Recipes for the Perfect CD Mix

These are recipes for mixes of the following types and varieties:

1) Mixes made to introduce a person to new and different kinds of music than what they're used to listening to.

2) Gift mixes.

3) Mixes with messages.

4) Themed cds.

Recipes

Mix Type #1
Mix made to introduce a person to new and different kinds of music than what they're used to listening to

These are typically the easiest to make and I usually make them for my sister and/or friends. They also come in two different forms: a) New music for the both of you: Just keep mental track of all the new shit you've been listening to until it builds up and starts spilling over. Then sit down and start moving all these songs into a mix on the computer for said person, hoping to introduce them to some new shit that they haven't already heard. These are typically the mixes I make for my sister since we share so much in music tastes and it's hard to find OLD stuff to make a mix for her with that hasn't been mixed before. b) New music for them, oldies but goodies for you: These are just sudden bursts of energy where you find yourself thinking, "Jesus christ, this person has probably never heard of this song and it is a crying shame that they've gone through life thus far without hearing it once, so I'm putting it on a cd, goddammit, and forcing them to listen to it." These are some of my favorite cds to make.



Mix Type #2
Gift mixes

consist of new music for the other person incorporated with a) songs that remind you of them (typically songs that they will recognize and go, "Oh! I can't believe (s)he remembered that I like that song!" and make them get a little teary-eyed at your thoughtfulness), b) songs that the person is likely to have not heard before, and c) songs that have little messages to said person, typically about how much you heart their beautiful little souls.



Mix Type #3
Mixes with messages

These are mixes that either are SOLELY dedicated to giving the recipient the message that you a) heart them ever so much that you just wanna burst out into song, b) dig them all friend-like and long-term and wanna sit on your couch and play with their hair, c) wanna jump 'em, d) etc. In such a mix, the songs must house hidden messages for them in some sort of apparent way--typically through the lyrics and emotions of the songs. If the message is intended to be subtle, you should include only a spattering of these sorts of songs mixed in with songs you might include on Mix Type #1. Leave the person wondering--is (s)he trying to tell me that (s)he wants to "fuck me like an animal" or is (s)he just a huge NIN fan? Never reveal to them whether or not this cd mix was intended as a secret message revealing how badly you've been jonesing for them for the past 2/3/5 years--leave them guessing (mystery is good!). If the message is one that you want to sing to the world, make every goddamn song do that work for you.



Mix Type #4
Themed Cds

These are cds you get a sudden hankering to make because you have a sudden hankering to listen to these sorts of songs. They are typically moreso for your own benefit rather than another person's, but if they are good, you should of course share them, you selfish bitch. The songs on these cds will have certain thematic strings pulling them together. They consist of cds the likes of "Sexy Songs," "Songs to Listen to Late at Night," "Songs to Listen to First Thing in the Morning," "Songs That Make You Feel Like You're in the Middle of a Nic Fit," "All Up-Beat Happy Oldies Songs" etc. The key to these cds is having an interesting variety of unexpected songs, all of which fall into said thematic category of the cd. These are goddamn fun cds to make, both for yourself and other people.



ALL MIXES MUST HAVE THE FOLLOWING INGREDIENTS:

1) A title that incorporates either some line from a song or a title of a song in some apropos and yet creative sort of way that reveals something about the nature of the cd.

2) NO TRACK LIST (initially at least) -- this is important and integral to the mix-making process. The recipient of said mix must go into the mix having absolutely no clue what song will be coming next. This is the best way to listen and will keep them on their toes and eagerly awaiting each and every song. Giving them the track list with the cd is allowed only if they vow not to look at it until AFTER listening to the cd.

3) A very skillfully picked first and last song. The first song should typically suck the listener in and be unexpected in some way. The last song should wind the listener down and reach some of sort of final punctuation where you know that that's the end and no more songs could possibly be coming.


And there you have it, the perfect recipes for the perfect mixes. Use these recipes wisely. And pay me royalties each time that you do.

-------

This is the Most Important Thing You Will Ever Read

I was gonna write something about something this morning but I forgot what that something about something was.

So instead I will write about cheese.

That was a lie.

Instead I will write about lies.

Or will I?

Maybe I was lying again in saying that.

Maybe this is your first lesson not to trust a blog whose owner says she's gonna write about X but is her own God and can really write about anything she wants.

Especially don't trust her when she didn't actually have anything to write about in the first place and is wasting your time by forcing you to read something filled with false intentions.

Still cheese is good.

Lies as well. But not always. Just sometimes.

Two hot scruffy construction workers held the doors open for me this morning.

Giddyup.

-------

By-Line Contest

Currently in first place is Patrick's "Now that is the kind of puddin' that only two-hundred forty dollars can buy."

So get your suggestions in, folks. Beat Patrick! Destroy him! Conquer him with your martian army and your spike-heeled boots and your 6-inch-thick whip! MAKE HIM BOW TO YOU AND BEG FOR MORE!!!

Enter the by-line contest HERE


(Aforementioned Martian Army)

-------

Mr. Pee-Pants

I suppose I had to write about it eventually. This is the tale of Mr. Pee-Pants.

Early Friday morning, I trekked out to Antioch College with my sibs and mom to see my sister graduate. It had started raining on the way there and so they decided the ceremony would, sadly, have to be moved indoors--sadly because Antioch has managed to have an outdoor ceremony for 25 straight years (we blame my sister who shared with us this fact a couple Saturdays prior, thus effectively jinxing it and calling up the rain gods and goddesses).

The ceremony was like no other--Antioch University is infamous for bringing in controversial commencement speakers. In 2000, the speaker was death-row inmate Mumia Abu-Jamal. This year students voted to have Ward Churchhill speak, but their choice was vetoed by the administration. Instead, alumnus John Sims came to speak. Antioch is a school that prides itself on its radical liberalism (its student population rife with various races, genders, cultures, transgender students, and viewpoints), and John Sims directed most of his speech towards the fact that Antioch chose to silence Ward Churchhill and their students by vetoing him as speaker, tying this in to why Antioch is such an important school and space and needs to stay that way. This received resounding support from the student body.

The student speeches were also like no other. Many spoke of what they'd learned at college, like any commencement speaker. But these speeches were infused of talk of truly embracing diversity--sexual orientation, transgenderism, gender, race, culture, class, etc. And they were infused with a fiery spirit and political passion that I've never even caught a glimpse of in student commencement speeches before. One student devoted her speech to giving Ward Churchhill the space to speak that was vetoed by the administration, reading a lengthy quote by him as her commencement speech. Another spoke of the need for political change and upheaval and how it was the responsibility of the seniors to seek this out. One of my sister's friends introduced her speech with one of the most glorious singing voices I've heard, echoing with passion through the room. Another group of theater students did a short sketch poking fun at Antioch's radical liberalism and making the student body roar. But all student speakers spoke of the same thing--entering the college with fear in their hearts at what a radically different place it was compared to the comforting societal norm of their high schools and how they've wrestled themselves into new places of understanding as they came to absorb and appreciate it all.

