For your listening enjoyment... mine and Soph's wedding song.
(Just kidding.)
Happy Thursday.
... but for some reason I am still doing the research. Can't tell if I'm just in denial, or harboring the vague idea that they'll wake up one day and be like, "Holy Christmas! We're SCREWED! Get Sheila RIGHT NOW!"
At any rate. This is for you, not them. It's high-LARIOUS.
tic tic tic tic
come rock it for me
Well, THAT was fun while it lasted. Just when I was starting to get the hang of it. I'd blame Kansas, except it's too easy. Though being present might have helped... I only visited the RB offices once in person. The lure of the enterprise, or so I thought, was that it could be conducted entirely from within the virtual realm.
The good news is, more time to write. The bad news is, more time to feel melancholy and strange. My last remaining superficial tie to a life elsewhere has been snipped. I am floating.
6:41pm Sunday night
Independence, Kansas
I go for a run around a huge nearby cemetery, while the sun is setting. Drenched in thick orange light and surrounded by the dead, I become disoriented.
My feet are touching the dirt in rhythm but they don't belong to me. I am slower than I should be.
My shirt feels heavy. I tear it off.
I leave it there in the road, along with the part of me that wills myself to engage with the world.
On a rural Kansas road in a place where I know no one...
I stop feeling my body.
This must be what it's like to die underwater.
PS- For those of you more in the mood for a giggle than a drown, please visit Mr. Urbaniak's post on "Dash Riffing."
Once again, I must throw into question the intentions of the graphic designers on Google's holiday banner staff.
At first, this may be perceived as a seemingly innocuous and whimsical tribute to the Irish. However, when taken into account things like scale, sublimation, and inference, this is a most sinister commentary.
First of all, look closely at the clover. On its own, not remarkable. But placed betwixt the other letters, we may note something curious... as we understand from past holiday banners (items one and two), these letters approximate the size of a human bust. Therefore, this is no ordinary-sized clover; this is a monolithic clover.
But how did it get so big? Normal clovers flourish in moist soil; however, this one appears to be emerging from a stew of viscous green sludge. This may suggest that a toxic concoction of environmental waste has birthed a new breed of Super-clover. One can only imagine the attributes of such a diabolical creation (massive physical strength? empirical wisdom? a recognition of the uselessness of mankind and an overwhelming lust for genocide?)
If we track previous banners throughout the years, we have further evidence that something is amiss. For example:
So. We can make several assumptions about the intentions of Google on this year's holiday. Either:
1) They are providing a subtle yet powerful commentary on environmental abuse; or2) They are in collusion with a super-race of plant-based aggressors; or
3) They are fucking with us. Again.
It's new. It's so new it hurts to even talk about it. I'm working on it out here and then out there and then who knows. But hoo boy, is it 'in-progress'. And nasty. SURPEMELY nasty. And naughty. And dirty. And wicked. And all the things you love, baby.
Don't tell anyone.
Four hints:
1. She is a short distance from Bill's Bargains, a second-hand crap store that smells like old dog, where an elderly woman wearing a curly amber wig sold her a dirty pyrex baking dish earlier today for six dollars;
2. She is also a short distance from a nearby zoo, inside which the legendary Monkey Island may be found, where locals have allegedly tossed stray cats and watched them get (ahem) fouled by amorous monkeys until they have heart attacks and die;
3. She is in a state where evolution does not exist. Or rather, isn't regularly taught. (Or both?);
4. She is living in the childhood home of an alcoholic suicidal playwright.
Any guesses?
From CNN:
Shy and fighting back tears as she accepted induction, Smith recalled friends and family who didn't live to see the day. Shortly before he died, Smith's husband Fred "Sonic" Smith asked her when she did make the hall of fame to "please accept it like a lady and not to say any curse words."The bohemian poet straddled the hippie and punk eras, with her album "Horses" setting a standard for literate rock. She performed her biggest hit, "Because the Night," co-written with Bruce Springsteen, and the Rolling Stones' classic "Gimme Shelter."
Smith's mother also didn't live to see her daughter make the hall of fame, but passed on some instructions.
"I'm not going to make it," she recalled her mother saying. "When you do, sing your mother's favorite song, the one I like to vacuum to."
Saying "this is for you, mom," Smith performed her 1977 song "Rock 'n' Roll N-----."
Thanks, RH.
A bazillion years ago I got tagged, as one is wont to do. It has taken me this long to answer the call. But the time is nigh...
So. FIVE THINGS YOU MAY NOT KNOW ABOUT ME.
1. I designed and maintain the 13P website. Although some of you might know that. Are these secrets, or BLOG secrets? Or just odd facts that no one knows or cares about? At any rate, I make websites and postcards to make ends meet. If you'd like to visit my outdated portfolio, please say hi to Mr. Savage Candy III, D.D.S.. Not to be confused with Sir Trumpet Winsock III, D.D.S. (Only one person on earth will appreciate that).
2. My five best friends (besides Sophy) are: a wine importer, a new media activist, a feminist historian, a choreographer, and a research scientist. I would kill for these people. They are my family.
3. I am allergic to penicillin. When I take it my lungs constrict and I get blotchy and I speak in tongues and forget who you are. Don't give it to me. Ever.
4. I took gymnastics as a child for several years, because I was small and could hold my own body weight for enormous stretches of time. And I was incredible zealous. But I also hated pain. So in fourth grade, the same year I was kicked out of band for squeaking my clarinet reed while trying to play louder than the other kids, I also removed myself from my gymnastics team because my inner thighs hurt from doing too many splits. (Wimp.) However, I can still do a back bend and a running front handspring. (Rock?)
5. I started my writing career as a poet and prose writer. I took my GRE's thinking I would get a degree in comparative lit, but applied for grad school in playwriting on a whim. And went with it.
FIN.
Okay, here are five things you may not know about YOU.
1. You are so much more beautiful than you imagine, and I am always slightly in love with you when I'm around you.
2. You have at least two deeply committed admirers you know nothing about.
3. Your most poignant desires are worthy of attention, even if they seem frivolous right now. You'll probably notice this later, in ways that surprise you.
4. You have a very lovely way of phrasing things, and people often notice but are embarassed to tell you.
5. I wish I could see you right now, through my computer screen, as I type this. I would touch your face and say "thank you for being here," but really I would mean something much more private, that only you and I would understand.
One of the quirks (perks?) of my new job is I get paid to trawl the net endlessly in search of really weird shit. My eyeballs may burn out of my head by the time I'm 50, but I will have a bank of images stored up in my brain for decades to come. Such as... this:
Too Racy For RB!! But Not For SC...
Is it a fetish or an addiction? And what's the difference between the two, anyway? Is it unhealthy, should I seek help? Or is it about aesthetic satisfaction? An acute appreciation of the sensual? Is the difference between addiction and appreciation simply the level of guilt involved, or whether or not it adversely affects the rest of one's life?
These are the questions I ask myself during my weekly swoon over at this site. I have yet to cook anything on the site. I just look.
I mean COME ON!! Right?
Wheeeee! Sexism in advertising yet again! Never gets old... and it's so true, chicks ARE like meat when you heat 'em up.
Also fantastic is the implication that a woman who just wants a coffee is a "zero" while a mostly nude woman who splays herself on your furniture in seventy seconds is "tasty".
[via feministing]
