up any more than usual, but it made me wary, so that's something. Stok in a cup of coffee is like a cup of coffee handed to me by a man who wants me dead. It makes me not need the coffee so much.
Stok by Itself
is like swallowing a penny. Bear with me; I don't merely mean that it tastes metallic. Imagine the sort of scenario it would take for you, as an adult, to swallow a penny. You'd have to be really tired, or desperate, or completely misinformed about how a savings account works. "Well, it's come to this. I'm down to swallowing pennies." So while, yes, a Stok by itself tastes somewhat metallic, what it really tastes like is the scrapings from the copper reinforced bottom of the barrel.
Two Shots of Stok in Two Shots of Espresso
is like going to the moon without a space suit. Exhilarating! Also, your air supply is a bunch of old soccer balls you've had lying around since high school. If you don't want to asphyxiate you'll need to regularly suck on one of those saggy spheres of foulness. What I'm saying is that this drink is like a space program run by gym teachers.
A Shot of Stok in Another Shot of Stok
I just made a huge mess. I should've put the first shot in a larger container before pouring in the second. It's like meconium. Hey there reader, either you don't know what that is or I've really disgusted you.
A Shot of Vodka, Then a Shot of Stok
I didn't actually do this. I have more respect for vodka than that. So I'm just guessing when I say it is like a thrilling escape sequence in an action movie followed by that inevitable scene where they get into a helicopter and someone asks, "You do know how to fly this thing, right?" as they take off. But in this scene, the pilot responds, "No, not really," and they sit there looking uncomfortable. Eventually the bad guys catch up to them and kill them.
Stok and Orange Juice
I really did this, just now! It was like being bit behind the ear by a plaguey cicada. And yes, I know they don't. But this one did.
So You Think You Can Dance features all kinds of dancers attempting all types of dance, but there's one comparison that comes up in every episode:
I get it. Hip hop is different, somehow. It's so exotic and strange, this style which we see every single day in any music video that has any dancing whatsoever. When was the last time anyone did a waltz in a video? I guarantee that I can turn on the TV right now and find a channel with someone doing this mysterious "hip hop," maybe a whole bunch of dancers with someone singing in that quirky, rarely heard form of music known as "rapp." Or, "rap," is that how it's spelled? I'm not an ethnomusicologist.
"I don't understand any of this! How will I ever master this series of motions set to music? I'm a dancer, not a homegirl!"
You'd think someone asked these fuckers to do South African gumboot dancing. You'd think they were learning tap. The modern dance people are always stuck with some routine like, "You're an apple merchant and she's the Spirit of Effulgence, you fall in love and end up doin' it on a moving escalator. Your passion is represented by these lit sparklers I've taped to your leotards." And what do they tell the cameras?
"Wow, it's an honor to work with blah blah. This idea is so creative. Boy, I'm glad I didn't get hip hop this week, cause that shit is crazy." No. Sparklotards are crazy. Hip hop is like the default reaction to music intended to make people dance.
Come on, you lazy bastards. Your role on So You Think You Can Dance is to think you can dance, not whine about how hard it is to learn the most ubiquitous form of dancing for the last 30 years. If you can perform "West Coast Swing" every day of your life, you can do a couple minutes of hip hop once in your career. Afterwards, you'll scrutinize your hands and exclaim, "Whew! That was eerie, but I'm pretty sure I'm still white."
"Hey buddy, slip me some skin! Preferably yours!"
"Up high! Down low! Behind the back! Both hands! Pizzicato glissandi!"
"Yo, I need to take your fingerprints on the ink pad of my hand, as I am currently booking you on charges of being my friend."
"C'mon now, I need my daily dose of bro-lic acid!"
"Please caress my palm as briefly and violently as possible, old chum."
"Don't leave me hanging! I'm fully committed to this gesture and if no one slaps my hand down I'll have a tough time getting back into the car."
"All right! I just washed but didn't dry my hands! Wet one, hit it!"
"Aw yeah! I've never, ever washed my hands! Adhesive one, hit it!"
"Boo ya! Slap my dumb-ass face, but miss!"
Many people ride the thrilling escalators of the DC Metro and most of them stand to the right side, walk on the left. That's just how it works. However, DC also draws a lot of out-of-towners, or as we call them, Horgawomphenarians, especially around the Fourth of July weekend, who often block everyone by standing to the left. It's annoying, but it happens all the time. So what?