Students then received their diplomas, dressed in everything from jeans and a hoodie to dresses and heels to one singular student who'd managed to get her hands on a cap and gown. And each time a student's name was called, the other graduating seniors let loose belly-whopping cheers for them--a show of sincere support (and comraderie) that I've never seen in another school graduation either. They are a tight-knit bunch. They are a good bunch. They are the folks that are hopefully gonna end up wrangling our nation back towards something good, something that makes sense--and they are the folks that are gonna fucking sink their teeth into us and drag us with them.

Oh yeah. But back to Mr. Pee-Pants.

After post-commencement celebrating, we ended up at one of the local bars. I sat around talking with my mom and my sibs until my sister (who'd only gotten 3 hours of sleep the night before due to some pre-graduation partying) could keep her eyes open no longer and headed home. It had started to pour like mad just an hour or so before and the violent lightning had knocked out all the streetlights. So we decided to stick around a little bit longer.

My brother and sister were super-chatty because of the joint they'd smoked earlier as we all sat out in front of one of the academic buildings and chatted about aliens and horror movies and Camp Trans. My sister's ex-girlfriend kept my brother and mom occupied and I chatted the hyperactive manicness out of my sister. Finally, when we realized we had a bit of a drive to get back to the hotel, we took off.

Soaking wet and bellies weighted down with beer, we headed out on the highway. The rain was sheet after sheet after sheet pulled tightly over the windshield. My mom could barely break 50 mph and still manage to see in front of her. We were all slightly chilled because our clothes were damp, and we sat quietly, listening to Sublime. The drive was much longer than expected due to the also unexpected rain. About 10 minutes in, my brother asked my mom how much longer it was. She told him, "No more than 10-15 minutes." Twenty-five minutes later, we still weren't there.

The time kept growing, and apparently so did my brother's bladder. "Man, I've got to piss so bad I'm not gonna be able to hold it much longer" he grunted when another five minutes passed and we still weren't in sight of the hotel. We all laughed a bit, understanding his pain which, coupled with the constant reminder of flowing water all around us, must have been terrible.

He then starts lurching around in his seat, muttering half-drunkenly, "Shit, I don't know if I can hold it. Can we pull over?" Mind you, it's raining Moses-style and to pull over would be dangerous. He's kinda hopping up and down in the seat with growing agitation and my mom suggests peeing into her water bottle. However, one might speculate that she hasn't seen a penis in a while upon catching a glimpse of the bottle--the lip of the bottle is not nearly wide enough to pee into with ease... and without back-spraying action.

My brother has begung to drunkenly whine, and so I shout, "The bag! You can use my plastic bag!" My brother looks at me and says, "No way" but not even seconds later, I'm scrambling to empty it as he begs for relief.

The slight tang of urine wafts through the car as my brother spills out profuse apologies over and over and over again for torturing us so. But then he sighs with relief as his bladder is finally emptied.

Moments later this sweet relief is broken by his sudden realization that the bag in fact has a hole in it.

My sister and I begin to shriek with both laughter and shrieks themselves, and we scramble for (thankfully) another plastic bag, shouting, "Double-bag it! Double-bag it!" And howling with laughter.

My brother is ashamed and not finding it quite so funny (which of course necessitates that we must make fun of him all night for it) and spends the rest of the car ride quietly holding his bag of pee.

My sister and I sit in the back seat, trying not to make eye contact, because with each caught glimpse, we burst into unending peels of laughter and become recipients of my brother's dirty looks.

And so goes the tale of Mr. Pee-Pants.

Whereabouts of the pee-bag are still unknown.

-------

Uri Geller is My Feminist Role Model

I have too many spoons
in my kitchen.
This reeks of domestic conspiracy.

Each nestled one into the next,
soft bunny puffs
with eyes half-closed,
commas abutting 
into pause after pause after pause.

       ...And so it was 
       that knife begot spork
       by spoon...

Each day fitting carefully into next
until I wake up scared
of this polished monotony.

I like my days to sneak up on me,
mind over matter,
convexities instead of concavity.

* * * * * * * *

Workshop away, my droogies.

Or just stare at and ignore.

Either/or.

-------

Tim Seibles

Commercial Break: Road-Runner, Uneasy

If I didn't know better I'd say
the sun never moved ever,

that somebody just pasted it there
and said the hell with it,

but that's impossible.
After awhile you have to give up

those conspiracy theories.
I get the big picture. I mean,

how big can the picture be?
I actually think it's kind of funny —

that damn coyote always scheming,
always licking his skinny chops

and me, pure speed, the object of all
his hunger, the everything he needs —

talk about impossible, talk about
the grass is always greener...

I am the other side of the fence.

You've got to wonder, at least a little, 
if this could be a set-up:

with all the running I do —
the desert, the canyons, the hillsides, the desert —

all this open road     has got to
lead somewhere     else. I mean,

that's what freedom's all about, right?
Ending up where you want to be.

I used to think it was funny — Roadrunner
the coyote's after you      Roadrunner...

Now I'm mainly tired. Not that 
you'd ever know. I mean

I can still make the horizon
in two shakes of a snake's tongue,

but it never gets easier out here, alone
with Mr. Big Teeth and his ACME supplies:

leg muscle vitamins, tiger traps,
instant tornado seeds.

C'mon! I'm no tiger.
And who's making all this stuff?

I can't help being a little uneasy.
I do one of my tricks,

a rock-scorching, razor turn at 600 miles an hour,
and he falls off the cliff, the coyote —

he really falls: I see the small explosion,
his body slamming into dry dirt

so far down in the canyon
the river looks like a crayon doodle.

That has to hurt, right?
Five seconds later, he's just up the highway

hoisting a huge anvil
above a little, yellow dish of bird feed —

like I don't see what's goin' on. C'mon!

You know how sometimes, even though you're
very serious about the things you do, 

it seems like, secretly, there's a 
big joke being played,

and you're part of what
someone else is laughing at — only

you can't prove it, so you
keep sweating and believing in

your career, as if that
makes the difference, as if somehow

playing along    isn't really

playing along as long as you're 
not sure what sort of fool

you're being turned into, especially
if you're giving it one-hundred percent.

So, when I see dynamite
tucked under the ACME road-runner cupcakes,

as long as I don't wonder why my safety
isn't coming first in this situation,

as long as I don't think me
and the coyote are actually

working for the same people,

as long as I eat and 

get away       I'm not really stupid,

right?    I'm just fast.

-------

Jumping On

So I've decided to jump on the contest bandwagon this month.*

Yesterday, while bored, I started fiddling with different things on my blog to spice it up a little. And I got to thinking that I could use a better by-line than "Ruminations on the Randomness of Existence" (which I've begun to get tired of looking at).

I contemplated changing it to the simple "Classy" for a while, in honor of an embittered past response to blog. But that seemed a bit too short.

