Hooray, it's time for some more fabulous media randomness!
This is sheer genius, and I can't stop watching it over and over. It's really perfect. Except for the obvious CG and the fact that Marge is driving on the wrong side of the car, of course.
Real-Life-Simpsons-Intro by rajucheema
Pigs flying in Russia! Very atmospheric.
Song: "My Bathroom Is A Private Kind Of Place," written and composed eons ago for American Standard. Total hilarity.
Song: "Recruit, Train, and Motivate," by the Amway Singers. This was also done eons ago, but for Amway. Total creepiness, yet oddly catchy.
And last, but certainly not least....
Song: "Happy Living," by the Astro Age Steel Orchestra. Imagine a Japanese band performing a Christmas standard. On Carribean steel drums. Yeah. Pretty awesome.
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
bombs and body wash
It's easy for me to forget that there's anything worth blogging about beyond media crap...until I read this:
"The day before yesterday at midnight , I was awaked by a limelight , I put my head under the pillow , and waited to hear the sound of explosion ,( I know that the light speed is faster than the sound in few seconds ), but I kept waiting , and I didn't hear anything , then I realized that it is a projector light of the police on national guards and not a bombing car !!!."
This is from livesstrong.blogspot.com, a blog written by a 14-year-old girl in Mosul, Iraq. 'Sunshine' (her nickname) wants to be an engineer, her mom's a dentist, and life, when it's not being directly threatened, seems to hold a lot of hope for her. Still, it's pretty heartbreaking when she's talking about her grandparents, and then this pops up:
"I was checking my E-mails , and I found an offline message from my grandma says " yesterday your grandpa went to the market , and while he was shopping, the US soldiers started to walk in the street , they were many , your grandpa asked a soldier gently whether he can depart , and do you know what the soldier answered ? he said "shut up". ! grandpa turned to another soldier and asked him the same question " son , can I go of please ?- and the soldier replied " we are leaving, in a moment ".
" I chatted with grandma I was so angry , that soldier's attitude ,affected my respect to the military so badly, because the soldiers should represent their country's ethics and leave a good impression , this bad soldier was so impolite and rude , I told my grandma ( relax grandma , the soldier's parents didn't behave him well , that's in case he has parents , I am sure that he lives in a box under the bridge ,and he is blessed to sleep in a tank ! ) and I still mean what I said , my grandpa is very educated wise respectful man , and he is loved by everyone, , my grandpa is a civil engineer , studied in USA , he traveled round the world because he worked for the "Arab organization for the industrial development" , that soldier SHOULDN'T talk to grandpa like that."
Damn straight. Granted, it's hard to maintain ethics/composure when you haven't been granted proper resources or a furlough in a horribly long time, but there's still no excuse for a soldier to say "Shut up" to somebody's grocery-shopping grandpa. The nerve.
Meanwhile, as all of this is going in Iraq, I'm busily surfing the web and reading about Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty. I'm not sure why Dove's putting so much money into charity work—is it
a) charity junk is tax deductible?
b) coming across as 'fresh,' 'real,' and 'caring' will dramatically improve sales?
c) both a and b?
Or perhaps
d) I am a cynical jerk, and the folks at Dove really care about improving women's self-esteem?
As long as this ultimately brings about constructive change in this world, who am I to complain? It's not like I'm cowering under my bed, waiting for the bombs to hit me. I think I need to go to bed now.
"The day before yesterday at midnight , I was awaked by a limelight , I put my head under the pillow , and waited to hear the sound of explosion ,( I know that the light speed is faster than the sound in few seconds ), but I kept waiting , and I didn't hear anything , then I realized that it is a projector light of the police on national guards and not a bombing car !!!."
This is from livesstrong.blogspot.com, a blog written by a 14-year-old girl in Mosul, Iraq. 'Sunshine' (her nickname) wants to be an engineer, her mom's a dentist, and life, when it's not being directly threatened, seems to hold a lot of hope for her. Still, it's pretty heartbreaking when she's talking about her grandparents, and then this pops up:
"I was checking my E-mails , and I found an offline message from my grandma says " yesterday your grandpa went to the market , and while he was shopping, the US soldiers started to walk in the street , they were many , your grandpa asked a soldier gently whether he can depart , and do you know what the soldier answered ? he said "shut up". ! grandpa turned to another soldier and asked him the same question " son , can I go of please ?- and the soldier replied " we are leaving, in a moment ".
" I chatted with grandma I was so angry , that soldier's attitude ,affected my respect to the military so badly, because the soldiers should represent their country's ethics and leave a good impression , this bad soldier was so impolite and rude , I told my grandma ( relax grandma , the soldier's parents didn't behave him well , that's in case he has parents , I am sure that he lives in a box under the bridge ,and he is blessed to sleep in a tank ! ) and I still mean what I said , my grandpa is very educated wise respectful man , and he is loved by everyone, , my grandpa is a civil engineer , studied in USA , he traveled round the world because he worked for the "Arab organization for the industrial development" , that soldier SHOULDN'T talk to grandpa like that."
Damn straight. Granted, it's hard to maintain ethics/composure when you haven't been granted proper resources or a furlough in a horribly long time, but there's still no excuse for a soldier to say "Shut up" to somebody's grocery-shopping grandpa. The nerve.
Meanwhile, as all of this is going in Iraq, I'm busily surfing the web and reading about Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty. I'm not sure why Dove's putting so much money into charity work—is it
a) charity junk is tax deductible?
b) coming across as 'fresh,' 'real,' and 'caring' will dramatically improve sales?
c) both a and b?
Or perhaps
d) I am a cynical jerk, and the folks at Dove really care about improving women's self-esteem?
As long as this ultimately brings about constructive change in this world, who am I to complain? It's not like I'm cowering under my bed, waiting for the bombs to hit me. I think I need to go to bed now.
Monday, September 25, 2006
better late than never
I understand I'm about two years behind everyone else on this, but if you like the Polyphonic Spree (I preferred them when they were known as 'The Beatles', but they're still okay) and if you also like the game "Myst", then you need to visit questfortherest.com. It took me forever to figure out what the heck to do, so I'll let you in on this tidbit: keep running your cursor over EVERYTHING on screen, and when it turns into a hand, click and see what happens. Eventually, things will make sense. And it will be adorable, not to mention oddly satisfying.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
from the mixed-up files of Ms. Astrid E. Frankweiler
Did you know that people can literally die laughing? As in: they laugh so hard they get a heart attack, or asphyxiate, and there you are? It's called 'fatal hilarity', and yes, there's a Wikipedia entry on it, and no, I will not link to it, because I am feeling lazy. Anyway, I did find this handy list of Nine People Who Died Laughing, and I am still puzzled by the guy who kicked the bucket while watching A Fish Called Wanda. I mean, really? A Fish Called Wanda? Huh.
Also: I stumbled upon this incredible book of world libraries, which, if you're trying to think of a way to impress me, you should NOT buy, because I will be SO in love with this book I will feel ridiculously guilty for not having a gift for you in return. The main reason I bring this up, though, is that I heart libraries, and I heart beautiful architecture, so this unites two great loves of mine in a tidy little package of whimsy and wonderment and makes me feel as if we as a civilization must be doing something right.