Some Metro stations have little signs that read "Stand to the Right" and do not work. Some stations have embarrassingly obvious announcements telling people to stand to the right, which also does not work. There are Stand to the Right T-shirts. Wow. That's really committing yourself and your wardrobe to something that will never work. It's a cliché. It's "Mind the gap" for a less tolerant city.
The deal is that people will tell you to move or they will run around you. A little obnoxious, maybe.
But you know what's even more obnoxious? Some guy - I'll call him Mort for reasons that will be revealed later - planted at the bottom of the escalator, shouting over and over, "Stand to the right! People are trying to get through! Stand to the right, people! Everyone has places to be! Come on!"
This utter tool yelled at an escalator full of tourists for several minutes. There's nothing worse than taking a minor annoyance and getting overly emotional about it. People who get angry like that disgust and infuriate me.
Later: Oh, and Mort, I named you that in my head because I wished you would DIE
Saw Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull this weekend. I'd heard such terrible things about it and my expectations were lowered sufficiently for me to really enjoy most of the movie. Thanks, expectation lowerers! I think it's a good movie, it just has too many crystal skulls. Isn't that always the way. Just take out every scene which features a crystal skull, and it becomes one long, exciting chase scene. The last part of the movie gets offensively dumb, and not coincidentally, that's just when a dozen new crystal skulls show up. Next time, fewer crystal skulls, more helpful monkeys. I genuinely liked the helpful monkeys and I loved the refrigerator bit. That whole sequence was perfectly paced, leading up to a surprisingly beautiful final image. Admittedly, that fridge sequence could've been improved with a few helpful monkeys. You can usually squeeze at least two helpful monkeys into any fridge, in the crisper drawers.
But I'm not here to review movies. I'm here to heckle a fellow audience member: the kid in the back with the laser pointer. He raises so many issues!
Yes, it's been a long hiatus, but the site is back. I was neither slacking nor gallivanting. I was having a baby and taking care of her. She's a little more self-sufficient now, so I can alternate between cuddling her and the Internet. Check it out, she's gone from this
to this
in only a month. Crazy!
New content is on its way after the weekend, on Monday, unless there's some kind of federal holiday, which seems unlikely.
I was reading a review on a well-known, mainstream game site and stopped short at this sentence:
The graphics are easily a few years out of date but it somehow still works because the lab is a rundown place that time has forgotten so not having first-rate graphics isn't that big of a deal.
Beautiful. Clunky, way too long, and the best part is that all those words add up to absolutely nothing. Game reviews always mention graphics but almost never provide specific images. "A few years out of date." Can't you just picture that? However, it still works because as we all know, once time forgets a laboratory, the actual surfaces and lighting effects start to look antiquated. Did you ever see a lab from, say, 1986? You know, those old EGA laboratories, which had only 16 colors.
Don't worry, unspecified game reviewer, I'll fix your sentence! How? By changing it from "games journalism" (which is so befuddled that in some circles I have been called a games journalist - that's how woefully fucked "games journalism" is) to the much more respectable form of literary journalism!
As I wander, lonely as a cloud full of sighs, through the dilapidated remains of this laboratory of my childhood, I am suddenly and quietly felled by a overwhelming wave of sympathy and respect for the simple beauty of those poorly rendered 8-bit beakers; I finally understand - understand! - the uncomplaining way they watch me pass each day, how their quotidian ritual of sitting immobile and not being affected by lighting, physics, or anti-aliasing perfectly mirrors the laboratory's "take me as I am" philosophy (no "good graphics" or "bad graphics," just "graphics") which has led to it, the noble laboratory, accepting me, an insightful outsider, as one of its own ... which, in turn, is why I finally, at last, at long last, feel at home here, with the shitty looking beakers, and the fugly pipettes.
Now your sentence is beautiful, and what's more, it's longer. Longer is always better! That is the sentiment which was rapturously expressed, last night, by your mom.
It's the Internet's only holiday, but we don't celebrate it here. This site is all lies anyway, so it would be redundant. To professional liars, April Fool's Day is amateur hour. I stayed home yesterday and deveined shrimp all day. I used a paring knife rather than a deveiner, while constantly yelling "April Fool's!" The shrimp thought it was hilarious. That's how a true professional fools it up, April-style.
Yes, I fall for April Fool's gags on occasion, not because I'm gullible, but because I trust other people. People who are obviously lying. Is that so wrong? Last year I saw a guy on the street with a cute dog, and asked if I could pet him. (The dog.) "Pet him? You can have him!" I got all the way to the corner before the extend-a-leash yanked me back to reality. April Fool's! Joke's on you, buddy, because in the short time I was holding your dog, I gave him worms.