I then contemplated changing it in honor of a more recent embittered response, calling it "'Pretentious' and Loving It" (Lord knows, I am very much ashamed that due to these recent events, it's finally come out that--parents, cover your children's eyes and tell them to press their hands against their ears--I am a philosophy major who *sob* actually still enjoys discussing philosophy and *choking on own tears* finds such discussions valuable).

But that just doesn't seem to have the right kinda ring to it either.

Last night I thought of several others:

"Let's Punch Things"

"Why I Got Beat Up in High School" and

"Philosophical Ravings of the Abrasive but Foxy L: Or "A Razorblade Tampon in the Pooter of the Universe"" (which may become the new one for the time being).

But none of these really wet my whistle, tweaked my G-spot, rotated my tires either.

So, my humble readers, I give to you the honor of choosing my next by-line.

Submissions will be accepted for the next 2 weeks, through May 6. You can submit your suggestions through the comments section of today's blog.

My favorite byline(s)** will be used as my new by-line(s) shortly after the contest has ended.

Your reward will be seeing your witty words emblazoned like a tatt on my blog. (And if you really feel the urge, you can try to convince me in your submissions as to what other prize should be given to the first place winner.)





_______________
*Check out Organic Mechanic for your chance at destroying others with your poetry and Land of the Anxious Dog to destroy people with your vast knowledge of poop metaphors.

**If I am smitten with more than one, I will incorporate several headings onto the blog over the course of the following months.

-------

6,000 Words or Less

My bedroom vibrates.

For a while I thought I was imagining things, but I've come to terms with the fact that my bedroom does in fact jitter and wobble and shake--and in turn, my bed jitters wobbles and shakes which in turn causes me to jitter wobble and shake.

*Cue some sort of joke about "If the room is a-rocking, don't come a knockin'"*

I live about a five minute walk from both the freeway and a set of railroad tracks. These are the major sources of my nightly wobblement.

I don't mind though. When a train rolls through and my room starts to tilt and gently sway, it lulls me to sleep. It's like resting your cheek against someone's chest, the train's pulse beating out a quiet gentle rhythm on my skin.

The sound of the traffic from the freeway is lulling as well. I sometimes sit in my bed at 12:30 am or later and marvel at the sounds of what seem to be millions of cars pouring by on the highway. It quiets me down and puts me in my place as a mere grain of sand. All these people driving by, creating art for me, composing the cacophonic backdrop just so, weaving ever so skillfully hundreds upon hundreds of sounds until they dance together and apart and cancel each other out into a quiet hush like a wave of cool night air crashing against my window screen. All this careful creation of noise by hundreds of people, all just so I can fall asleep at night.

I am honored.

Last night a comedian I saw stated that women speak about 6,000 words each day and men speak about 2,000 (or so she read somewhere). I thought about this, my feet wrapped tightly beneath bedsheets last night.

6,000 words.

That seems so starkly minute in number.

2,000 words even moreso.

It kind of made me sad as I lay listening to the traffic roll by in waves like thunder. All these people passing mere feet from each other and yet existing miles and universes away.

Every man is an island, and yet we're constantly stretching our isthmuses to desperately reach out to the next. And the one way that we bridge that gap is through the give and take of conversation, the rope thrown from us to someone else, begging to be caught. And yet all I manage to spare as I stumble through my days is 6,000 words, tossed out carelessly at those around me. Silence hanging so heavy sometimes between myself and another that I think my words so loud inside my head, sound them out so solidly and clearly in my brain, that I am not sure if I have actually spoken them or not and am forced to ask.

All these stupid ways of connecting that slip by us every day--the train rolling from A to B, the cars criss-crossing mere feet from each other with occupants that don't even spare a nod or a wave, me sitting in my bed, curled and buoyed on late-night traffic, thinking so hard that I worry I've actually spoken these thoughts out loud and wasted 100 or more of my daily and precious alottment, and so give myself over to sleep.

-------

Squirrel-Infested Bloody Massacre, Part Deux

So apparently it is my job and duty as your humble My Defective Life blogger to do the bidding of the masses. Or so I've been told.

And apparently yesterday's Donnie Darko was a ball-busting hit with the masses--don't ask me why.

And apparently the masses won't leave me the fuck alone *sob* until I do what they tell me to do, which today consists of republishing yesterday's heated debate on Come Play With Us, Danny so that further discussion of the movie can ensue and so that readers who didn't jump in to give their two-cents about the movie yesterday can do so. (And to include more squirrels in the republishing as well.)

And I quote:

"Discussing this stupid topic is what the Internet is all about.
Do our bidding."


Squirrel #1

Personally I think republishing yesterday's discussion is like beating a dead, silly, slightly flatulent and gelatinous horse, and doubt that it will yield any more useful discussion on the topic of Donnie Darko, *THE BEST MOVIE EVER TO GRACE THE SCREENS OF HUMANKIND*.

But as I am apparently your humble servant and narrator, yesterday's discussion will follow this enlightening and charming and ever-so-fuckable introduction so that folks can delve back into the dark outskirts of time travel and the emotionally scarred.

And you bastards who bugged me to repost this here better fucking say something useful in my comments section, damn you. =)


Squirrel #2



Yesterday's discussion of Donnie Darko:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Genevieve said...

I've avoided the director's cut because I thought the original explained too much.

8:05 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lauren said...

In what way did the ORIGINAL explain too much?

8:28 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Patrick said...

You're talking to a girl whose favorite director is Lynch. Compared to something like 'Lost Highway', Donnie Darko is almost a pop narrative.

Personally, I have to agree. Again, maybe I've seen too many weird art flicks, but I didn't think DD needed the additional time for explaination. It's been my fear that the director's cut is kind of like the end of 'Vanilla Sky': a really good movie where they felt the need to cheapen it by explaining it all to you at the end, just in case you didn't get it.

8:50 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Genevieve said...

Without spoiling it for anyone who hasn't seen it, the ending is so much like the whole "it was just a dream" thing - the cliche most exemplified by the end of Wizard of Oz. Instead of embracing the magical realism and suspension of disbelief, the ending of the circle with the second time the plane engine falls on the house gives the whole explanation of "oh - this didn't really happen".

I haven't seen it in a long time, but it seems there was a little more at the end that gave stuff away too.

8:58 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lauren said...

Gah! Maybe that's why you thought it was too "simple." I think you may have missed the point of the movie.

The ending was not an "it was just a dream" ending at all. The movie was about time-travel and a tear in the time-space continuum. *SPOILER HERE SO DON'T CONTINUE TO READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE:
The ending is not him waking up from a dream. The loop back to the engine scene is b/c at the beginning where the engine drops in is where the "tear" in the time-space continuum takes place and the characters drift off into a tangent universe. In the end (as we see the sky clouding over and Donnie awakening in his bed with laughter and the engine recrashing through the roof), the tangent universe has folded in on itself and imploded, and there is a return to the non-tangent universe. It was very carefully crafted, and a far-cry from those lazy "it was only a dream" movies.