To be perfectly honest, I wish I could move into these shrines to knowledge. Screw letting John/Jane Q. Public into the libraries for their pesky book reports/Nobel Prize-winning research/what-have you; I covet the glorious landmarks for myself alone. How cool would it be to have your bed in the middle of one of these airy spaces, vaulted ceilings above you, cool marble floors under your bare toes as you pad around at ungodly hours through the rare manuscripts section? Sigh.
Actually, I'm sure the reality would be rather creepy, so better to leave things as they are, and to dream. Now that I think about it, the closest I've ever gotten to the realization of this fantasy is the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg, in which two kids get to camp out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This fine piece of literature was made into a lousy TV movie, but is still a brilliant, breathtaking book. Konigsburg is a terrific writer in general—she writes characters I wish I could be. Best of all, they save me the trouble of breaking into the Met, for which we should all be grateful.
Also: I stumbled upon this incredible book of world libraries, which, if you're trying to think of a way to impress me, you should NOT buy, because I will be SO in love with this book I will feel ridiculously guilty for not having a gift for you in return. The main reason I bring this up, though, is that I heart libraries, and I heart beautiful architecture, so this unites two great loves of mine in a tidy little package of whimsy and wonderment and makes me feel as if we as a civilization must be doing something right.
To be perfectly honest, I wish I could move into these shrines to knowledge. Screw letting John/Jane Q. Public into the libraries for their pesky book reports/Nobel Prize-winning research/what-have you; I covet the glorious landmarks for myself alone. How cool would it be to have your bed in the middle of one of these airy spaces, vaulted ceilings above you, cool marble floors under your bare toes as you pad around at ungodly hours through the rare manuscripts section? Sigh.
Actually, I'm sure the reality would be rather creepy, so better to leave things as they are, and to dream. Now that I think about it, the closest I've ever gotten to the realization of this fantasy is the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg, in which two kids get to camp out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This fine piece of literature was made into a lousy TV movie, but is still a brilliant, breathtaking book. Konigsburg is a terrific writer in general—she writes characters I wish I could be. Best of all, they save me the trouble of breaking into the Met, for which we should all be grateful.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I would like a muffin, and other pirate-related matters
For those of you who've been living in a cave up until now, the 19th is Talk Like A Pirate Day, and Wikipedia has a pretty comprehensive entry on this. In order to get into the proper spirit, one ought to familiarize one's self with the pirate lexicon:
Talk Like a Pirate Day - The Five A's (performed by the guys who actually invented Talk Like A Pirate Day)
Since no pirate-related holiday is complete without a theme song, here ya go:
Talk Like a Pirate Day - "I'm a Pirate" song (good, rousing chorus; best sung with a tankard of ale in your hand and three hundred of your closest friends)
And for no good reason, other than a few shining moments of pure, mindless entertainment (Arr! Pirates!):
Pirate Practice
The music for the above video is "The Worst Pirate Song" by Ceann.
And now for some depressing piracy news: voting for our nation's President on a Diebold machine is officially hackable idiocy. Arr! What a great way to pollute the memory of pirates everywhere! Diebold-hacking f---ers. If they exist, I will hunt them down, and kick them with my peg leg. Hard.
Talk Like a Pirate Day - The Five A's (performed by the guys who actually invented Talk Like A Pirate Day)
Since no pirate-related holiday is complete without a theme song, here ya go:
Talk Like a Pirate Day - "I'm a Pirate" song (good, rousing chorus; best sung with a tankard of ale in your hand and three hundred of your closest friends)
And for no good reason, other than a few shining moments of pure, mindless entertainment (Arr! Pirates!):
Pirate Practice
The music for the above video is "The Worst Pirate Song" by Ceann.
And now for some depressing piracy news: voting for our nation's President on a Diebold machine is officially hackable idiocy. Arr! What a great way to pollute the memory of pirates everywhere! Diebold-hacking f---ers. If they exist, I will hunt them down, and kick them with my peg leg. Hard.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
jellyfish and jodhpurs
Kinky-sounding molecular names can be found here, but why the heck would you care? I mean, come ON. Get a life. Like, der.
Also: I think this is beautiful, since I like demented takes on Alice in Wonderland.
Hey, check it: I'm regarding a Modigliani!
And I'm getting jellyfish hugs!
(Profuse thanks to the ever-talented Eric Canete, of course.) Does he make me look glam, or what? Better than any photo, I say.
Just FYI, for those of you who keep track of me best through this infernal MySpace device, I'll start teaching directing next week, in addition to cinematography! Those who can, do; those who can't, teach directing. Or something like that. Anyway, wish me luck! My dad asked me if I'm going to start wearing jodhpurs, klieg glasses, and an eye patch, and I'm seriously considering this. To quote IMDb, "it was Raoul Walsh who made the eye-patch almost as synonymous with a Hollywood director as Cecil B. DeMille's jodhpurs."
Now THAT is what I call glamorous. Who needs to actually make movies, when you can just look cool? To hell with actual hard work, I'm just gonna WORK IT. Aw yeah.
Also: I think this is beautiful, since I like demented takes on Alice in Wonderland.
Hey, check it: I'm regarding a Modigliani!
And I'm getting jellyfish hugs!
(Profuse thanks to the ever-talented Eric Canete, of course.) Does he make me look glam, or what? Better than any photo, I say.
Just FYI, for those of you who keep track of me best through this infernal MySpace device, I'll start teaching directing next week, in addition to cinematography! Those who can, do; those who can't, teach directing. Or something like that. Anyway, wish me luck! My dad asked me if I'm going to start wearing jodhpurs, klieg glasses, and an eye patch, and I'm seriously considering this. To quote IMDb, "it was Raoul Walsh who made the eye-patch almost as synonymous with a Hollywood director as Cecil B. DeMille's jodhpurs."
Now THAT is what I call glamorous. Who needs to actually make movies, when you can just look cool? To hell with actual hard work, I'm just gonna WORK IT. Aw yeah.
Wednesday, September 6, 2006
mannequins & mango chutney
Check out these wacky anatomy dummies from ages past. It is pretty interesting to note how our approaches towards the human body shifted over the generations, going from lush ladies with flowing tresses to headless torsoes with abstracted organs in more 'tasteful,' color-coordinated tones. The body lost its soul somewhere, and started being taught as an elegant machine. Intriguing, no?
Speaking of artificial representations of humanity, I love The Little Girl Giant, done by ElectricPig:
And finally, apropos of nothing, I dislike farmers' markets. In the immortal words of Ze Frank, "I don't take candy from strangers, why the hell am I gonna trust 'em with mango chutney?" Amen, Ze. Amen.
Speaking of artificial representations of humanity, I love The Little Girl Giant, done by ElectricPig:
And finally, apropos of nothing, I dislike farmers' markets. In the immortal words of Ze Frank, "I don't take candy from strangers, why the hell am I gonna trust 'em with mango chutney?" Amen, Ze. Amen.
camera mystique and other rot
So, I've noticed that a ridiculous number of people are consistently checking my blogspace every day, even though I don't post more than every once in a while. C'mon, people! Just subscribe to the damn thing, and then you can rest your clicky finger by waiting for the blog updates to come to you! Unless, of course, you'd be embarrassed if I knew your identity, and you're happier with hiding behind the iron MySpace curtain. E-cowards!