Just clicking around yesterday, I saw a couple of good April Fool's jokes, including Gmail's Custom Time and Feminist Gamer's Pokémon ring. I like the sub-jokes in Gmail's joke and I really like the second photo in Feminist Gamer's piece. I've been playing a lot of Brawl and have learned to hate that chubby, cheerfully psychotic lightning mouse. Pika! Pika! Why won't he pika-die? Squirtle, he's a good sort. I'm on the fence about Charmander and the whole Char crew.
I can't believe I just wrote a sentence that began, "I'm on the fence about Charmander." I've gone beyond April Fool's into April Barely Coherent's.
As a culinary genius, people often approach me on the street and ask, "How can I tell if my celery is still fresh?" Here's a handy rule of thumb:
Can you tie it in a knot?
The annual Easter Egg Roll on the White House lawn is as stupid a tradition as the turkey pardoning ceremony, but at least some kids get to run around and have fun. It doesn't annoy me as much as the turkey thing. I also like seeing the President hanging out with a giant bunny. The turkey is being exploited, but the bunny ... well, the guy in the bunny suit is probably being exploited too, but he's not some idiot bird. Usually he has more career options than a turkey. It might be nice to stand next to President Bush as he strokes and pets you, all the while thinking, "He has no idea I'm not a real bunny."
My favorite Dorothy Parker quote is when she said Dashiell Hammett was so hard-boiled you could roll him on the White House lawn. It's funnier if you actually visualize it. Go on, try it. Did the cigarette stay in his mouth or did he accidentally swallow it?
The Egg Roll is always the same, except that it gets bigger each year and more lovable non-Easter characters show up. Clifford, Charlie Brown, and the Cat in the Hat will be there this year, among others. Also, Troy Aikman. No kidding. I believe in the Easter Bunny but I'm pretty sure Troy Aikman is just a story parents tell their kids until they're old enough to figure out that the Cowboys suck. Speaking of imaginative stories, Fox News really came up with some creative ways to waste space in their article on this year's Egg Roll:
First Lady Laura Bush will be joined by special guest readers including sportscaster and former Dallas Cowboys quarterback Troy Aikman, children's book authors Nancy Tafuri and Rosemary Wells, and Kyle Massey, star of the hit television show "Cory in the House."
The tradition of dying Easter eggs bright colors and exchanging them, hiding them and playing other games dates back to the ancient Persians. They have been coloring eggs for their New Year celebration, Nowrooz — which falls on the Spring equinox — for the past 2,500 years.
I'd prefer at least some transition between those two ideas. "As we all know, Kyle Massey is the star of 'Corey in the House.' And on a related note, the ancient Persians celebrated Nowrooz." By the way, in procuring the picture you see here, I ended up in some sort of weird alternate reality where the shows on the Disney Channel were treated like real shows. A world where Hannah Montana is President and all the adults just stand around waiting for a kid to talk to them. The kids go to school, but not class, just the hallway. They never work but all their cars are this year's model, and they hang out in fancy restaurants where every customer and waiter is an adolescent. It was scary! I want to go back to a simpler time, when the adults were in charge, and the ancient Persians celebrated Nowrooz.
See, Fox News? That's called a transition. Try it.
While driving past a gas station today I saw a guy changing the prices on the sign. He was on the ground using a very long hook to switch the numbers. The first thing I thought was, At least I'd enjoy that part of the job. I mean, almost no one gets to use a hook that long. It's like I'm Batman. The second thing I thought was that it's too bad I'm not a camera guy for the local news, because this is the perfect image for a story about how gas prices are fluctuating. "Gas prices went up today," says the news anchor, as we see those numbers change in real time. Much better than showing one sign, then fading out, and fading in again on the same sign, but with a different price. Also better than showing a guy forking over three dollars and whatever for his gallon of gas, and then showing the same guy paying a larger amount the next day. We can tell it's the next day because he's wearing different clothes, the ones that are in fashion that day. Or a prominently placed calendar? That'd work, too.
The camera guys have a really tough time with stories about breast cancer, because it's illegal to show a breast on the news. You could show a cancer cell, but it's hard to tell that it's specifically a breast cancer cell. It's hard to visualize. This is where the graphics guys really step up with their wire frame models of the female torso. Wire frame models are perfectly legal, and the cancer is depicted as a red splotch or bull's eye on one breast. They can also do a little blinking light, but in this electronic age, that doesn't "read" as a tumor. Instead, it looks like someone's breast has messages. You also can't depict prostate cancer as a wire frame man with a giant blinking crotch, because that "reads" as one very lonely man's erotic tribute to Tron.