Check out that link to the Roberta Sparrow book--it will make sense after you look through that, G. And you might appreciate the movie a bit more knowing that it wasn't one of those cop-out "it was only a dream" type flicks.

9:40 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Genevieve said...

I wanted it to be open-ended tho. As I said - I haven't seen it in a while - and so it was really an over-simplified version of what I thought above. I did in fact get the whole space time continuum thing - but - to me - saying that that was an altenate reality and this is what really happened in the real time. As in - the engine falls on the house but Donny is ok and all the strange shit with the light trails and frank happens circling back in the end and the plane engine falls on the house and kills him.

Well - to me - it would have been more interesting if they had worked the one storyline into the real world - in my mind saying 'that was an alternate reality and this is the one we all live in day to day' is a variation of the dream sequence. What I had hoped all throughout the movie is that it truly was magical realism wherein Frank and everything existed in this plane of existence. So - while to you the movie suceeds in its whole metaphysical exploration, to me I see it as one solution to the plotline but not the one I had hoped for. It still allows the viewer to be able to separate things and say - ok - that was a glimpse into the other world instead of pondering - wow - that's in this world - but how?

So - yes - I did 'get' the movie, it just wasn't what I wanted it to be.

9:48 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lauren said...

Hmm. I don't so much see the ending as a "solution to the plotline" (which is what those annoying "it was only a dream" endings seem to be)--to me it was the point of the movie, not some copout "how can I easily wrap this all up" kinda thing.

I mean, the idea of having it be a tangent universe (rather than magical realism where all this was existing in the same plane of the universe) intriguingly opens up a lot of questions: 1) is the one "real" universe a composition of all "tangent" universes? 2) do tangent universes exist on different reality planes? 3) are tangent universes equivalent to "possibility" and how does this speak to a movie in which a child is trying to make sense of himself and his place in the universe and pin all these things down? Magical realism seems to me like it would have had less to say and would have opened up less interesting and complicated tangents in looking at the movie.

I mean, assuming that the movie had been conducted in the way you apparently wanted it to be (the whole magical realism thing), what would the "point" of the movie ultimately have been to you (and us as viewers) do you think?

And I guess this opens up a different and interesting question:
Does movie analysis consist of analyzing a film in terms of what you (the viewer) would do if you were to make the movie yourself? Or should it be analyzed in terms of how all its parts fit organically into the whole of the purpose of the movie that is now in existence?

Thoughts, anyone?

10:05 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

harvey said...

Your different question is basically asking what criteria ANY sort of criticism [film, book, music] should follow. Ultimately, that worth is totally subjective. I think two assumptions are inherent to any sort of criticism: a) What you think they are doing and b) how well you think they did it. For two criticisms to be compared effectively, they probably need to have at least one of those in common.

10:17 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Eric said...

when you start going into things along the lines of "i wish the movie was like this," you sort of start leaving the realm of criticism in terms of analysis of the story and style and start edging in on the realm of criticism in terms of finding fault.

it's sort of like looking at a painting and saying, "boy, i wish the painter had painted that man's pants red instead of blue." what you are doing there is asking for the art to CHANGE so that you like it more. and, at the same time, what you are doing is changing the art altogether, hoping to make something of it that it is not. you are asking the art to be more agreeable to your TASTE as opposed to existing as it does, disinterestedly, for your digesting how it is and does exist...for you to make sense of it as it exists in the world. this is all very basic kantian stuff.

you may not LIKE how the art is made. you may not like its compostion, the way it looks, or anything about it, but to wish to change its form is to wish it to be something other than what it is...and by that you say that it is not agreeable to your taste as opposed to saying it is not effective in form. that is an entirely different mode of criticism...

11:06 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Patrick said...

Umm..I didn't think that was being question. she offered her opinion of it. She is saying "Well - to me - it would have been more interesting...". It's explaining why she, in particular, did not like the movie as much as someone else might. She didn't say "this movie sucks" or "it's horribly made."

The movies we see, the books we read, are all *about* taste. Sure, I could read a book that was beautifully written about a subject that bores the shit outta me, but chances are, despite the quality and intelligence of the writing, the book is probably still going to bore the shit outta me. I mean, I can sit and read cookbooks (and not the recipe parts either!), something that interests me to no end..doesn't mean everyone has to like it because it's well written or not.

In short: Though we *do* like it, neither of us like the movie as much as either of you. Big fucking deal. I'm sure there's lots of movies like that. We each offer our opinions (and that's truly all they are). We move on. There's no need to compile some long-winded "logical" arguement as to why one person is right or wrong or attempt to invalidate anyone's arguement.

Anyways, it's not even a horror movie ;)

11:30 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lauren said...

I think all Eric was responding to was my question, not so much attempting to deconstruct Genevieve.

And all I was trying to point out is that maybe her dislike of the movie stemmed from her not clearly understanding it structurally, which is what it sounded like initially since it is NOT in fact a movie that ends with an "it was all a dream" sequence (and I don't think anyone would argue that it DOES end with that).

If one person is allowed to give their opinion, others should be too, Patricia, my Patricia. That is what the comment-space is for.

11:45 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Patrick said...

Oh, I know and, truly, I didn't have any problem with your comments or any of the others, just the tone of the last one I replied to.

that is all.
over and out.
bzzzzz...

11:54 AM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Genevieve said...

OK guys - that's it - you can now do without my commentary. Every time I have ever had a difference of opinion with on this site or the defective site, I get bombarded by L and E telling my I'm wrong and then listing this load of theoretical, philosophical crap like it's debate club, loaded with Deridda quotes or whatnot. Well - you know - just deal with the fact that another person disagrees with you and don't start an argument that basically insinuates that you want to prove that you're more correct and/or smarter than said person. I'm not asking you to agree with everything I think (be it movies, sexual/relationship behavior, the basis of postmodern theory, etc). That said - I bid you farewell to your blogs, because if I wanted drama I'd post in my friends' LiveJournals.

12:04 PM


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jef said...

Oh, relax. Please.

I don't know you genivieve, but you come across as being a bit ridiculous here. You post an opinion on a movie blog, and you're surprised when people react to it? In my mind, the best kind of internet dialogues are ones in which people disagree.

I consider myself to be quite smart and I still don't think that "Donnie Darko" makes complete sense. Please, someone, explain it to me.

The ending of "Donnie Darko" is "Donnie Darko" -- I really don't understand how you can say things like "oh, I wish the ending were different." The ending is the beginning, and the middle, and the end. Yes, I admit I don't entirely understand the film, but I think I understand it enough to make this assertion. If the ending were as you seem to wish it were, the movie would become complete nonsensical crap. This is my opinion, and I have seen both versions of the film many times.

As I am about to post this, I realize that it is more inflammatory than I originally intended it to be. For that I apologize.

Genevieve: clearly your comments are interesting, otherwise they wouldn't create such a stir. Don't take this shit personally.

My twenty won.


12:22 PM

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


michele said...

uh, this blog response is to me, MUCH more interesting than Donnie Darko could ever dream to be.

