Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Ooglala!
I like the word Ooglala. The non-word Ooglala? Sometimes, when no one is around except my cats, I say it:
Ooglala.My cats know what I mean. They always do. That's just one of the many magickal things about cats. And dogs.
Ooglala!
In all sincerity, I someday hope to use this word in a meaningful way. In fact, I'm starting a short-story called Ooglala right now.
Ooglala!
Hey, I got it first.
~
8/31/2004 12:55:00 PM
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Autumn Ramblings
It's nearly September, the last quarter of the year. Soon it will be sweater weather. (Also known as "jumper" weather, depending on what part of the world you're in.) (That's if you have cold weather where you are.)
While other people dread the cold, I secretly look forward to the first day I can wear a t-shirt and sweater to work. It's the only time "dress casual" and my own free-will wardrobe are ever in synch. For me there's nothing like a day that makes your body work just a little to stay at a comfortable warmth, and there's something alive, vital and animal about this. Something natural.
It'll be Hallowe'en in no time.
It's calendar time too. All the new ones are coming out, and they make easy gifts. Then, after January 1st, you can buy all the remainders for just a punt or so apiece. That's when I usually buy copies of anything that otherwise might feel a little frivolous, like Charles Wysocki's Cats calendar:
How can you resist books and cats? Especially in the cold months, when a book and a kitten and an Autumn breeze through the window are inviting.
For just a few bob, Brian Froud's squished faeries calendar is a must as well:
And every Christmas my Mom gets me Jeffery Kacirk's Forgotten English Calendar, which I love.
Forgotten English is finishing off 2004 with some great entries.
From last Wednesday the 25th:
bizzAnd from the previous day:
Hair all tossed on end is said to be in a bizz.
-John Mactaggert's Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia, 1824
burblesKacirk seems to be alliterating on the Bs, like Adrian Belew in Elephant Talk, one of my favorite King Crimson songs. Belew goes through the alphabet A, B, C, D to E, though, and it's a pity he doesn't keep going:
Small vesicular tingling pimples, such are caused by the stinging of nettles, or of some minute insects. Minshew called them barbles [perhaps] because they have been produced by puncturing the skin with little barbed points.
-Rev. Robert Forby's Vocabulary of East Anglia, 1830
Talk, it's only talkBabble, BURBLE!, banter, BICKER bicker bicker
Arguments, agreements, advice, answers,
Articulate announcements
It's only talk
Talk, it's only talk
Babble, burble, banter, bicker bicker bicker
Brouhaha, boulderdash, ballyhoo
It's only talk
Back talk
Talk talk talk, it's only talk
Comments, cliches, commentary, controversy
Chatter, chit-chat, chit-chat, chit-chat,
Conversation, contradiction, criticism
It's only talk
Cheap talk
Talk, talk, it's only talk
Debates, discussions
These are words with a D this time
Dialogue, dualogue, diatribe,
Dissention, declamation
Double talk, double talk
Talk, talk, it's all talk
Too much talk
Small talk
Talk that trash
Expressions, editorials, expugnations, exclamations, enfadulations
It's all talk
Elephant talk, elephant talk, elephant talk
Brouhaha, boulderdash!, BALLYHOO, I just can't get these words out of my head. Reminds me of the Internet.
Then there's yesterday's entry on Forgotten English,
callifudgeThe anecdote is a reminder, also, that what we call an orangutan today was once an orang-utan, or a utan of orange color. Or is it? Actually it is from [Malay orang hutan : orang, man + hutan, wilderness, jungle] or [Late 17th century: From Malay orang hutan “forest person”]. So orang means man or person, and it is only a coincidence that some orangutans are of a somewhat orange hue.
A trick, a hoax, a swindle.
-Francis Taylor's Folk Speech of South Lancashire, 1901
On this date in 1835, one of newspaper history's most successful hoaxes, concocted by Benjamin Day's New York Sun, concluded a series of articles about the telescopic "discoveries" of British astronomer Sir John Herschel. These were fictional reprints from the nonexistent Edinburgh Journal of Science. Described in this day's report was Herschel's supposed detection of winged, humanoid beings on the moon. "We counted three parties of these creatures ... walking erect in a small wood. They averaged about four feet in height, were covered ... with short and glossy copper-colored hair , and had wings composed of a thin membrane without hair ... from the top of their shoulders to the calves of the legs. The face, of a yellowish flesh color, was a slight improvement upon that of the large orang-utan." The ruse temporarily catapulted the Sun ahead of its Manhattan rivals and badly embarrassed those newspapers that had copied the bogus story.