Sometimes the camera guys and the graphics guys can't quite pull it off. Let's say a local community recently instituted an curfew for teenagers. You can't get footage of a curfew. The best you can do is a shot of an empty parking lot at night, and the graphics guys can add some shadowy human shaped outlines, with captions like, THIS IS WHERE THE TEENS WOULD BE. That's where the sound effects guys come in. There is a sequence of notes which has a universal meaning of teenagers leaving. It's played at the end of Ghost World, most episodes of Dawson's Creek, and pretty much any scene where someone takes one last look at something. It's the one that goes, ba ba BA ba BA BA baaa. "Things will NE-ver BE THE saaame." Sound guys know it. It's on a frequency that makes doves cry. Just put a little of that in the scene, and everyone gets it. "Say, is that the sound of an empty swing being pushed by the wind?" "No, I think it's something being shattered -- glass? Innocence, maybe?" "Well, whatever it is, Granny just had a seizure, and things will NE-ver BE THE saaame."
The latest bit of Dead Space news, which absolutely sounds like a Peter Molyneux style quip randomly tossed off in a ploy for pre-release hype, is that the upcoming survival horror FPS might not have a pause option. That is, it currently has one, but Electronic Arts said something about removing it. Ooo! Scary! And ultra-realistic, too. In real life, when I'm walking around a deserted spaceship and something undead jumps out and starts chewing on your leg, I can't just pause, open the inventory, and inject a hypo-med-stimpack to bring your health back to 100. That's some video game bullshit. No, in real life, I bring up the real-time holographic display, scroll, scroll, scroll, press A, whoops, selected the wrong thing, now I'm wearing a hoodie and timbs, scroll back, press A, and voilà! My health instantly shoots up to 17, buying me just enough time to dispatch Lil' Zombie Chewsalot. Whew! Now that I have a spare moment, must remember to reload my laser rifle, in case I'm running low on lasers.
The ability to pause during a fight is stupid, but the lack thereof is equally stupid, with an extra layer of inconvenience. After all, if I wanted to play that way, I could always just refuse to pause. As a general rule, I'm fine with game designers who try to create a specific experience by limiting my options as a player. Low health, limited saves, even real-time inventory systems are all legitimate ways to build tension. However, the game itself better be damn scary as well, because I don't play a game to experience a frightening interface. The System Shock 2 interface is a giant pain in the ass at points, but it would still be terrifying in God mode. Resident Evil 4 is the easiest one in the series, and maybe it's not quite as scary, but it's still disturbing, and gosh darn it, people love that game. They play it over and over. No one plays the original Resident Evil ten times in a row. It's not about the difficulty. It's about the weird funhouse alchemy that turns being frightened into having fun. Get that right first, Dead Space, then you may touch my pause button.
On February 5th, Super Tuesday, hundreds of D.C., Maryland, and Virginia residents either went to the polls or called election officials about voting that day. And of course, we don't have our primaries on Super Tuesday. We vote today. This happened in some other states as well, for example, Texas. The typical angle on this story is that these folks were confused by all the hype over Super Tuesday, and maybe they're not very bright. But that's such an obvious and slightly rude comment. I prefer to think that those people knew exactly what they were doing. They wanted to vote as early as possible, just to make the calls stop.
I get like a dozen phone calls a day now. National and local candidates, a couple Republicans, mostly Democrats, almost all pre-recorded. If I don't pick up, they call back. If I pick up and hang up, someone else calls. Today I got two within ten minutes, just before I started writing this. They were both for Obama. One was a live person from his campaign and the other was Michelle Obama making sure I went out to the polls today. Two calls, ten minutes, same candidate.
Here's a scenario I could understand: Hillary calls, gets to vote for her. Barack hears about it (like maybe Hillary called him and bragged about it), calls me up, and changes my mind. Then it makes sense that Bill would call and try to switch me back, because I've already heard from Hillary, and she's just a little annoyed that I would betray her within ten minutes. Then Michelle calls because she knows how this political stuff works and that no one can count on my support for more than a couple of minutes. She's all, "This is Michelle Obama. Are you out of the car yet? I'm going to stay on the line until you're actually in the booth. Now, there are some people outside the building with Clinton signs, so don't get scared, and we're walking, we're walking, you're doing great."
There were some kids outside at my local place selling soda to raise money for something or other. That was the last thing I saw before heading in, so I ended up voting for Sprite.
Salty Prospector, Sudden Whiff
Neu Djerzhei
Princess Magic Hymen's Rainbow Flavor Surprise: For Boys!