I say post THIS on Defective Life (add a few squirrels) and hash it out for discussion.

10:14 PM

-------

It Keeps Running, Running, and Running, Running...

Last night I jogged. It was a harrowing experience. Thank god for the infinite infinite infinite patience of good friends (and their ability to cattle prod wussies the likes of myself). I exercise at least twice a week, riding my cute little stationary bicycle "around" my apartment. But I was whipped from here to the moon and back from jogging--my body has not had such a workout in a damn long time, if ever.

Now, let me point out that I am one of those people who feared gym class, who had many a volleyball smashed into her head as she ducked and blocked her face to avoid it, who vowed never to do anything again having to do with physical fitness that had been performed by her in high school once she was finally out of that hell. And jogging used to fall into that category.

My ex- used to pester me all the time to do it. I always refused with screams and shrieks of horror at the mere thought. Even the sudden request to "sprint home--c'mon" was met with disgust and rolled eyes.

So I am happy I have at least gotten over that hump.

Though not with ease or grace, lemme tell you.

My first real run was accompanied by feelings of throwing up, a few mega-cramps in my side, and my shrieks and cries of "I'm gonna die" and "I can't go any further." I'm a whiner--a whiner EXTRAORDINAIRE when it comes to really bad-ass exertion exercising. This is why I usually don't torture people by making them exercise with me. I'm assuming AH has learned his lesson. But then perhaps he has a masochistic streak--I can only hope.

The weather WAS glorious out. The sun was beaming its fat wide grin all over the place. My body hummed with the strain, and every inch of muscle screamed out. My sides ached, my legs ached, my feet ached, I could no longer produce anything resembling spittle, I was dripping with sweat, and when I returned home I realized my face was a ripe shade of red that would have put a tomato to shame--I kid you not.

But all that being said, all the whining and the AH pushing me from behind to get my ass moving, all the wheezing and cramping and dirt coagulated to my back in a thin dusting, all that put aside, I like exercising.

When I'm all done and my body's sorted itself out without dying, it absolutely hums with angelic chords and harps and shoots glorious sun beams from it in every direction. It just fucking feels good. Like I wanna hug the world. Like I wanna fuck each and every thing that is moving on the street. Like I wanna kiss every inch and corner of my apartment. Like I wanna rip off all my limbs and dance with them beneath the moonlight.

I must make plans to jog again.

-------

Kiwi

A review of Fruit #1 on my quest for trying a new fruit every week. *Cue you all making fun of me for never having had a kiwi before*



Uniqueness: The kiwi is bristly and furry on the outside, kind of like a boar or wilderbeest. It is a brilliant and vivid green on the inside, kind of like the color that everything turns right before a thunderstorm. Visually and tactily, it is definitely a unique fruit.



Flavor and consistency: The kiwi is sweet with a bit of tartness. (The softer the kiwi when you squeeze it, the sweeter the kiwi; the harder, the more sour.) The consistency is soft and yet slightly crunchy due to the tiny delicate black seeds inside--the crunchiness of the seeds is my favorite part.

Healthiness: Of all fruits, it has the most nutrients packed into 100 grams of its kiwiness. (Read more.) A kiwi a day also helps the heart in the same way that taking an aspirin a day helps it. (Read more.)

Ease of consumption: Slice it in two, grab yourself a spoon, and you have a perfectly delightful snack.

Complaints: None.

Overall: I had a friend nab me 9 more of these from the market over the weekend--need I say more?

Grade: A

-------

Yeah

Elliot: Those gyno girls are really putting the pressure on. We must have looked at a hundred women's bajingos today. Bajingo, bajingo, bajingo. I mean, I can't even look at my own bajingo, you know?
Carla: Is that because it looks so much like a vagina?
Elliot: (chokes) Carla, there's people!
(I {heart} Scrubs.)

Things that are complicated:

Making decisions, boys, boys making decisions, talking while chewing taffy.

My goal for the next two months:

To try a new piece of fruit from the WSM each week that I've never had before.

Reasons you love me:

'Cause I'm a glorious DD-cup bajingo-toter!

This apparently is a monkey on training wheels:



And here is a picture of a squirrel, so I can rub Adam's face in my squirrelness one more time:



Happy weekend.

-------

Things I Like to Do to Entertain Myself in the Bathroom at Work

(None of which are dirty because those activities are reserved for BAR bathrooms only):

Try to sustain my urine flow as long as the other people in the bathroom--if I succeed, I win; if I fail, they win (though I try to avoid TELLING them that they've won);

Contemplate the different aural sounds of the urine flow--the soft quiet one that barely ripples the water, the loud splashy one that announces with proudness your job in urinating;

Pee;

Take a reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally long time to wash my hands when someone is silently sitting in the stall, waiting for me to leave so they can shit;

Try to make sure that I pee loud enough for other bathroom occupants to hear before they leave the restroom so that they don't think I'm one of the silent pooper-preppers listed above;

Fake bang the tampon/maxi-pad garbage can a few times so it sounds like I'm changing my tampon (I'm still not quite sure why I find this entertaining);

Hold my breath.

-------

GROWRRRR!

I wish when I got angry I turned into the Incredible Hulk. With all the shirt-ripping and sudden loss of shoes.

But with mean green boobies*.












________
*You better as hell shower me with gifts and flowers and moolah, Michele, because that's the second mention of tits in one day.

-------

A Picture for You to Touch and Fondle

This is an awesome picture that my friend the One-F Man took:



I normally do not like to let my friends know when I admire something that they do (or that I even like them for that matter), but I keep coming back to this picture and since I'm surely gonna run out of something to post at the top of the hour for 5 solid hours, I thought I'd share it with you all.

Now I must say something mean and evil about the One-F Man to balance out this suddenly rainbows and unicorns and pink puffy hearts moment:

Um.

One-F Man, I hear your wiener is small.

Good day.

-------

The Pink Panther Returns

So while painting yesterday, I found myself thinking about the following:

I like to paint and draw people. That's my absolute favorite subject because people (no matter who they are) are fucking beautiful.

The problem I run into is wanting to paint or draw famous people on occasion--and this desire probably just stems from easier access to some damn fantastic photos of famous people (as opposed to damn fantastic photos of average joe shmoes which are probably fewer and further between).

Say I get a hankering to paint, um, John Lithgow (good Lord, I have no clue why that was the first person to pop into my head because I have no real desire to paint John Lithgow, but we'll run with that for now). The only access I have to painting him really (other than stalking him or trying to get his permission to feebly paint him) is from a photo. And photographs are their own pieces of art.

So I run into the dilemma of whether or not painting from a photo is art-theft. I mean, the photographer has taken the time to make light and color and composition and positioning etc etc etc beautiful, to skillfully maneuver those things around one another to capture something about a person. And then I'm going and ripping it off it seems. Or am I?

This is where I'm stumped.

John Lithgow be damned.



What do you folks think?