So, anyway, I saw this Ayumi Hamasaki video, and my first thought was: how much did the Arri corporation fork out for this PR stunt? I mean, it's just THE most ridiculous collection of camera-fetish images I think I've ever seen, outside of an industrial ("Color Film Stock and You, Together At Last"). One of the first images we see is a pair of hands loading/fondling the camera's innards. YURGH. I love working with cameras, but I don't, um, love my cameras.
This is clearly a case of testosterone gone horribly awry, and I can't say it surprises me too much. Camera (and cinematography) is still the domain of men, and mostly white men at that. Many understand that a camera is simply a tool (heh, 'tool') for collecting images, and it's really the images that matter; many more, however, seem to regard cameras as ends unto themselves. Ooh, check out the precision! The rotors! The manly black veneers! The shiny chrome accents! It's like the devotion a lot of guys show towards, say, a Lamborghini. Who cares about the destination? My car is HOTTT. And so is my camera. Mrreeeowrf. Heck, I even know a guy who has the Steadicam logo tattooed on his back, which should give you some idea of the degree of Fetishization of the Camera I've seen amongst guys in the industry.
Since so many seem to view cameras as extensions of their, um, manhood, it can make life for a female camerawoman (okay, me) rather uncomfortable—the typically male view of camerawork seems confrontational, expecially when compared to my view. Instead of 'aiming my equipment' (heh) and 'shooting' (camerawork as hunting, Ayumi as prey, not to mention other porn-o-riffic connotations), I tend to see cameras as 'receiving.' In my world, it is Ayumi who is aiming at the passive medium of film or video, which is preserving her image 24 times a second. This seems, to me at least, the fundamental difference between how men and women approach filmmaking.
It really doesn't help that EVERY GODDAMN PERSON ON THE AYUMI SET IS MALE, other than Ayumi. There they are, leering middle-aged men, 'capturing' the image of the passive, prancing singer. They poke and prod her, rearrange her hair the way one might fiddle with a Barbie doll, point high-tech thingies at her, and so forth. Stand still, little girl, while big daddy shoves his 'lens' in your face and makes you a star. And she takes it! There's no sign of thought on her face, no signal of control over her surroundings; she just bounces around in golden light, singing into a microphone-as-thinly-veiled-phallic-symbol, goateed men in dark glasses coldly regarding her. Good job, pretty little cash cow. Keep mooing, and we'll give you more bling.
Sorry if this sounds irate by my typical Astrid standards, but I'm really tired of never seeing a woman behind a camera, unless I'm on set and there's a reflective surface nearby. It also kills me when I'm teaching a camera class, and the women present say things like "Thank you for removing the mystique of camera for us." Cameras have NO BUSINESS having mystique! That's like saying a POTTERY WHEEL has mystique! Or that a CHAIN SAW has mystique! Guys buy into this whole mystique crap and eat it up with a spoon; women see it as a threat, and decide that cinematography isn't for them...at least, until I talk to them for a while, and they understand how approachable it is.
It sure feels lonely over here sometimes. Pretty, vacuous nothings like Ayumi make me realize just how far we have to go.
ADDENDUM: I just remembered, when I went to the NAB convention in Vegas a couple of years ago, I tried asking an Arri representative about a new model they were showing off. He refused to make eye contact with me, and answered all my questions to my then-boyfriend, who was standing next to me and hadn't said a word. The rep might as well have said, "I'm sorry, I don't speak estrogen." It was so pointed, and so ridiculous, I started trying to force the rep to make eye contact with me as he was blathering at my boyfriend, leaning into the space between them and so on, and the rep kept backing away and refusing to look at me, even when I was almost on top of him and continuing my questions as politely as possible. It would have been hilarious, if only it hadn't been so horrifying. I'd like to point out here that I'm only 4'11", so any claim that the rep found me threatening is beyond insane.
The worst part of all was that this was the THIRD camera rep to treat me like garbage that day. It really didn't help that the only other women I saw were corporate reps in verrrrrrrry low-cut suits, leaning over a lot as they said "Let me show you our products." My boyfriend witnessed all of this and backed me up, so I know I'm not delusional. He was pretty shocked, and thankfully very empathetic. Alas, he's hardly typical in the cinematography community.
In fairness, there was one shining beacon of hope and justice at that convention: Ira Tiffen. I was ambling over towards the Tiffen display, and (shock!) there were women reps who were NOT wearing low-cut suits! In fact, they were very professional- and friendly-looking. And one of them caught my eye and exuberantly waved at me, hollering "A female filmmaker! Oh my god! Come on over!" And they made oodles of eye contact, and answered my questions as best as possible, and for the questions they couldn't answer, they flagged Ira himself to come help me. Which he did, also making eye contact and being very helpful in the extreme, speaking with me for ten whole minutes and never once making me feel like I was wasting his time.
Bless you, Ira Tiffen, and all the fab folks you employ. You are one of the few who gives me hope, besides Mike Berlin, the cinematographer from "Everybody Loves Raymond" who took me under his wing for a while. We still talk shop every so often, and he's always been extremely encouraging. Now, if only every other guy in the biz besides Ira, Mike, and my ex-boyfriend could be the same way, the world would be a far, far better place, free of my rantings. Wouldn't it be lovely?
So, anyway, I saw this Ayumi Hamasaki video, and my first thought was: how much did the Arri corporation fork out for this PR stunt? I mean, it's just THE most ridiculous collection of camera-fetish images I think I've ever seen, outside of an industrial ("Color Film Stock and You, Together At Last"). One of the first images we see is a pair of hands loading/fondling the camera's innards. YURGH. I love working with cameras, but I don't, um, love my cameras.
This is clearly a case of testosterone gone horribly awry, and I can't say it surprises me too much. Camera (and cinematography) is still the domain of men, and mostly white men at that. Many understand that a camera is simply a tool (heh, 'tool') for collecting images, and it's really the images that matter; many more, however, seem to regard cameras as ends unto themselves. Ooh, check out the precision! The rotors! The manly black veneers! The shiny chrome accents! It's like the devotion a lot of guys show towards, say, a Lamborghini. Who cares about the destination? My car is HOTTT. And so is my camera. Mrreeeowrf. Heck, I even know a guy who has the Steadicam logo tattooed on his back, which should give you some idea of the degree of Fetishization of the Camera I've seen amongst guys in the industry.
Since so many seem to view cameras as extensions of their, um, manhood, it can make life for a female camerawoman (okay, me) rather uncomfortable—the typically male view of camerawork seems confrontational, expecially when compared to my view. Instead of 'aiming my equipment' (heh) and 'shooting' (camerawork as hunting, Ayumi as prey, not to mention other porn-o-riffic connotations), I tend to see cameras as 'receiving.' In my world, it is Ayumi who is aiming at the passive medium of film or video, which is preserving her image 24 times a second. This seems, to me at least, the fundamental difference between how men and women approach filmmaking.
It really doesn't help that EVERY GODDAMN PERSON ON THE AYUMI SET IS MALE, other than Ayumi. There they are, leering middle-aged men, 'capturing' the image of the passive, prancing singer. They poke and prod her, rearrange her hair the way one might fiddle with a Barbie doll, point high-tech thingies at her, and so forth. Stand still, little girl, while big daddy shoves his 'lens' in your face and makes you a star. And she takes it! There's no sign of thought on her face, no signal of control over her surroundings; she just bounces around in golden light, singing into a microphone-as-thinly-veiled-phallic-symbol, goateed men in dark glasses coldly regarding her. Good job, pretty little cash cow. Keep mooing, and we'll give you more bling.