A Fistful of Dolphins
Old Leathery Crevice
Mannish Tang
Axe Re-Load Shower Gel, for reals, what was the idea there
"Look, you're leaving soon, and I don't want to fight about this before you go, so I'll just agree that yes, a coffee bean could get lost in my bed somewhere, and it's possible that it could somehow take root and grow a coffee plant in my urethra."
An Iowan farmer is on his way to the caucus with three candidates: Mike Huckabee, Barack Obama, and John Edwards. He needs to take them across a river, but his raft can only hold two people at a time. If the farmer leaves Barack Obama and John Edwards together on one side of the river, they will begin telling inspirational tales of ordinary Americans and one will have died of boredom by the time he gets back. If he leaves Mike Huckabee and John Edwards together, Huckabee will devour Edwards. Can the farmer get all of his candidates across the river in just seven crossings?
Answer: I do not care. Go away, Iowa caucus. Stop boring me. Take New Hampshire with you. You're the two dullest, least decisive states in America, and it's time for everyone to stop pretending your opinions matter because "we've always done it this way."
Joe Biden, please shoplift something and punch a cop. This isn't your year and you know it. Did you think it would be different from the other 25 times you've run for President? Go out swinging. Mitt Romney, please, please clear up some common misconceptions about the Mormon faith. Everything we've heard about Mormons is wrong, right? Do the underwear thing, Mr. Romney. Do the underwear thing.
It's a new year, supposedly. I think it's 2008 now. Yesterday was New Year's Day, and all that noise the night before must have been some kind of party. I guess Dick Clark was going on about it on TV but I was too terrified to attend to the words which somehow escaped his lips. Do we know for sure that he can't come through the screen and eat us? I wouldn't even count aloud for fear that he would hear me. Welcome to Rockin' New Year's Eve -- huddled in a corner rockin' back and forth, waiting for Seacrest to come back on and make the visions stop. I'd rather see that creepy Six Flags guy dance out the year.
2008 is a pretty tame number. It isn't prime (obviously) and it isn't perfect. It has some moderately interesting properties that it shares with a lot of other numbers. Some of these properties have cute names. It's an odious number, an untouchable number, and what's known as an apocalyptic number. Apocalyptic numbers in particular are stupid as hell and not interesting mathematically. 2 to the 2008th power happens to be a huge number which, stay calm everyone, happens to have 666 in it somewhere. Don't start stockpiling cans, it's nothing. Dick Clark will let you know when the end is truly nigh.
Instead, focus on the fact that 2008 is also a happy number. This is simple stuff but it's nice. If we take each digit, square it, add them together, then repeat the process with the resulting sum, we end up with 1, like so:
4 + 0 + 0 + 64 = 68
36 + 64 = 100
1 (ironically, the loneliest number)
Happy numbers are all alike, but is every unhappy number unhappy in its own way? Unhappy numbers (that is, all the rest of them) don't wind up in the endless cycle of squaring 1 and getting 1, but they all end up in this cycle: 4, 16, 37, 58, 89, 145, 42, 20, and 4 again. So all numbers approach one of the two cycles eventually.
Try it, it works with every unhappy number, of any size. It works with, oh, say, 666. 666 is unhappy and apocalyptic. Poor little 666. The town of Reeves, Louisiana just changed their area code from 666 to 749 after 40 years of residents complaining. You know what, Reeves, Louisiana? If you're going to act silly, then I refuse to visit you. I'm not going to hang out with the roughly 200 people, a third of whom are below the poverty line, in your 2.4 square miles of blighted land. I had a whole vacation planned, a whirlwind tour of the gas station, the slightly irregular pebble, and that one dog no one likes. Say goodbye to all that tourist income. This summer I'll be in Texarkana, buying stuff at the Texas Wal-Mart, then returning it to the Arkansas Wal-Mart, over and over again. Texarkana, where all the women are perfect, all the men are rational, and every number is above average.
I was shopping in the newborn girl's section of Target the other day (Don't make assumptions, now. Y'all don't know me. Maybe my "look" involves wearing pink outfits that only cover one foot.) when I saw the three especially tacky bibs, even by today's standards. We all know about the ten year old girls wearing clothes that say Juicy and Your boyfriend says I'm a good kisser and so on, and of course there are infant versions of those as well. If you see an infant in one of those, it's entirely some parent's fault. That baby didn't secretly run out and buy that outfit at the mall. Someone had to struggle to get it on her while she wriggled around. Amazingly, at no point did they look down and think, "Gee, I'd better not take her to the play date like this. What if one of the other girls is baby Susan Faludi and my daughter ends up as a cautionary tale in her baby exposé of baby society?"