-------

Linseed Oil

Yesterday I spent $37.70 on replenishing my oil paint supplies. I haven't oil painted in... hrm... at this point, at least 5 years I think? I don't know what ever happened to all my old oil paints and brushes and the like, but they probably got lost long ago in the mess of my mother moving. But when I move around my apartment, my body screams out to be stretching itself, plying itself into art in some way. I've noticed this for the past couple weeks and was trying to appease it through occasional sketching. But it needs something that pulls out the movement of more of my body, and painting does that. It's like a ballet.

Cracking open some of the paint and the bottle of linseed oil though--man. That scent, that earthy rich scent at your fingertips, I cannot even tell you what an excellent sensual thing it is. Like plunging your fists into a muddy earthy garden right after it's rained. It's an amazing and stimulating scent.

I am no good painting with colors. It drives me mad. I know basic rules of painting--always do darks before lights, for example, because you can always get a dark color lighter but it's fucking hard as all get-out to get a light color darker. That sounds almost worthy of some sorta philosophical analysis, some painting cum Aesop's fable or something. Anyways, I know the basics. I think I have a natural instinct for drawing and painting anyways--not necessarily a TALENTED instinct, but I can sense what to do, where to go. But colors just floor me.

There's a scene in that movie Girl with a Pearl Earring where "Vermeer" asks his servant-girl to look out the window at the clouds and tell him what colors she sees. The typical response would be white and blue. But she starts rattling off all these fantastic colors with this distracted look of utter admiration in her eyes.

That!! That glittering admiration!! That plethora of colors hidden in any one thing! That's what makes painting so goddamn impossible. That's what makes me admire the shit out of painters.

Last night I carefully set up a still-life on the top of my roll-top desk: a green bottle of red wine and two wine glasses, one upright, the other fallen on its side. I am cheap and failed to buy an easel, so I painted with the canvas propped in a ridge on the desk's roll top.

The light from outside fell, spilled, danced through the window, warming up the wood, trembling ecstatically through the deep reds of the wine, faltering on top of the glasses. And as I painted, it slowly trickled off, puddling up onto the floor and then seeping through the floorboards to the neighbor downstairs until only the bright nausea of the kitchen light was left.

That was when I stopped and left the colors to coalesce and rejuvenate and sing through the morning in a warm chorus until tomorrow when they can taunt me some more.

-------

Every Hour, On the Hour

I am contemplating posting at the top of the hour, every hour today until I leave. Contemplation is vastly different from action though, so don't hold your breath.

-------

Nipples the Squirrel

For Michele*

Once upon a time, in a land awash in nuts and acorns, a squirrel was born, and her name was Rita. She had a fairly normal childhood, skittering around parks, chattering with her friends, darting out in the street and freezing as a car came and then streaking back to the curb. When she turned thirteen, all this changed.

Female humans begin to go through changes when they near this age--they grow hair in strange places, their breasts begin to sprout, they begin to bleed. Squirrels are lucky and never have to suffer from these problems--perhaps that's why their chattering always sounds a bit like mean-spirited laughter when directed at humans.

But for Rita it was different--about the time she turned thirteen, she began to develop breasts... human breasts. At first they were fairly small and not very noticeable. She would just skitter quickly from tree to tree, her lower body slouched closer to the ground so that her newly changing form could go unnoticed. But after a few months, there was nothing she could do to hide it anymore.

She was developing into a DD-cup.

This was not good.

Her father had skittered out on the family in search of other trees and other places to bury his nuts when Rita was still young. She grew up pretty much fatherless, so it was her mother that she ran to with such problems. But there was nothing that Rita's mother could even BEGIN to think of doing to solve Rita's newfound dilemma. I mean, these were HUMAN BREASTS and they were on a squirrel. And not only were they human breasts, but they were the plumply seductive, glisteningly firm human breasts of your typical Playboy bunny.

Had Rita been a thirteen your old at a public school for humans, she would've probably been the most popular girl in the 7th grade. But this was not the case. Friends slowly stopped calling her. Mothers would cover their children's eyes when Rita ran by.

And needless to say, running quickly became a problem. Her legs were now about as effective as chicken legs on an 800-pound man trapped in his bathroom. Her mom had to make her special contraptions to wear on her feet so that she could navigate through sidewalks and grassy lawns. But they forced her to move slow and lurchingly, a bit like the Frankenstein monster. And the oddity of human breasts placed on her squirrel-body only emphasized this monsterly quality.

Getting up and down trees was also a near impossibility. Usually her Mom and her Mom's new boyfriend Willy would manage to help drag her into her sleeping hole at the end of the day, but sometimes she was too exhausted to even try and would fall asleep curled up around her massive breasts at the base of the tree, crying herself quietly to sleep.

When she was 14 and now completely friendless, some teenage human happened to notice her and her humongous breasts lurching through the park.

After that date, not only did she have to contend with her complete and total rejection from the squirrel community (her and her mom were driven out of their home at 3 am one night by squirrels chanting GET OUT, YOU ABOMINATION! and the base of their tree being set on fire), but she had to contend with human paparazzis itching to get just ONE picture of her for their papers. This also invoked the wrath of the squirrel community because their once quiet park was now abustle with constant human traffic--tree holes were getting gunked up with chewed gum, pop cans, used condom wrappers. Something had to be done.

So Rita took off for the city on the eve of her fifteenth birthday. She knew her Mom would object to her leaving, but she also knew that her Mom looked like she had aged at least 20 years just within the course of a few months from all the madness. So she knew it would be the best for the both of them.

She scurried into the city on a windy and rainy afternoon. The puddles swirled with rainbows of oil and trash clung to the curbs with a certain sad desperation that Rita understood.

This was the land of freaks and misfits, Rita thought to herself. This was the place where the underbelly of society thrived. Surely she could make it here.

And she was right. At first.

She was finally graced with a plethora of friends once again--squirrels were few and far between but the sewer rats and a few of the pigeons took to her immediately. There was one rat that was particularly fond of her--his name was Jim and he was the oldest in a gang of slick-backed, Marlon Brando-esque rats. He showed her a love that she hadn't felt from anyone but her Mom in a long time, and she began to spend lots of time with him.

He didn't just accept her human tits, he loved and admired them.

One Saturday night, in the city park, in the underbrush off the main path of joggers and horse-drawn carriages, she let him finally touch them. His sleek coat glistened in the moonlight as he ran his padded little paws over them--her nipples hardened in response. And then they made sweet sweet love--it was her first time, and minus a few fumblings and near misses (squirrels and rats don't fit quite so well together as one might think), she glowed with happiness.

She was soon swept up into Jim's world. But it wasn't until she was sufficiently sucked into it that she realized a few things about him, one of the most harrowing being that he had a major drug problem. At first it started out recreationally--him and his leather jacket-wearing cohorts would sneak into the apartments of the well-known drug dealers on 7th and dip into their stash. Originally, they would just nip a bit of bud. But this quickly escalated into full-blown nights of cocaine and heroin use. This was when she was introduced to Jim's other side.