Speaking of the newsrags, Carl Hiaasen is a 25-year journalist, a veteran of the Miami Herald, and he writes incredibly compelling, addictive novels. Basket Case is the story of a down-on-his-luck journalist stuck by his bosses writing obits as a punishment and obsessed with his own death. The book is an unflinching glimpse into the sorry state of today's newspapers, as well as a regular hoot (like all Hiaasen's books):
The chain's methodical skeletonizing of its newsrooms affected even Emma's career trajectory. She was hired at the Union Register as a copy editor and swiftly promoted to assistant city editor,with the promise of more big things to come. Then the editor of the Death page unexpectedly dropped dead of a heart attack. This happened while he was on the phone with an irate funeral-home proprietor who was complaining about an ill-worded headline that had appeared above the obituary of a retired USO singer (Mabel Gertz, 77, Performed Acts for Many GIs). The stricken editor expired silently and perpendicular, the telephone receiver wedged in the crook of his neck. Nobody noticed until an hour after deadline.Heh! Deadline. You can't go wrong with any of Hiaasen's novels, especially Sick Puppy.
So that's my suggestion to you: It's practically Fall now. Stock up on good books, and treat your cats well.
BURBLE!
~
8/29/2004 12:19:00 PM
Friday, August 27, 2004
Friday Visual Treats
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just Ugly:
Perhaps the world's most wonderful ugly Scottish Doll is for sale on Collector's World London. It is about 17 cm tall and was made in the 1930s. More info HERE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fish on Bicycles:
"Man needs Religion like a fish needs a bicycle"-From the Fish on a Bike website, where all this and more is explained. Or you can just view the fun images below.
Vique's Law
"A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle"
Irina Dunn
No, not Gloria Steinem, although she is often credited with the phrase.
Not U2 either (Throwin' Your Arms Around the World off Achtung Baby).
(Click on them to see the full-sized pics. More at Fish on a Bike!)
Which brings me to my vegetarian slogan:
Fish-N-Bikes, Not Fish-N-Chips!
(It's not very good, no one gets it, and I never use it.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Happy Friday!
~
Other Sources/More Fun to clicky on:
Sculptor Stephen Gregory
John Stegmann
Ray Troll
Guinness.com!
Maurice Sendak
Collector's World.net
8/27/2004 10:03:00 AM
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
There You Be
I spent most of Saturday alone, which normally would have been nice. But when I sat up in bed that morning and gazed down at the carpet, there it was staring at me, the angry lines of its face etched in the nap of the rug:
My Life.
"What the hell have you done for me lately?" it demanded.
I couldn't think of anything to say, so I turned and headed for the kitchen and some java.
I brewed a pot quickly and slugged down the first cup. "Wherever you go, there you be," said the face in the coffee grounds at the bottom.
"Bastard!" I muttered, and drank him down, deliberately grinding the crunchy bits between my back molars.
I poured another cup and sat down in front of an old episode of Star Trek. Kirk was right in the middle of flouting the Prime Directive by sucking face with a beautiful, scantily-clad, blue-skinned woman when he suddenly turned to me and spoke:
"NOW ... when you were a CHILD ... isn't ... THIS ... where you IMAGINED ... you'd END UP? Out having ADVENTURES ... in EXOTIC PLACES ... meeting that ALIEN SPECIES ... known as the OPPOSITE SEX ... BUILDING BRIDGES between two technologically advanced CIVILIZATIONS ... in the most DIRECT WAY POSSIBLE?"
Kirk gestured theatrically at the air, finally falling to one knee:
"Didn't you imagine you'd at least HAVE A LIFE BY NOW?!"
"Shut up," I growled, changing the channel to the Teletubbies. Teletubbies never talk, they just bounce around looking peaceful and wonderfully surreal. There's no danger of them provoking guilt or remorse, although an acid flashback is always a distinct possibility.
The serenity of the Teletubbies' magical kingdom eluded me though, and I could only watch enviously as they frolicked carefree under a smiling sun. The coffee churned in my gut, and two pieces of toast did nothing to soak up the acid or my anxiety.
So I headed out to a babbling brook that I knew could only speak softly and kindly in gentle rolling whispers, and there I listened attentively, and eventually made peace with my angry Life, my Neglected Self.
Not really. Actually I'm still running away. But I know I'd better end up creekside soon.