So I came across this series of bibs, sold as a three pack, and flipping through them as a series, I saw one little girl's life story foretold in infancy. Three little pink bibs:
Adorable, or so I'm told
then
Super Model
then
Kisses 25 cents
I think her name is Alexis, or maybe Madison. Fight, baby! Spit up on that bib! For feminism, for your future, and because Gerber Butternut Squash & Corn is gross. I can barely choke that stuff down. (Yes, I wear onesies and eat baby food. Y'all don't know me.)
I'm friends with a cheesemaker who tells me that sometimes, when making something like Cheddar, the wrong bacteria gets into it somehow and you end up with Stilton. Stilton is my favorite cheese by far. I even like the crust. I realized that I've only had intentional Stilton. I want to try accidental Stilton.
If I asked the cheesemaker politely, I'm sure he could make me all the accidental Stilton I could eat, but then it wouldn't be accidental. All he can do is continue to make cheese properly and maybe someday he'll make a mistake. I wouldn't wish failure on him anyway, even serendipitous, savory, slightly pungent failure. It might not even count as Stilton anyway, because I think there are a handful of dairies in the English Midlands who have a monopoly on the name. That's a very European thing, all this idiotic regulation keeping my local dairy from making Stilton. Cheese wants to be free. On the other hand, there's something exciting about accidental, illegal Stilton. That's what I want.
Stilton's a Christmas cheese. I'm visiting the cheesemaker this Christmas and truly it would be a yuletide miracle if he were to hand me a giant circle of the stuff. "Did you make this for me?" "No, I was trying to make Cheddar. I got fired, but they let me keep the cheese." "Well, I guess it all worked out then. Won't you have a bite of Stilton with me?" The cheesemaker rips open his shirt to reveal that he's wearing a wire. "We got it, boys. He called it Stilton. Enjoy the rest of your cheese -- in jail."
University of Pennsylvania economist Joel Waldfogel makes this point every year in one story or another. It also makes the rounds at a lot of holiday parties, especially around the cynics' hangouts like the buffet table. Simply put, when people receive a gift and are asked how much money they would charge to give up that gift, it's 20% less, on average, than the giver spent on it. In a way, 20% 0f the value of any item is lost simply by one person giving it to another. A well-chosen gift from a very close friend or relative will only get up to about a 10% loss. Money is the only exception, as it's always worth exactly what it's worth. Waldfogel's new book is pretty depressing, too. It makes a perfect stocking stuffer, and the best part is that you're throwing away 10-20% as soon as it hits the stocking. Ho ho ho!
Is anyone else sick of the president pardoning a turkey every single Thanksgiving? It's the very definition of an empty gesture. Each year, the president stands around snickering and posing with a turkey that's been specifically raised for the ceremony and never intended to be eaten. He also pardons the "alternate turkey," the vice-president of turkeys, who is there just in case the original one dies of natural causes before the ceremony. Two completely useless turkeys. They're not even released into the wild, either. They're sent to Disney World to be waved around on a parade float by some underpaid kid in a Goofy suit who reeks of salicylic acid and nacho cheese. Maybe that's a relief after being groped by a dude who smells like a furtively chugged bottle of crème de menthe. And nacho cheese.
But wait, the gesture gets even emptier. Without the turkey, what will the White House have for Thanksgiving dinner? Is this their one vegetarian meal of the year? No, they just eat a different turkey. Now, I'm not saying this bait and switch, this ritualized killing of millions of birds on one day while pretending to venerate the life of one specially chosen bird, might somehow epitomize a particularly American strain of cheerfully bloody-minded ignorance -- that's what I'm not saying -- but if you're going to waste the president's time, don't make him look like a hypocrite. Either eat turkey or pardon turkeys. Pick a tradition and commit to it, President Bush. That turkey you gave away might have been delicious, and as you grudgingly masticate your bone-dry substitute bird, your thoughts return to the one that waddled away. Is he happy in Goofy's arms? Does he even remember you? You're reminded of his pink, wattled face every time you look across the table at Laura. Are you choking down turkey, Mr. President, or are you choking down tears?
Finally saw The Darjeeling Limited. It was OK. One really funny bit, one really sad bit, and the best character by far was Jack, the youngest brother. He's sexpertly played by the suave Jason Schwartzman, seducing sexy ladies with his sexy style. Anyway, it's just like every other Wes Anderson movie, and I can sum it up in about five words: Meticulously quirky symbolic family pathos. If I had three bonus words, they'd be "slow motion photography."