Sorry if this sounds irate by my typical Astrid standards, but I'm really tired of never seeing a woman behind a camera, unless I'm on set and there's a reflective surface nearby. It also kills me when I'm teaching a camera class, and the women present say things like "Thank you for removing the mystique of camera for us." Cameras have NO BUSINESS having mystique! That's like saying a POTTERY WHEEL has mystique! Or that a CHAIN SAW has mystique! Guys buy into this whole mystique crap and eat it up with a spoon; women see it as a threat, and decide that cinematography isn't for them...at least, until I talk to them for a while, and they understand how approachable it is.
It sure feels lonely over here sometimes. Pretty, vacuous nothings like Ayumi make me realize just how far we have to go.
ADDENDUM: I just remembered, when I went to the NAB convention in Vegas a couple of years ago, I tried asking an Arri representative about a new model they were showing off. He refused to make eye contact with me, and answered all my questions to my then-boyfriend, who was standing next to me and hadn't said a word. The rep might as well have said, "I'm sorry, I don't speak estrogen." It was so pointed, and so ridiculous, I started trying to force the rep to make eye contact with me as he was blathering at my boyfriend, leaning into the space between them and so on, and the rep kept backing away and refusing to look at me, even when I was almost on top of him and continuing my questions as politely as possible. It would have been hilarious, if only it hadn't been so horrifying. I'd like to point out here that I'm only 4'11", so any claim that the rep found me threatening is beyond insane.
The worst part of all was that this was the THIRD camera rep to treat me like garbage that day. It really didn't help that the only other women I saw were corporate reps in verrrrrrrry low-cut suits, leaning over a lot as they said "Let me show you our products." My boyfriend witnessed all of this and backed me up, so I know I'm not delusional. He was pretty shocked, and thankfully very empathetic. Alas, he's hardly typical in the cinematography community.
In fairness, there was one shining beacon of hope and justice at that convention: Ira Tiffen. I was ambling over towards the Tiffen display, and (shock!) there were women reps who were NOT wearing low-cut suits! In fact, they were very professional- and friendly-looking. And one of them caught my eye and exuberantly waved at me, hollering "A female filmmaker! Oh my god! Come on over!" And they made oodles of eye contact, and answered my questions as best as possible, and for the questions they couldn't answer, they flagged Ira himself to come help me. Which he did, also making eye contact and being very helpful in the extreme, speaking with me for ten whole minutes and never once making me feel like I was wasting his time.
Bless you, Ira Tiffen, and all the fab folks you employ. You are one of the few who gives me hope, besides Mike Berlin, the cinematographer from "Everybody Loves Raymond" who took me under his wing for a while. We still talk shop every so often, and he's always been extremely encouraging. Now, if only every other guy in the biz besides Ira, Mike, and my ex-boyfriend could be the same way, the world would be a far, far better place, free of my rantings. Wouldn't it be lovely?
Saturday, September 2, 2006
because my dad has impeccable taste in entertainment...
...and he just sent me this, so I just had to post it for your viewing pleasure.
Rube Goldberg devices are a weakness of mine, and they're even more exciting when narrated in excruciating, breathless detail by a Japanese show host.
Rube Goldberg devices are a weakness of mine, and they're even more exciting when narrated in excruciating, breathless detail by a Japanese show host.
Monday, August 7, 2006
wish it were a Sunday, 'cause that's my fun day
I saw the headline Uribe sworn in amid high security, and I read "Uribe" as "Oribe." This gave me a good half minute of head-scratching; why, I wondered, would the hairstylist Oribe require high security for anything? Everybody loves Oribe!
Anyway, in the spirit of enlightening all y'all (yes, yes, I know, I'm not Southern, therefore I have no business saying "y'all"; shuddup), here are some upcoming August dates which I strongly suggest we all observe. Each one is absolutely for real, at least according to these people:
Particularly Preposterous Packaging Day: 7
Hurry up before this one's over! I'm not exactly sure what constitutes 'preposterous,' but Sephora might offer one a good lead.
Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night: 8
Hells yeah! Self explanatory.
National Underwear Day: 9
Some of my best friends wear underwear. Now you can, too!
National Duran Duran Appreciation Day: 10
Need I say more? "UMF" is one of my absolute favorite tracks; it sounds hella funk nasty, but it also works for just plain ol' jumping around, which I like to do in creaky elevators. Okay, not really.
S'mores Day: 10
Every day should be S'mores Day!
Kool-Aid Day: 11-13
Kool-Aid's so special, it gets THREE days of fabulosity. Enjoy this one to the hilt, unless you're Jim Jones and live in Guyana. I'll be drinking the blue flavor out of a Windex bottle and freaking everyone out.
Eleanor Roosevelt Day: 12
WHOO!
Vinyl Record Day: 12
Does anyone have a record player which can play my swingin' big band 78s? This is a serious question.
National Navajo Code Talkers Day: 14
Better than Pig Latin for hiding secrets from the kids.
Bad Poetry Day: 18
Every day should be Bad Poetr-- no, wait....
'Black Cow' Root Beer Float Day: 19
I've never had one, but I've been meaning to for 28 years. I believe my time has come.
Vinegar Day: 20
Man, I loves me the balsamic vinegar. I could seriously drink that stuff straight from the bottle. But then who'd kiss me, besides olive oil fanatics?
Southern Hemisphere Hoodie Hoo Day: 22
I don't want to know. I just don't want to know.
Valentino Day: 23
From Wikipedia: "Valentino's reputation still stands as a legendary sex symbol of androgynous appeal. To this day many fans, some dressed as sheiks, flappers or women in black, make an annual pilgrimage on the day of Valentino's death to his crypt at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. . . . 'Sheik' brand condoms, introduced onto the market in the 1930's, were named after Valentino's most famous role and for years featured Valentino's silhouette on the packaging. . . . The Bangles mention Valentino in their pop hit "Manic Monday", written by Prince."
All I have to say is: PRINCE WROTE "MANIC MONDAY"? How did I not know this?!
Vesuvius Day: 24
Enjoy some chocolate lava cake. You know you wanna.
Crackers Over The Keyboard Day: 28
Every day should be Crackers Over the Keyboard Day! In my case, it really is. And Brownies Over the Keyboard Day. And Peanut Butter Straight Out of the Jar Day. Don't worry, I only eat the reduced-fat stuff.
National Toasted Marshmallow Day: 30
See S'mores Day.
You may now return to your regularly scheduled life.
Anyway, in the spirit of enlightening all y'all (yes, yes, I know, I'm not Southern, therefore I have no business saying "y'all"; shuddup), here are some upcoming August dates which I strongly suggest we all observe. Each one is absolutely for real, at least according to these people:
Particularly Preposterous Packaging Day: 7
Hurry up before this one's over! I'm not exactly sure what constitutes 'preposterous,' but Sephora might offer one a good lead.
Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night: 8
Hells yeah! Self explanatory.
National Underwear Day: 9
Some of my best friends wear underwear. Now you can, too!
National Duran Duran Appreciation Day: 10
Need I say more? "UMF" is one of my absolute favorite tracks; it sounds hella funk nasty, but it also works for just plain ol' jumping around, which I like to do in creaky elevators. Okay, not really.