~
8/25/2004 11:10:00 AM
Monday, August 23, 2004
Scotland's Odd Wee Babydolls
Who Just Aren't Quite Right
(Squeeze 'em an' they talk! They'll tell stories to keep ye up at night.)
Here is little Bonny who'll tell ye 'bout that awful man
showed her what Scots don't wear 'neath the kilts of their clan...
An' Edme, a good lass, her bagpipes she'd blow,
practiced day an' night till her mouth got stuck in an 'O'...
Then there's Isla, a banshee led her to the depths of the loch,
she'll do the same wi' your bairn, Oh indeed! Aye an' och!
Tam collects teeth, by stealin' and killin',
since that cheatin' bitch toothfairy cheated her out of a shillin'...
Cute Morag plays with mates on the hills and the moors
'til the bogs suck them down, and they're seen nevermore...
An' o' course wee Maisie, on haggis she was fed,
'til she spewed all her food on the quilts of her bed.
(The images I found, changed a little, you see
And the text is all written by ghastly gashly ol' me.)
~
8/23/2004 04:31:00 PM
Aliens versus Predator
Aliens versus Predator pretty much kicked ass. That's my review. That's all. C'est tout. Finis. 'Nuff Said.
No attempts at highbrow eloquent-waxing from me today.
Plot inconsistencies? Plot? I don't understand people who complain about these things. Aliens and predators kicking each others' asses. That is the plot.
The film is a fanboy's dream, every fanboy's dream since the two badass creatures came to exist on the big screen. This overrules any other considerations. For example:
We've all been overdosed on the post-post-modern (or whatever) cinema trend of desensitizing, mind-numbing UltraUltraViolence, which has been Done to Death (literally!) Doesn't matter:
'Cuz this is Aliens and Predators kicking ass.
Comic books have already done A vs P kicking ass, indeed have already moved on to the dubious premise of A vs P vs Terminator kicking ass:
...and have even thrown Superman in the mix to boot. And Dark Horse Comics probably did a much better job on the original plot of AvP than the film did. (Yes, there is a plot, with a kickass black female lead character played by the gorgeous Sanaa Lathan, the human lead, anyway, as we all know the Aliens and Predators are the stars, and with a labyrinthine subterranean ancient city straight out of Lovecraft.) No, it doesn't matter if the film fell a little short.
'Cuz this is Aliens and Predators kicking ass.
Am I saying kicking ass too much? Absolutely, and normally this would bother me, as I am not a baseball-cap-wearing, action-movie-loving guy's guy type of a guy. Doesn't matter. I hope I'm not offending anyone, but you'll have to excuse me:
'Cuz this is Aliens and Predators kicking ass.
Are there things the film could have done a little better? Sure. But I'll only say that there could have been just a little more
Aliens and Predators kicking ass.
Anyway, I could mention other things, like how too convenient it is that the Alien's acid blood conveniently does not burn the Aliens when it is convenient to the plot. Didn't we all assume that the Alien's acid blood doesn't burn the Aliens in their veins because the acid is not active until it comes into contact with the open air? But, heck, it should burn the Aliens when it spurts all over them, because it even burns through plate steel (reference: the original film Alien). Doesn't matter...
'Cuz this is Aliens and Predators kicking ass.
I guess I could say more. But why bother? Doesn't matter.
'Cuz that's my review:
Aliens and Predators kicking ass.
Kickass!
'Cuz sometimes you just gotta be a fanboy.
~
8/23/2004 10:41:00 AM
Friday, August 20, 2004
Looks like a nice weekend to get outside...
...on the moors.
~
8/20/2004 10:11:00 AM
Thursday, August 19, 2004
I didn't post anything today or yesterday, and I do feel guilty. I post most often from work, and today our server was down, so no system, no Internet, and no e-mail. But I had to sit all day just in case the server came back up, which felt oddly like babysitting a stillborn child, watching for signs of life.
Such is work.
And of course I'd left the book I'm reading at home.
It was, you know, a disaster of a day.
~
8/19/2004 05:01:00 PM
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
For anyone who has ever lost a dear companion animal, I find these words by the playwright Eugene O'Neill to be an invaluable comfort:
"Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved". No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.
THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
OF AN EXTREMELY DISTINGUISHED DOG
by Eugene O'Neill
I, SILVERDENE EMBLEM O'NEILL (familiarly known to my family, friends, and acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years and infirmities is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there until after I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.