One night, Jim was so strung out that he decided it would be fun to drag out his girl with the huge human tits and let his friends have a go at them. Rita was petrified. But she was in love with Jim and wanted to make him happy. This was when her drug usage started--she did a couple lines at the bidding of Jim to ease her into the situation a little more comfortably. And then she went off into the backroom with two of his friends at a time. The next morning, she awoke to a clouded memory and several rat-tooth bites on her left breast.

The drug usage and rampant promiscuous sex soon spiralled out of control--Rita started letting some of Jim's gang's archenemies fondle her behind the phone booth on 8th in exchange for a little bit more coke. When Jim found out, he beat her senseless. She awoke in the morning and knew she had to get out of there--he had begun to beat her on a regular basis and his friends would sometimes join in if they were drunk or strung out enough.

She ran off to a park on the east side of the city, determined to start anew. But her crack and coke habit was inescapable, and she found herself turning tricks, letting other rats and one squirrel with a terrible mange problem fondle her monstrous human tits in exchange for drugs. She finally cracked and realized she had to get help when she woke up one morning with a dirty pigeon named Ricky in bed with her and a rat's head placed at the foot as some sort of trophy. She screamed and sobbed and that was the moment she decided to run--to run and run and run and hopefully stumble into a new life.

Her running took her straight in through the doors of an NA meeting in the sewers of Chinatown--you couldn't run very far in the city WITHOUT running into one of these meetings. Once she took that step, she continued to improve her life--she spent a month getting through the withdrawal. A pigeon named Sandy that took to her because they shared similar backgrounds (Sandy was born with a large human vagina) got her through those times--held her hand while she screamed and sweated out the evil that she had been consuming for so long. And it was Sandy who gave her the nickname "Nipples."

After Rita had been in NA for a few months, she started a little place of her own in a tree at the edge of Smythe Park. Sandy lived there as her roommate--rent was high on this end of town so it was easier to split between the two of them. Sandy had been clean for 2 years, so she was a fantastic crutch for Rita and they quickly grew close. Sandy was the kind of person who didn't care what others thought of her--she had a huge human vagina, but she wore it proudly. Rita admired her and began to try doing the same. Sandy was sure to remind her every day how beautiful and empowering breasts were to human women and remind her that they could be the same for her as well--IF she really wanted it to be that way.

It didn't take long for Rita to realize that she was falling in love with Sandy, Sandy her crutch and her empowerer. She tried to ignore the feelings--she didn't know if Sandy was even into squirrels, much less WOMEN. But finally one day she cracked--Sandy had told Rita that she thought maybe she should move out, and Rita just let loose all the feelings she'd been hiding for such a long time.

Sandy looked shocked. She was speechless--something that Rita'd never before seen. And then Sandy leaned in and kissed Rita--she kissed her hard and with an unexpected longing that Rita'd never before sensed in her. Rita's heart and body and mind lit up like a million suns.

That night they made love over and over and over--Rita'd always been a bit freaked out by the concept of pigeon-squirrel interspecies dating, but no longer. Rita's human breasts had found a home, a place of love, a place of understanding, in the lips of Sandy. Sandy took her again and again and again, and it was sweet and it was beautiful and Rita's breasts hummed with an electricity never before felt.

Sandy and Rita continued to live together and sought out church that would perform a interspecies and intergender marriage ceremony for the two of them. On January 24th of 2004, they were wed. They went on to found a support group called FAWHP (Freaky Animals with Human Parts) and were amazed at the huge community response.

Rita felt blessed. Finally and truly. Her human breasts were no longer a monstrosity, a source of fear and awkwardness. They were a blessing that had led her to all this, and whenever she reminded herself of this, she wept a tiny bit and then gave Sandy that mischievous come-hither look and they'd worship them again and again and again, loudly and happily, throughout the night.

________________
*Who emailed me to say "you should write more in your blog about your tits. I always enjoy those posts the best. Not that squirrel stories don't turn me on either, but only if they are girl squirrels. With tits."

-------

Eschaton

Still only about 350 pages into David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest and I'm really starting to drag and find excuses not to pick it up...

That is until yesterday, when I hit the chapter on the game Eschaton--it is worth trudging through the first 350 pages of this book if for nothing more than this chapter. In this chapter, a bunch of child prodigy tennis players around the ages of 12-14 meet up for their version of a game called Eschaton which is a game of world domination that involves tennis courts, territories and countries, nuclear missiles in the form of tennis balls, beanies that signify different states of activity--particularly a fall into complete worldly and political chaos and armageddon--and handfuls of early teens.

All the kids involved are wicked smart children, the game a slow-moving one that involves strategy and carefulness.

However, when one kid decides to bomb another child in the head with a tennis ball (opening up the question of whether someone outside of the actual game board can become an actual part OF the interior of the game), all chaos erupts and the game spirals out of control--the armageddon beanie's propeller is spun, and the court erupts into a madness of kids beating on each other, pegging each other with tennis balls, exploding computers, vomiting everywhere.

It is one of the funniest and most unexpected moments in a book that I've read in a long while.

-------

Hunter S. Thompson

So I snagged a copy of the March 24, 2005 Rolling Stone tribute to Hunter S. Thompson just this yesterday. And I am just floored by some of the stories in there--I don't think I've laughed out loud so many times just hearing people reminisce about a person. He really is a damn fascinating guy. So I wanted to post a link to the pages and pages of blurbs that Rolling Stone compiled from friends and family. But wouldn't you fucking know it, they are the only part of that issue that doesn't seem to be posted on-line of course. So here's the other articles from the mag--they's good too, but if you get a chance, definitely definitely nab yourself a copy of the issue with him on the cover and read the lengthy tales of his adventures. It'll make you feel all warm n' fuzzy n' full of lsd and amphetamines inside.

The not-as-funny articles

-------

Things That Done Happened This Weekend

1. I had an eerie run-in with a squirrel this past Friday, one that was reminiscent of the infamous one-eyed squirrel incident.

I'm sitting outside Friday afternoon, still only on page 350 of Infinite Jest, sucking up some much needed sun and reading my beady little heart out. My laundry is whirring away in the house behind mine, and I am curled up on the bench outside the back house. As I'm reading, I notice with amusement two squirrels chasing each other around the neighbor's yard. One is the fattest squirrel I've ever seen. The other is a normal skinny squirrel. The skinny squirrel seems to be trying to drive Obesely Fat Squirrel out of its backyard, and Obesely Fat Squirrel is pissed and screeching and chattering at it like mad. I'm kinda grinning to myself and laughing because the squirrel is JUST SO GODDAMN FAT. So Skinny Squirrel chases Obesely Fat Squirrel over into my yard and glares at it from its perch atop the fence dividing the two. Obesely Fat Squirrel screeches and chatters at it angrily a few more times before Skinny Squirrel wanders off down the fence and out to the street. I chuckle to myself again and then return to my book.