S'mores Day: 10
Every day should be S'mores Day!
Kool-Aid Day: 11-13
Kool-Aid's so special, it gets THREE days of fabulosity. Enjoy this one to the hilt, unless you're Jim Jones and live in Guyana. I'll be drinking the blue flavor out of a Windex bottle and freaking everyone out.
Eleanor Roosevelt Day: 12
WHOO!
Vinyl Record Day: 12
Does anyone have a record player which can play my swingin' big band 78s? This is a serious question.
National Navajo Code Talkers Day: 14
Better than Pig Latin for hiding secrets from the kids.
Bad Poetry Day: 18
Every day should be Bad Poetr-- no, wait....
'Black Cow' Root Beer Float Day: 19
I've never had one, but I've been meaning to for 28 years. I believe my time has come.
Vinegar Day: 20
Man, I loves me the balsamic vinegar. I could seriously drink that stuff straight from the bottle. But then who'd kiss me, besides olive oil fanatics?
Southern Hemisphere Hoodie Hoo Day: 22
I don't want to know. I just don't want to know.
Valentino Day: 23
From Wikipedia: "Valentino's reputation still stands as a legendary sex symbol of androgynous appeal. To this day many fans, some dressed as sheiks, flappers or women in black, make an annual pilgrimage on the day of Valentino's death to his crypt at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. . . . 'Sheik' brand condoms, introduced onto the market in the 1930's, were named after Valentino's most famous role and for years featured Valentino's silhouette on the packaging. . . . The Bangles mention Valentino in their pop hit "Manic Monday", written by Prince."
All I have to say is: PRINCE WROTE "MANIC MONDAY"? How did I not know this?!
Vesuvius Day: 24
Enjoy some chocolate lava cake. You know you wanna.
Crackers Over The Keyboard Day: 28
Every day should be Crackers Over the Keyboard Day! In my case, it really is. And Brownies Over the Keyboard Day. And Peanut Butter Straight Out of the Jar Day. Don't worry, I only eat the reduced-fat stuff.
National Toasted Marshmallow Day: 30
See S'mores Day.
You may now return to your regularly scheduled life.
Friday, August 4, 2006
ah, sweet mystery of MySpace
It's official: the number of views on my website has now hit 1000. Not a big deal to most, probably, but it does leave me a bit baffled. Am I getting a lot of repeat views? Or have 1000 people checked me out? If it's the former, then you folks need to get a life. If it's the latter, then how did I get so popular?
Such are the mysteries of MySpace, I guess.
I shall now proceed to spend my Friday night cleaning up my place. This is not because I have no life—there are scads of people getting pissed that I'm not calling/hanging out with them, sorry everyone!—but I've been feeling the need to retreat lately. And to clean up my place. I am so very sleep-deprived, and my place is so very messy. I hope I don't accidentally put laundry detergent in the dishwasher, although I suspect the results wouldn't be too different.
Ooh! I almost forgot, I got my teeth cleaned today! After the scraping, lecturing about flossing, and toothbrush goody bag, I felt like a new woman, cleansed in body and soul. And then I had a burrito. What can I say, I like being a creature of contradictions.
Also, since my brain is on random-fire right now: when did it become okay to wear high heels with shorts? Or tights with shorts? Or high heels with tights and shorts? Silly, silly people! Try wearing belts on your wrists instead; that'll show the world you're an 'individual,' just like everybody else.
And now I'm going to clean. And take a nap. Not necessarily in that order. But hopefully not concurrently.
Such are the mysteries of MySpace, I guess.
I shall now proceed to spend my Friday night cleaning up my place. This is not because I have no life—there are scads of people getting pissed that I'm not calling/hanging out with them, sorry everyone!—but I've been feeling the need to retreat lately. And to clean up my place. I am so very sleep-deprived, and my place is so very messy. I hope I don't accidentally put laundry detergent in the dishwasher, although I suspect the results wouldn't be too different.
Ooh! I almost forgot, I got my teeth cleaned today! After the scraping, lecturing about flossing, and toothbrush goody bag, I felt like a new woman, cleansed in body and soul. And then I had a burrito. What can I say, I like being a creature of contradictions.
Also, since my brain is on random-fire right now: when did it become okay to wear high heels with shorts? Or tights with shorts? Or high heels with tights and shorts? Silly, silly people! Try wearing belts on your wrists instead; that'll show the world you're an 'individual,' just like everybody else.
And now I'm going to clean. And take a nap. Not necessarily in that order. But hopefully not concurrently.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
i heart statistical anomalies
So! I just had the most satisfyingly wonderful weekend in the longest time. I was in San Francisco, hanging out with my friends Craig (supercool math professor who gets flown around the world so that people can pick his brain) and James (supercool architectural conservationist who gets flown around the world to save ancient cathedrals from turning into dust). They are extraordinarily good-hearted, hilarious, whipsmart people who make me feel like a beautiful, brilliant art goddess by the time I head home. And if that's not the definition of best friends ever, then I'll eat my hat. Hell, I'll eat ALL my hats. And that's a lot of hats, because I'm still a bit of a hat person.
Where to begin? Either in pairs or as a group, we ate at French bistros with charming musical trios; we saw John Kricfalusi at the Castro; I bought a sari; we walked all the way across the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset and back; we ate dim sum and nearly had to be rolled out of the restaurant; we talked our mouths off and laughed our heads off and hung out with avant-garde opera singers and other mathematicians and lived in Xanadu. No, seriously, Craig's lodgings at Stanford (he was flown out for the week from UWisc) are called "Xanadu," and the logo from the film of the same name is visible in the lobby. Alas, neither roller skates, nor extreme neon, nor Olivia Newton-John were visible at any point in the trip, but it was still nice. There was a piano.
Where to begin? Either in pairs or as a group, we ate at French bistros with charming musical trios; we saw John Kricfalusi at the Castro; I bought a sari; we walked all the way across the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset and back; we ate dim sum and nearly had to be rolled out of the restaurant; we talked our mouths off and laughed our heads off and hung out with avant-garde opera singers and other mathematicians and lived in Xanadu. No, seriously, Craig's lodgings at Stanford (he was flown out for the week from UWisc) are called "Xanadu," and the logo from the film of the same name is visible in the lobby. Alas, neither roller skates, nor extreme neon, nor Olivia Newton-John were visible at any point in the trip, but it was still nice. There was a piano.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
gee whiz, pa, it's establishment propaganda!
That above headline is taken from an actual Educational Filmstrip from the Sixties, by the way.
So, anyway, today is Fun With Archival Footage. Enjoy the following:
If Mirrors Could Speak: Self-Image Film (1976)
This involves children dressed as scary, scary clowns. And they are terrible actors, which makes it all somehow better.
Incredible Edible Egg in Foodservice (c. 1980s)
I love eggs. Even the footage here, which makes eggs look utterly revolting, still has me drooling for more eggs. Eggs! EGGS! MWAHAHAHAHA! But I digress.
York Peppermint Patty Commercial (c. 1980s)
This has brief yodeling. Need I say more?