I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their days hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about how to keep the objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith. These I leave to all those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie and Naomi and -- But if I should list all those who have loved me, it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.
I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick, bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having over-lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-bye, before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me. It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I would like to believe with those my fellow Dalmatians who are devote Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered; where all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris [lovely nymphs], beautifully spotted; where jack rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning, and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the love of one's Master and Mistress.
I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleep in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all, this is best.
One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, "When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one." Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again. What I would like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have permitted to share the living room rug during the evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best. So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come closer to jack rabbits than I have been able to in recent years.
And for all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.
One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved". No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.
~
8/18/2004 10:49:00 AM
Monday, August 16, 2004
BooOoork!
If you're at all familiar with U.S. politics you've surely heard his name, but who is he, really, this "Robert Heron Bork"? Who is this frumpy toad of a man whose wattle seems inflated like the under-chin of a bullfrog who is just about to RRRRRRIBBIT! His name even sounds like the amphibian's hoarse outcry:
BooOoork!
BooOoork!
Most of us remember Bork as the man Ronald Reagan failed to have appointed to the Supreme Court in 1987. Reagan's nomination of Bork, who was then a United States Court of Appeals judge, was rejected by the Senate in his confirmation hearings largely due to outcry over his ultra-conservative ideology, which includes opposition to affirmative action, to abortion, to First Amendment protection of free speech and to Constitutional protection of privacy. Bork's appointment would surely have meant the overturning of Roe vs Wade.
Bork, always the good conservative and friend to big business, is also the author of The Antitrust Paradox, in which he opposes the antitrust laws that guard against monopolies, saying that large corporation mergers somehow benefit the consumer.
This type of assertion smacks of the wild ideas of Ann Coulter and the radical right, but the resemblence goes even further: in 1996 Bork penned the book Slouching Towards Gomorrah, in which he rails against liberalism as the downfall of American culture.
Perhaps Bork was just ahead of his time?
But, aside from political afficianados, few people today remember Bork's original claim to fame as Richard Nixon's crony.
In 1973 Watergate Special Prosecutor Archibald Cox was hot on Nixon's trail, causing the less-than-subtle Nixon to tell Attorney General Elliot Richardson to fire Cox. Richardson refused to carry out the President's order, and so Richardson left office. The duty of axing Cox next fell to Deputy Attorney General William Ruckelshaus, who refused and also left office. Bork was next in line and was appointed by Nixon to acting Attorney General, and Bork carried out the deed.
Malachy McCourt, actor, writer, and brother of Frank McCourt, had a New York radio talk show at the time, and Malachy had this to say:
"Where I come from, getting fired is called 'getting the sack,'" said McCourt on the air. "Should we call Nixon a 'Cox Sacker'?"
I think obviously Bork is a Cox Sacker too.
~
8/16/2004 10:17:00 AM
Friday, August 13, 2004
Friday
Two whole days to monkey around...
Fay Wray
~
8/13/2004 09:52:00 AM
To Whom It May Concern
The Mother of the author of Whipped Cream Buzz would like readers to know that she did not, in fact, think kids squirted ReddyWhip up their nostrils to get stoned. Any such indication should be ascribed to the Typical Humorous Hyperbole of Writers, who are well-known to be Full Of It.
The writer would like to say she slapped him upside the head as retribution for said hyperbole, but that would be humorous exaggeration as well.
You see how it goes?
Also, the aforementioned Mom is not particularly naive, nor afraid of or shocked by the 21st century, she has a sharp, active mind, and she takes her mountain bike out at least three times a week.
She is obviously a Hip Mom.
Thank you,
-The Management.
~
8/13/2004 09:30:00 AM
Dusk
[This poem has ventured elsewhere and may be back soon.]
~
8/13/2004 09:19:00 AM
Thursday, August 12, 2004
It is early morning when he arrives at the office, pulls out his magnetic badge with the barcoded corporate I.D., slides it past the magnetic sensor on the door and trudges inside.
I am not a number! he thinks.
As he enters his cubicle he mentally prepares himself for the workplace, for the challenges of the day.
For a time he drifts off and dreams, dreams himself high above it all.
But then the phone rings, jerking him back to earth, and he plummets from the heights of his revery.
The phone rings on another line, and another, and his voicemail is filling up as his computer chimes again and again with incoming e-mails. He realizes he is besieged, he is now in the thick of the fray.