About five minutes later, I notice that Obesely Fat Squirrel is running around in my backyard. As I sit watching it, it starts running towards me, and I kinda smile to myself again as its fat pendulous belly jiggles to and fro as it runs. And then the fat fucker JUMPS ON ME. I kid you not. This fat little squirrel beelines straight at me while I sit smiling like an idiot and waiting for it to swing to the right or left to run around me. It lands on my curled up legs and I eke out a feeble 'Jesus Christ, Squirrel' when it lands and it then pauses and stares at me for a second as though to say 'That's what you get, bitch, for sitting on MY bench.' It then leaps up into the tree and sits for a minute, shouting down chattered squirrel obscenities at me. I cried and ran home. The End.

2. E and I decided we were going to open a bar of some sort and spent Saturday night leaning over beers and pizzas and trying to decide on a name for our bar. Winning suggestion: 'The Man on the Rotating Platform' (the 'theme' of which would be a different man sitting on said rotating platform every week while patrons came and went. Other runner's up: 'The Flaccid Wiener,' 'My 10-foot Pussy,' 'I Kissed Your Girlfriend,' 'Octopussy,' and 'I Fucked Your Mom and She Sucked.' Keep your fingers crossed for funding.

3. Went down to Antioch to visit my sister and see her give her senior project which was a fantastically good video she'd created to give women a safe space to discuss themselves as survivors of sexual abuse. It was damn hot out and I now have a trucker's sunburn.

4. A new noise has arrived into my neighborhood. It resembles the sound of a tennis ball being whipped at the side of a brick house. I have no clue what is making this noise, but it is mildly maddening listening to it as you're trying to fall asleep.

-------

How Hard My Nips are Today in Sub-Zero Overly-Air Conditioned Office-Land

1. So hard that they have four tears tattooed under their left eye and have at least four inmates who the nips refer to as their bitch.

2. So hard that I stumbled into someone and my right nipple accidentally severed their arm.

3. So hard that I was sneaking into the Norway Museum to steal another of Edvard Munch's famous paintings and was able to use them to cut a small hole in the window just large enough to unlock the door and sneak in.

4. So hard that they ride a Hog and wear hand grenades under their jacket and can shoot a bunny down from 1/2 mile away.

-------

Jaunty

I think the "cardigan thrown jauntily* over the shoulders" fad should come back in style.

And I think I am the one to head this revolution.




________

* Also, I think the use of the word "jaunty" should come back in style as well, but I will leave that one to you, my minions.

-------

A Poem that Wanted to be a Haiku But Wasn't

There is absolutely
nothing interesting
about the spatula.

-------

The 2005 Animation Show

Though I suspect Organic Mechanic will probably write a more complete and debonair and enema-like review of the 2005 Animation Show, I figured I'd offer my two cents as well.

The gratuitously tall and gawkily egotistal Organic Mechanic lent me a copy of Volume 1 of the Animation Show about a year or so ago. It is an excellent excellent dvd and I highly recommend it, if for nothing more than the wet-yourself funny Don Hertzfeldt shorts. (There are of course many other hilights as well, but nothing beats the Hertzfeldt shorts.)

I eagerly awaited seeing the new batch of animated shorts at the Cleveland Cinematheque this past Friday, and I definitely was not disappointed. In fact, I actually found myself liking them *MORE* than the first volume. The first volume takes the cake simply because of the wacky Hertzfeldt shorts. But the non-Hertzfeldt shorts in this most recent 2005 show were definitely much more funny and touching and visually stimulating than the first batch, in my humble opinion. I was delightedly surprised and surprisingly delighted.

I actually had a difficult time picking favorites, there were so many I enjoyed. And surprisingly, the Hertzfeldt short was not among them. My absolute favorite, after much hemming and hawwing, I think I've decided was Hello, a cute little short that anyone who has ever made a mixed cd for someone else (whose songs were intended to be little messages to that person) would appreciate and connect with. I THINK you can watch it HERE if you click on the link to Hello on the left.

In this short, an old '80's style boombox

finds himself smitten with a hi-tech new stereo. The characters in the short can only speak through the music that they play. The problem is that the 80's style boombox must speak through cassettes and every time the sexy stereo chick walks by, he finds himself unable to flip cassettes quickly and well enough to speak to her. The sexy stereo however has a 5-10 disc capacity and remote control, so she can quickly skip from song to song to say whatever needs to be said. Upset and saddened by his inability to connect with her, the boombox seeks solace and advice from an old phonograph. The phonograph searches through his extensive library of records until he finds the perfect one. He plays it for the boombox who presses down the record button and records it onto a blank tape for himself. Finally, he gets the nerve to knock on the stereo's door and when she answers, he hits play. The results capture her heart and leave the two dancing in a hallway with one another. Really damn sweet.

Other favorable mentions:

Bill Plympton's Guard Dog was hysterical and an excellent opening piece revolving around a dog who is overly-protective of his owner and pictures his terrible demise in a variety of horrible ways--from being decapitated by a girl's jumprope to being attacked by a flower.

Ward 13 was probably one of the most kick-ass claymation shorts I've ever seen, featuring extensive and amazingly choreographed fight-scenes, terrible monsters, and a weird-ass horror movie storyline.



The Man with No Shadow was really cool--one of those shorts that you just sit and gawk at and dig without being able to pinpoint exactly why. The transitions from scene to scene are quite lovely, and the parable-like story of a man selling his shadow to the devil in return for riches played out really well with the type of animation used.

When the Day Breaks was another favorite--a strangely touching story revolving around human bodies with farm-animal heads. Strange and lovely.



And finally, Fallen Art, a disturbing blackly comic short about deranged military officers and their vision of art.

If you get a chance, you should definitely check the Animation Show out if it rolls into your town. If it doesn't, be sure to nab it on dvd. Otherwise you really will be missing out.

-------

Random Recipe

Yummy (if I may say so myself) homemade recipe I made this weekend.




Black Bean & Corn Potacos

About 14 oz (give or take) of canned black beans, drained

About 8-14 oz (give or take) of corn

1 clove garlic, diced

2 large baking potatoes

1/2 tspn. cumin

Random amount of cayenne pepper (depending on how spicy you want it)

Some chilis (quantity also dependent on how spicy you want it)

A bit of chopped cilantro for garnish

Whatever taco mixings you like:

In our case...

Lettuce

Cheese

Diced Tomatoes

Hot salsa

Sour cream with lime mixed in

Directions: Poke holes in the baking potatoes and bake them until they are cooked through (about 1 hour at 400 degrees or so). When potatoes are almost done, throw the black beans and corn in a pan. Throw in the garlic, chilis, cumin, and cayenne. Cook until heated through and spices are giving off a nice odor. Remove potatoes from oven. Slice potatoes in two and scoop out the inside, keeping the skins intact. Set insides aside (you can either pitch them or, in my case, throw some butter and seasonings on them and eat them on the side). Fill the potato skins up with the bean/corn mixture. Throw back in the oven for about 10 minutes or so. Remove, top with all your favorite taco toppings, and gorge, Mexican-style!

-------