VD is for Everybody (1969)
THE. BEST. SONG. EVER. I have been singing/humming/thinking this dratted song nonstop. I hum it near-silently on the bus. I belt it out loud when I'm alone in elevators. Mothers clutch their small children in fright when they see me approach. But this cheerful ditty keeps me, well, cheerful. Far too cheerful to be of any good to society, perhaps.
These guys are SO my brother and me. It's just simple, excellent fun.
So, anyway, today is Fun With Archival Footage. Enjoy the following:
If Mirrors Could Speak: Self-Image Film (1976)
This involves children dressed as scary, scary clowns. And they are terrible actors, which makes it all somehow better.
Incredible Edible Egg in Foodservice (c. 1980s)
I love eggs. Even the footage here, which makes eggs look utterly revolting, still has me drooling for more eggs. Eggs! EGGS! MWAHAHAHAHA! But I digress.
York Peppermint Patty Commercial (c. 1980s)
This has brief yodeling. Need I say more?
VD is for Everybody (1969)
THE. BEST. SONG. EVER. I have been singing/humming/thinking this dratted song nonstop. I hum it near-silently on the bus. I belt it out loud when I'm alone in elevators. Mothers clutch their small children in fright when they see me approach. But this cheerful ditty keeps me, well, cheerful. Far too cheerful to be of any good to society, perhaps.
These guys are SO my brother and me. It's just simple, excellent fun.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
fabrication ain't just lying
Portable parks are brilliant. It would be terrific if a little lawn flamingo could rotate around in there, too, but maybe I'm just being too demanding.
Also: Alex Martin is actually doing something I've been talking about for the past few years -- completely fabricating her own wardrobe, doing a sort of 'fashion detox.' My problem is, I love wearing other people's ideas too much. I guess I'm mostly a recombiner, taking elements meant to be worn one way, and wearing them in a completely new way. Like wearing neckties as belts, and...belts...as neckties....
Holy crap.
I just came back from my closet, after typing that last sentence, and I'm wearing my favoritest belt ever. On my wrist, wrapped about four or five times. I just tried wrapping it around my neck too, multiple times so that it served as a choker, and that works fabulously, too. I never wear belts, because I feel I'm too short to get away with them, but I keep a few around because I am peculiar that way. So, my favorite belt is made of lenticular plastic, and it has a rainbow layer underneath so that it flickers with color as I move, and now it is busily kicking ass ON MY WRIST. This is the best shift of a sartorial paradigm EVER. Next time you see me, I'll be wearing shoes on my ears. This rules.
ADDENDUM: it just occurred to me that I've done this before, this whole fashion recombination thing. It was my senior year of college, and I had to go to an awards ceremony, and I couldn't find a proper skirt in time, so I borrowed my friend's black sateen shirt (with her permission) and wore it as a skirt—the neckhole was around my waist (it was a low-cut top, so I had room), and I wrapped the sleeves around my waist as a cheeky sash. It worked well, especially if you squinted. I think I also once wore my Swatch around my ankle, but this was back in fifth grade, and everybody already thought I was weird, so no harm/no foul.
And to answer your unasked question, yes, I was the goofy/smart art nerd in high school who aced biology and was never asked out, despite having Sensitivity and Poignance In My Soul. I spent prom night hanging out with my parents. Ain't it great that I've come such a long way since then? Excuse me while I watch some CNN, then go do some crossword puzzles before falling asleep.
Also: Alex Martin is actually doing something I've been talking about for the past few years -- completely fabricating her own wardrobe, doing a sort of 'fashion detox.' My problem is, I love wearing other people's ideas too much. I guess I'm mostly a recombiner, taking elements meant to be worn one way, and wearing them in a completely new way. Like wearing neckties as belts, and...belts...as neckties....
Holy crap.
I just came back from my closet, after typing that last sentence, and I'm wearing my favoritest belt ever. On my wrist, wrapped about four or five times. I just tried wrapping it around my neck too, multiple times so that it served as a choker, and that works fabulously, too. I never wear belts, because I feel I'm too short to get away with them, but I keep a few around because I am peculiar that way. So, my favorite belt is made of lenticular plastic, and it has a rainbow layer underneath so that it flickers with color as I move, and now it is busily kicking ass ON MY WRIST. This is the best shift of a sartorial paradigm EVER. Next time you see me, I'll be wearing shoes on my ears. This rules.
ADDENDUM: it just occurred to me that I've done this before, this whole fashion recombination thing. It was my senior year of college, and I had to go to an awards ceremony, and I couldn't find a proper skirt in time, so I borrowed my friend's black sateen shirt (with her permission) and wore it as a skirt—the neckhole was around my waist (it was a low-cut top, so I had room), and I wrapped the sleeves around my waist as a cheeky sash. It worked well, especially if you squinted. I think I also once wore my Swatch around my ankle, but this was back in fifth grade, and everybody already thought I was weird, so no harm/no foul.
And to answer your unasked question, yes, I was the goofy/smart art nerd in high school who aced biology and was never asked out, despite having Sensitivity and Poignance In My Soul. I spent prom night hanging out with my parents. Ain't it great that I've come such a long way since then? Excuse me while I watch some CNN, then go do some crossword puzzles before falling asleep.
Monday, July 10, 2006
I hate sheep II: electric boogaloo
So, Famima!! (exclamation marks NOT mine) just opened a couple of blocks away from me, and I was leery. What, I wondered, do we need with a yuppie 7-11? I could tell, even just walking briskly by, that they had ENTIRE SHELF CASES devoted to nothing but water in pretty glass bottles, which seemed a tad ridiculous.
But! I am now a convert. I walked in, expecting overpriced Italian food to go, and instead discovered that it's a Japanese convenience store that rocks. No, wait, it doesn't just rock, it RAWKS. Imagine being able to purchase, in one location, the following: terrific spicy tuna hand rolls for $2, trendy German stationery, random American DVDs (I bought Birth, haven't watched it yet), condoms, enough varieties of bottled tea to take a bath in, Japanese dishwashing liquid, and Korean bulgogi bento boxes. If only they stocked issues of S-Cawaii, I would never have to shop anywhere else. Huzzah! I feel a little embarrassed that I'm the Famima!! target demographic, but what the hey—if the shoe fits etc.
Here's where the sheep come in. I went to the counter with my hand roll, bottle of green/white tea (ooh, two in one!), and the aforementioned DVD. As the guy was ringing me up, I asked if they were ever going to carry Japanese movies.
"Probably not," was his reply, "but we get enough Asian customers dropping by that we probably should."
"Forget them, I would watch Japanese movies!" was my impassioned response.
This was where the conversation turned a little ugly. The guy was clearly shocked that an American would voluntarily watch anything un-American, and he regarded me carefully, obviously trying to figure me out. I hate when people do that.
"It's not like there are any Japanese movies worth watching though, right?" he pointed out. "I mean, maybe Godzilla, right?"
Don't punch him don't punch him don't punch him.
"ARE YOU CRAZY?!" I said. "There are some INCREDIBLE Japanese films out there! Don't tell me you haven't seen any!"
He shrugged, noncommittal. Don't punch him don't punch him.
"Do you speak Japanese?" he asked.
"No—but you don't need to speak Japanese to enjoy Japanese films!" Idiot. I'll bet he has Dumb & Dumber sitting on his DVD rack at home.
"Then how do you get Japanese movies?"
I confess, I couldn't keep the sarcastic edge out of my voice. "I read subtitles."