But he vows will not give in to the living death of the Nine-to-Five, he will not become a zombie, even should he end up the last man on earth.
He will not be a forgotten prisoner in his cubicle. He is outnumbered, defeated, but he vows to break his chains!
My mind, he thinks...
...my mind will always be free.
~
8/12/2004 09:35:00 AM
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Whipped Cream Buzz...
On occasion my dear Mom indulges in the competitive sport of bingo at the local church or armory or community center. There she is given a small free newsletter detailing the schedules of the local Bingo Scene. The most recent issue has a full-page quiz on drug abuse, the type of quiz that will surprise people, especially senior citizens, when they realize they know none of the answers.
There's no denying that the information is useful, but the presentation is calculated to shock. Picture a gymnasium full of little old blue-haired ladies (not to many mention more young ladies and men than you'd expect, and my Mom, whose hair is still naturally red), all set a-buzz with choruses of "Oh My Gosh, did you know they do this?!" and "Kids today!" and "What has the world become?!"
You can see how the modern facts of drug use could be shocking to older people who grew up in a simpler age of radio shows and fedora hats and a new dress for Easter Sunday. Yes, anabolic steroids can cause development of female characteristics in males. And some people mix heroin and cocaine and call it a speedball. Heroin addicts run the risk of catching AIDS from needle-sharing. But, still, alcohol is associated with more teen deaths than any other drug.
But the question that got to my Mom the most was this:
Fumes from which of the following can be inhaled to produce a high:The answer, of course, is all of the above.
a. spray paint
b. model glue
c. nail polish remover
d. whipped cream canisters
e. all of the above.
"Shane, I took this quiz at bingo last week, and did you know that kids can sniff whipped cream to get high?!"
"Yeah, Mom, they call those whippets, and they inhale the leftover propellent, not the whipped cream itself."
I pictured what Mom must have been imagining, hordes of tattooed and pierced young kids buying bottles of ReddyWhip, laughing goofily as they shove the nozzles up their nostrils and squirt whipped cream directly into their brains.
I proceeded to tell her about "huffing," which causes noticable brain damage in no time short. A friend of mine who came to America from Ireland was a great example of this, slurring his speech just enough to remind you that he'd spent his childhood inhaling petrol vapors and sniffing glue and hyperventilating with a paper bag full of hairspray or other fumes. We'll call him "Eamon", although that wasn't really his name.
It was the hairspray that got Eamon in trouble one day when he began hallucinating in public, running around the streets of Dublin after a light rain, picking up drops of water from puddles and imagining the water was priceless gems.
He ended up on O'Connell Bridge over the River Liffey, kneeling on the pavement over his collection of "jewels," when his friends caught up with him to see if he was okay.
Of course, Eamon saw them not as friends, but as police and security guards come to steal his treasure. Eamon pushed one friend to the side of O'Connell Bridge and then somehow, in frenzied, stoned desperation, hauled him up and over the stone rail . . .
Down into the River Liffey Eamon's friend the "Cop" dropped like a stone. Then Eamon passed out.
When Eamon awoke his friends were gathered in a circle around him, one of them bending directly over him and staring him in the face.
"Are you alright, Eamon?" sez Eamon's friend.
"Yeh, I'm allight," sez Eamon.
"Are ye SHORE ye're alright, Eamon-er? Are ye SHORE?" sez his friend, whom Eamon notices is soaked from head to toe.
"Yeh, shore, I'm allight, I'm allight," replies Eamon. "What happened to yez anyway? -- yer all wet."
At which point his friend began pummelling Eamon mercilessly, to the laughter of the crowd of his mates.
It's easy to chuckle over Eamon, as he was lucky to escape without much damage on the whole. And he came from a very well-off Dublin family, so it was not the Irish poverty of Frank McCourt and Angela's Ashes that drove Eamon to abuse poorly improvised drugs. But huffing is no funny matter, and other people I've known have ended up with more serious disorders, like one who developed a seratonin imbalance that left her with panic and anxiety and depression for the rest of her life.
But back to the Bingo Quiz. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to have an air of spectacular sensationalism. While the facts were indisputable, the wording smacked of the Weekly World News or the Enquirer, until finally I came up with this scenario:
The writers of the Bingo scene magazine are scolded by their editor for producing boring copy. "Tittilate those old ladies!" the editor yells. "I want them on the edge of their seats!" The two writers, both recent college graduates, scruffy aspiring writers who consider their journalism degrees and day-jobs as temporary measures until their inevitable fame, come to a quick decision: the best (and most rebellious) way to stoke their creativity is to get stoned in the paper's office after the editor leaves.