Or, "Natalie Portman's ass." Everyone knows about that already. Disappointing. I'm not much of a Natalie Portman fan, but I went in there with an open mind, and honestly, her ass just didn't grab me. It's sad, really. Imagine having your ass described as "underwhelming."
Schwartzman co-wrote the script, which may explain why he's the one who unveils Natalie Portman's ass and spends the rest of the movie bringing sexy back and not bothering to wear shoes. Hopefully he's not responsible for Darjeeling's chronic case of Important Symbolism. Wes Anderson movies all do it, but this one's the worst yet. Every other scene is stuffed with very, very meaningful symbols, highlighted by songs whose lyrics directly relate to the scene, plus the whole damn thing's in slow motion. I was able to predict the entire damn ending of the movie based on the blatant symbolism of the first few scenes. I guess I shouldn't "ruin" it, so I'll make up something equally obvious and punny. In the first scene, three kittens watch their dad get hit by a fish delivery truck and inherit his favorite ball of yarn. At the end, the kittens wrestle a shark and lose because the yarn has gotten all tangly and their dad never taught them how to use scissors. In slow-mo, of course, and as for the soundtrack, you know that old song about how the cat's in the cradle with the silver spoon? Something less subtle.
Granted, I had plenty of time to work out the details thanks to the fact that the movie takes twenty minutes wondering how to end. It can't decide which obvious gesture would really get the message across, because guess what? You can only dumb something down so much. I can't "get it" any more. There's actually a joke about how the oldest brother keeps searching for meaning in everything. That's not clever, it's just annoying. Oh, and the running gag about how the youngest brother writes stories based on his life, but insists that the characters are all fictional. This is in case you did not get the joke with the oldest brother. There is a series of symbolic safety nets to make sure you understand this terribly difficult movie.
Also, the safety nets are equipped with training wheels, and encased in bubble wrap. My excessive explanation is intended to satirize The Darjeeling Limited's excessive symbolism, and this bit of explanation satirizes the wink-and-nod tone that purportedly excuses such authorial indulgence.
See how that's annoying? Do you get it? Do I need to do it more?
Anyway, it's a decent movie despite itself, and it was better than Fred Claus, which I didn't see, but I'm sure that's true. I give it 6 out of 8 stars and refuse to reduce that fraction to its lowest terms. Work it out yourself.
There are literally dozens of words in the English language, and if you want to make it all the way to the secret bonus words (like sesquipedalian, recursion, and portmanteau), you need to expand your vocabulary a little each day. FreeRice offers a quick, challenging vocabulary quiz with a humanitarian twist; for each correct answer, their sponsors donate 10 grains of rice to hungry people throughout the world via the U.N. World Food Program. Ten grains may not seem like much, but I played for just a couple of minutes, and earned 400 grains. Then I measured some rice out on the kitchen table and found out it's a little over two teaspoons. That would cook up to two tablespoons, if it made sense to cook up that little rice, which of course it doesn't. Lesson learned: if I play for at least ten easy minutes a day, within a week I'll have an edible amount of rice. Bonus lesson: rice goes everywhere. Maybe by the end of the week, I'll have found all the stray grains. If I threw some boiling water on the floor, they'd swell up and be easier to find. Be right back.
As a game, FreeRice is very simple but has some nice design features. A picture of a rapidly-filling bowl provides a little visual reward for every right answer. Every incorrect answer is a little learning experience, as they immediately display the right choice, along with another question, a tempting chance for redemption. The ads are simple and unobtrusive, and the game starts on the main page and rolls right along. Click, click, learn, click, earn more grains, get a little hungry thinking about it, check to see if the floor rice is ready. (Nope, it still hasn't absorbed all the water. I threw in a little butter for flavor.) The difficulty adjusts automatically, using a GRE-like initial assessment and tier system. I got up to 49 out of 50. In your face, English!
[SPOILER ALERT]
My favorite word so far was burgoo, which I happened to know as a thick gruel served to 18th century seamen, and nowadays as a soup they make down South. I just enjoy it when a food-related word comes up. It's like attacking an enemy in Bookworm Adventures with the word fisticuffs. Southern burgoo goes well with rice, in fact. Speaking of rice, I'm pleased to say that my kitchen floor rice was a tour de force of culinary invention. The butter and saffron (I added saffron) complete the rice's subtle flavor profile, and the slightly caramelized dust bunnies really make the linoleum flavor "pop." But there's no time to rest on my laurels. I've got vocabulary to learn, rice to donate, and if I start to feel peckish, storm gutter pilaf.