He raised his eyebrows in reply, and I knew exactly what those eyebrows were saying.
"You don't watch movies with subtitles, do you?" I asked.
Mr. Dumb & Dumber shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Not really my thing."
Don't punch him don't punch him don't—
"You're missing out on a lot," I called over my shoulder. "Try checking it out sometime."
I'm still seething. I still really want to go back to Famima!!, but I may have to whap Mr. Dumb & Dumber with an issue of Non-No next time.
Of course, it didn't help my anger levels any that I watched The Corporation when I got home. Awesome movie, angering message. It makes me want to march through the streets with the righteously indignant masses, bar codes taped over our mouths as we rally against privatization and so forth. Did you know that water—including rain water!—was privatized in Bolivia, costing up to a quarter of each person's annual income? It took rioting in the streets, one death and many, many maimings before the government and the Bechtel Corp. finally backed down. I wish all the oil in the world vanished tomorrow, and that we had a much safer alternative already in place. I wish every television set could be smashed in the streets. I want to kick unethical marketers in the shins with very pointy shoes.
Maybe I'm not really cut out for the world o' media. Of course, I could try dismantling the system from the inside, rebuilding it into something more socially conscious. And then I'd shoot a Coca-Cola commercial, because we all need to pay our bills.
But! I am now a convert. I walked in, expecting overpriced Italian food to go, and instead discovered that it's a Japanese convenience store that rocks. No, wait, it doesn't just rock, it RAWKS. Imagine being able to purchase, in one location, the following: terrific spicy tuna hand rolls for $2, trendy German stationery, random American DVDs (I bought Birth, haven't watched it yet), condoms, enough varieties of bottled tea to take a bath in, Japanese dishwashing liquid, and Korean bulgogi bento boxes. If only they stocked issues of S-Cawaii, I would never have to shop anywhere else. Huzzah! I feel a little embarrassed that I'm the Famima!! target demographic, but what the hey—if the shoe fits etc.
Here's where the sheep come in. I went to the counter with my hand roll, bottle of green/white tea (ooh, two in one!), and the aforementioned DVD. As the guy was ringing me up, I asked if they were ever going to carry Japanese movies.
"Probably not," was his reply, "but we get enough Asian customers dropping by that we probably should."
"Forget them, I would watch Japanese movies!" was my impassioned response.
This was where the conversation turned a little ugly. The guy was clearly shocked that an American would voluntarily watch anything un-American, and he regarded me carefully, obviously trying to figure me out. I hate when people do that.
"It's not like there are any Japanese movies worth watching though, right?" he pointed out. "I mean, maybe Godzilla, right?"
Don't punch him don't punch him don't punch him.
"ARE YOU CRAZY?!" I said. "There are some INCREDIBLE Japanese films out there! Don't tell me you haven't seen any!"
He shrugged, noncommittal. Don't punch him don't punch him.
"Do you speak Japanese?" he asked.
"No—but you don't need to speak Japanese to enjoy Japanese films!" Idiot. I'll bet he has Dumb & Dumber sitting on his DVD rack at home.
"Then how do you get Japanese movies?"
I confess, I couldn't keep the sarcastic edge out of my voice. "I read subtitles."
He raised his eyebrows in reply, and I knew exactly what those eyebrows were saying.
"You don't watch movies with subtitles, do you?" I asked.
Mr. Dumb & Dumber shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Not really my thing."
Don't punch him don't punch him don't—
"You're missing out on a lot," I called over my shoulder. "Try checking it out sometime."
I'm still seething. I still really want to go back to Famima!!, but I may have to whap Mr. Dumb & Dumber with an issue of Non-No next time.
Of course, it didn't help my anger levels any that I watched The Corporation when I got home. Awesome movie, angering message. It makes me want to march through the streets with the righteously indignant masses, bar codes taped over our mouths as we rally against privatization and so forth. Did you know that water—including rain water!—was privatized in Bolivia, costing up to a quarter of each person's annual income? It took rioting in the streets, one death and many, many maimings before the government and the Bechtel Corp. finally backed down. I wish all the oil in the world vanished tomorrow, and that we had a much safer alternative already in place. I wish every television set could be smashed in the streets. I want to kick unethical marketers in the shins with very pointy shoes.
Maybe I'm not really cut out for the world o' media. Of course, I could try dismantling the system from the inside, rebuilding it into something more socially conscious. And then I'd shoot a Coca-Cola commercial, because we all need to pay our bills.
Sunday, July 9, 2006
things that make me go 'hooah!
Note: the Ze Frank link now works! Fabuloso!
This made my day. And Ze Frank is my hero; this guy rocks like a geologist. Yeah. And hey, while you're at it, surfing like the surf maniac you know you are, view these government reels of nuclear bomb tests. Hooah!
This made my day. And Ze Frank is my hero; this guy rocks like a geologist. Yeah. And hey, while you're at it, surfing like the surf maniac you know you are, view these government reels of nuclear bomb tests. Hooah!
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
a wondrous place...
...is the internet. Check this out.
And when you are done regarding this, try downloading Lansing-Dreiden's "A Line You Can Cross," from their The Dividing Island album. It makes me think of shimmery things, and the smell of black lipstick; and, rather unaccountably, of Patrick Nagel. Also recommended: Lansing-Dreiden's "I Keep Everything," from the The Incomplete Triangle album. Very shimmery, Houston-we-have-liftoff indeed.
And when you are done regarding this, try downloading Lansing-Dreiden's "A Line You Can Cross," from their The Dividing Island album. It makes me think of shimmery things, and the smell of black lipstick; and, rather unaccountably, of Patrick Nagel. Also recommended: Lansing-Dreiden's "I Keep Everything," from the The Incomplete Triangle album. Very shimmery, Houston-we-have-liftoff indeed.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Lawrence Fishburne, you're my hero
The Solvang trip was perfectly as predicted (am I psychic or what?), and it ended up involving pinot noir after all, and it was the best steak I have had in a very, very, very, very long time. Whooee. Run, do not walk, to The Hitching Post in Buellton if and/or when you can.
Last night, my ever-culturally-minded parents sprung for tickets for all of us to see Without Walls, a play currently at the Mark Taper Forum. It's a 70's look at the story of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, with Lawrence Fishburne as the gay, Southern, high-school-drama-teaching, quasi-Brodie figure. Honestly, I never knew Fishburne had it in him, and I was blown away. BLOWN AWAY, people. The only other folks in the cast are Matt Lanter and Amanda MacDonald, who are also stupendous, and with just the three of them I was utterly convinced of their universe for all eighty minutes. In fact, their universe was so convincing, I was suprised that only three people stepped out to take a bow at the end, and then I realized that all the other 'characters' in the story were completely in my head, hinted at by the cast's performances. Just incredible.
Thing is, I've grown spoiled by realistic film acting; theatrical acting, which may be necessary to be perceived from the back of a theater, sort of disgusts me, at least until I've grudgingly grown used to it. And then it's great. Still, it hurts my brain a bit to have to switch so radically in my appreciation of performance. Would it really hinder things to be so minimal on a stage? Or am I asking too much?