They proceed to break out a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock, a huge water-bong, and a case of whippet cartridges.
Ten minutes later they're rolling around the office giggling when one of them has an idea:
"Let's write about drugs!"
~
8/10/2004 02:09:00 PM
Scraps of Paper...
The Incredible Hulk #142, 1971.
Writer: Roy Thomas.
Art: Pencils, Herb Trimpe; Inks, John Severin.
Scenes like this were much of the charm of the old Jade Behemoth.
~
8/10/2004 01:23:00 PM
Monday, August 09, 2004
The Man in the Moon...
By 'taz' over at CitrusMoon, of course.
8/09/2004 09:43:00 PM
Another reason the Postman thinks I'm weird...
My pistol-grip glasscutter and pliars came today in this box.
"Betty, I delivered another package to that guy on Jackson Street today. He ordered himself some kinda facial wand for his 'nads! What do you suppose he needs that for?"
Thanks a lot, McGill's Stained Glass Supplies.
~
8/09/2004 09:28:00 PM
Souperfly...
"Waiter!"
(The LetterJames Soup Words Generator.)
~
8/09/2004 01:25:00 PM
Avenge!
Avenge December 7
Artist: Bernard Perlin
Date: c.1942
From Poster Glory: Fine Antique American Posters.
Kind of scary, isn't it?
Angry.
Afraid.
Familiar?
~
8/09/2004 01:09:00 PM
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Another benefit of being an utter flake...
I have found I can give myself surprise gifts.
Every so often I decide I have enough money for a couple used books or CDs or some weird Japanese toy or model or something goofy.
So I order something on the 'Net and, of course, the day after I place the order I've forgotten I ordered anything at all.
"What's this package I got in the mail today? Oh, what a surprise! That was really thoughtful of me...
"Thank you, me."
~
8/07/2004 05:33:00 PM
Friday, August 06, 2004
The Immortal Phallacy of Man
(Second image is from Bizarro Postcards, another cheap, fun book from Taschen.)
~
8/06/2004 09:17:00 AM
It's been a long week.
Maybe you should get cleaned up a little.
Sara Allgood, Roddy MacDowall & Donald Crisp:
How Green Was My Valley, 1941.
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8/06/2004 12:01:00 AM
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Looking Around the 'Net...
The thing is, the sheep really doesn't seem to mind...
Why is he looking at me like that? Smug little bastard.
This 1974 exhibition rugby match between actresses and models in England might make a good reality TV show now. I can't believe the sport never caught on. Then again, they do look a little concerned about breaking a fingernail.
(Images found uncredited on the 'Net.)
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8/05/2004 12:20:00 PM
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Aye, Robot.
It's a little plastic robot! About an inch tall! Its arms and head swivel! It rolls on wheels!
And it retails for about 50 cents!
. . . maybe less if, y'know, ages ago, you gave into temptation and nicked it . . . maybe even nicked from a shop where you were, um, working as a security guard, sweating in a ridiculous blue polyester rent-a-cop uniform, forced to listen to a top-40/Lite Favorites of Yesterday and Today radio station as well as the shrill, constant whining of the franchise owner/manager who claims she owns a jewelry shop and only works in her grubby dollar store "to keep herself busy" . . . but those shiny blue polyester pants had flat pockets that showed their contents as conspicuous bulges, so you had to shove your little robot friend and a couple of his buddies where there was already a bulge, but of course the robots hated that because, like we said, you were sweating in those blue polyester uniform pants and, not being a huge fan of the ol' underoos, you were goin' commando that day, and those li'l robots weren't real pleased with the company they kept down there . . .
*ahem*
You know: It could've happened that way.
Anyway, Never Grow Up. You'll no longer be easily entertained.
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8/03/2004 11:05:00 AM
Where the Wild Things Are...
...in San Francisco?
Photo © Clara Todd, used w/ permiss.
"The Wild Things are at the top of the Metreon Sony Multimedia Center off Mission in San Francisco. Yes they are, thats where they live."They've also been sighted here.
And here are Mel Birnkrant's brilliant toys and the story behind them.
Via Mutable, the webpage of webdesigner/technical author Clara Todd, who takes cool photos. Check 'em out!
(Moishe and Bernard are also the official pets of Spuffy.)
~
8/03/2004 09:25:00 AM