This season of 24 will be set in Washington, D.C. For the next couple of weekends, Kiefer will be in town, which is OK, I guess. I'm more excited about the tiny, tiny chance that they'll rename a street for Mary Lynn Rajskub. We don't need a New York Avenue in D.C. That's just confusing. What's New York ever done, anyway? Mary Lynn Rajskub can light up any room with a simple, joyful scowl. Scowly Street, NW. It's a one-way street, and don't cross it, or it'll pout and sigh all day.
From Variety:
While there, the "24" crew will also lense a lot of 180-degree backgrounds into which Sutherland and others can later be inserted via greenscreen. Gordon said the technology has finally gotten to a point where it looks seamless enough -- but it will still be a challenge given the frantic camera style that's a hallmark of the show.
"Some of the technology is amazing now," Gordon said. "You can insert actors onto the Washington Mall and do things you couldn't have done even a few years ago."
"Torture that goose. Torture ALL these geese! There's no time to explain!"
Last night, Jacoby Ellsbury stole second base in Game 2 of the World Series. Now, I'm no baseball expert, but I know that can only mean one thing: free tacos. Between 2 and 5 p.m. on October 30, anyone in America can demand a free taco at Taco Bell. However, if you want soda or for some reason the first taco didn't fill you up, that's on your dime. Also, it's fried crunchy tacos only, so you health conscious folks may want to dump out the innards and wrap it in rice paper or a leaf or whatever you do.
Still, I'm excited. If everyone in America actually goes out to get their own taco, it'll be a cultural milestone. Where were you when we got free tacos? Did you eat yours immediately or wait around for it to appreciate in value? How'd that work out for you? Did you pass up the free taco as a protest because no one threw to second base so, technically, maybe Ellsbury didn't steal second? Personally, I think that's unfair to a good athlete and taco benefactor. Although I've never heard of Jacoby Ellsbury before, I kind of like him now. I might follow his career a bit, just in case someday he gives me nachos.
A word of warning: According to the fine print, "Participating Taco Bell restaurant manager reserves the right to deny Free Taco to any person he/she reasonably believes has already received a Free Taco or has engaged in any other fraudulent activity." So, if you're scamming the Bell (and I don't advocate it), make sure your disguise is impeccable. Don't be like those teenagers at Halloween who just flip their cap around and hit the same house twice. If they're caught they just get sent away without candy. If the taco jockey twigs to your con, he'll make things pretty spicy for you, my friend. He's the man who handles your beef. It's a deadly game of taco roulette.
Get ready for the dumbest thing you'll read all week. Guaranteed.
As you may know, I've always wanted to make the world a better place. To this day, I haven't gotten around to it, because I had a thing, and then I thought I'd wait a bit and see if someone else did it instead. The other day I was thinking about the phrase "you can't have your cake and eat it, too". It doesn't make sense to say it that way. The original version is "eat your cake and have it, too" -- once you eat it, you don't have it anymore. This is all common knowledge. I was wondering whether reversing the verbs made people just a little bit more optimistic, because on some level they realize that it is possible, even as they use that phrase to deny it. Also, mmm, cake.
You can see where this is going. The next logical step is to start using the phrase "fighting like hats and dogs". When cats and dogs fight, it's violent and they both get hurt. But hats and dogs, as you can see from the visual aids here, are adorable. You can't stay mad for long when you're fighting like hats and dogs. Obviously this little change wouldn't wipe out war and aggression overnight. That's unrealistic. We'll need to come up with something for the non-English-speaking countries.
Possible objection: Dogs and hats don't fight. Answer: Yes, they do? Dogs don't like wearing hats, so they pull them off. They fight the hat, and the hat fights back, just not very well. It tries to stay on a dog's head to the best of its ability. It's like fighting boredom. Boredom is lazy but it's still in the ring.
Problem: People will make fun of me. I'll get tired of explaining it to everyone. Answer: That's not my problem.
Question: Have you adequately proven a connection between the meaning of a phrase and its effects on the speaker? People say nonsensical stuff all the time. No one thinks about everything they say. Answer: Remember at the beginning, when I said you were about to read something really dumb? You read it anyway, right? And dumb as it is, you've absorbed the idea.
Follow-up question: What if I just read all this because it was woven around a bunch of cute dog pictures? How could anyone ignore an image of dog wearing a hat? Triumphant answer: YOU HAVE PROVEN MY POINT.