Last night, my ever-culturally-minded parents sprung for tickets for all of us to see Without Walls, a play currently at the Mark Taper Forum. It's a 70's look at the story of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, with Lawrence Fishburne as the gay, Southern, high-school-drama-teaching, quasi-Brodie figure. Honestly, I never knew Fishburne had it in him, and I was blown away. BLOWN AWAY, people. The only other folks in the cast are Matt Lanter and Amanda MacDonald, who are also stupendous, and with just the three of them I was utterly convinced of their universe for all eighty minutes. In fact, their universe was so convincing, I was suprised that only three people stepped out to take a bow at the end, and then I realized that all the other 'characters' in the story were completely in my head, hinted at by the cast's performances. Just incredible.
Thing is, I've grown spoiled by realistic film acting; theatrical acting, which may be necessary to be perceived from the back of a theater, sort of disgusts me, at least until I've grudgingly grown used to it. And then it's great. Still, it hurts my brain a bit to have to switch so radically in my appreciation of performance. Would it really hinder things to be so minimal on a stage? Or am I asking too much?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
boy oh boy oh boy
I HAVE WIRELESS DSL WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I can now ignore my e-mail at blistering speeds. I can now also ignore YouTube at blistering speeds. Best of all: I can now download all the eye candy at Plan 59 at blistering speeds, which truly makes living worthwhile.
Also: I am reading two books at the same time, but not simultaneously. One is What We Believe But Cannot Prove; Today's Leading Thinkers on Science in the Age of Certainty, edited by John Brockman, and the other is Florence of Arabia by Christopher Buckley. I recommend both unreservedly. I mean, hey, how can you not enjoy reading about rollicking feminist conspiracies in the Middle East and homo sapiens eating Neanderthals?
Plans for this week:
1. E-mailing the powers that be at various London film schools, enquiring into possible teaching positions.
2. Calling the wretched 900 number given to me by the British Consulate, so that I can get the ball rolling on my dual citizenship (gor blimey).
3. Calling my Mercury dealer and finding out the numbers on buying out my Grand Marquis land barge, so that I don't have to worry about lease crap when I'm abroad next year.
And for tomorrow, June 19: My family and I are chillin' in wild, wild Solvang, where there are non-operational windmills and plaster stork replicas galore! Mom will go nuts over the tchotchke shoppes, and Dad & Co. will roll our eyes to the point of eye socket pain.
And then there will be barbecue.
Give a Dane a set of grilling tongs, and they will apparently feed you the world; we're going to the place featured in the film Sideways, pinot noir optional.
I can now ignore my e-mail at blistering speeds. I can now also ignore YouTube at blistering speeds. Best of all: I can now download all the eye candy at Plan 59 at blistering speeds, which truly makes living worthwhile.
Also: I am reading two books at the same time, but not simultaneously. One is What We Believe But Cannot Prove; Today's Leading Thinkers on Science in the Age of Certainty, edited by John Brockman, and the other is Florence of Arabia by Christopher Buckley. I recommend both unreservedly. I mean, hey, how can you not enjoy reading about rollicking feminist conspiracies in the Middle East and homo sapiens eating Neanderthals?
Plans for this week:
1. E-mailing the powers that be at various London film schools, enquiring into possible teaching positions.
2. Calling the wretched 900 number given to me by the British Consulate, so that I can get the ball rolling on my dual citizenship (gor blimey).
3. Calling my Mercury dealer and finding out the numbers on buying out my Grand Marquis land barge, so that I don't have to worry about lease crap when I'm abroad next year.
And for tomorrow, June 19: My family and I are chillin' in wild, wild Solvang, where there are non-operational windmills and plaster stork replicas galore! Mom will go nuts over the tchotchke shoppes, and Dad & Co. will roll our eyes to the point of eye socket pain.
And then there will be barbecue.
Give a Dane a set of grilling tongs, and they will apparently feed you the world; we're going to the place featured in the film Sideways, pinot noir optional.
Friday, June 9, 2006
well, now
[What follows was a little something I tried to post two days ago, to no avail until now -- just FYI]
June 7, 2006:
I just got home from the 3rd Annual University of Michigan Entertainment Coalition Film Festival at the Pacific Design Center (whew), where I got to watch some good short films, and then hobnob with folks afterwards. Everyone asked each other what we'd all been up to, and the general consensus was that we're all working, we're not playing much, things are okay, we're paying bills, but nothing in our lives right now is terribly exciting.
It wasn't until a few minutes ago that, in the course of writing an e-mail to my friend Phil, I suddenly realized my life has been unbelievably fabulous lately. Shocking but true.
Exhibit A: Two weekends ago, I shot a movie! Good people all around, craft service included homemade scones with Grand Marnier, orange essence and dried cranberries, and the footage (nearly all of it, except for when it started raining) turned out gorgeously.
Exhibit B: On Memorial Day, I went to a barbecue at the home of an ex-wife of a veryveryvery famous film director. She was super nice, so was her boyfriend, the barbecue was smoked over mesquite to perfection by the nanny (also fab), everyone else in attendance totally rocked, and the pool was splendid. I even remembered to bring a swimsuit, hooray!
Exhibit C: Last weekend, I went to a croquet party, with a pleasant horde of architects from SciArc, and I wore a sexyglorious white dress and a Japanese parasol, and it was heavenly. I kicked off my gold sandal heels and played badminton, and didn't entirely suck at it.
Exhibit D: Immediately after the croquet party, I went to a bachelorette party, and four of us girls stayed overnight in Anaheim, across the street from Disneyland. The best part was that we didn't go to Disneyland. Despite the drinking/dancing/singing Def Leppard at a dueling-pianos bar well into the night, we still found the energy to play a round of The New York Minute Board Game, based upon the esteemed film of the same name starring the grande dames of cinema Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, sitting around in our PJs at three in the morning. Contrary to how this may sound, it was immensely satisfying.
Exhibit E: I got to see my friend Brett tonight at the film fest, and I also got to see a galley of her latest novel (The Lightning Rule, reserve it today)! I feel so cosmopolitan just for knowing her.
Exhibit F: I got to see my friend Brandon tonight at the film fest, AND he won for Best Student Film! Hopefully, we'll get to hang out tomorrow afternoon before he flies home.
Exhibit G: I'm shooting a movie this Saturday! Okay, to be fair, we're shooting pickups from two weekends ago (a bunch of inserts, and reshoots for scenes where we lost sunlight), but still. I'm shooting a movie!
Exhibit H: I'm going to a futurist salon at UCLA this Sunday! I haven't been before, and I'm not sure I'm cool enough for the reigning geeks, but I hope they'll at least let me be a groupie.
So, there you are. My life rocks. Why didn't anyone tell me this earlier? And why do I pathologically have to focus on just the bad stuff, except during rare moments like this? I'm a madwoman, I tell you. A MADWOMAN. If I ever complain again that my life is but a barren wasteland, I give you permission to yell out "SAYS YOU!" and pelt me gently with the candy of your choice. If said candy has dark chocolate in it, and was not manufactured by the Hershey corporation, try aiming at my mouth.
June 7, 2006:
I just got home from the 3rd Annual University of Michigan Entertainment Coalition Film Festival at the Pacific Design Center (whew), where I got to watch some good short films, and then hobnob with folks afterwards. Everyone asked each other what we'd all been up to, and the general consensus was that we're all working, we're not playing much, things are okay, we're paying bills, but nothing in our lives right now is terribly exciting.
It wasn't until a few minutes ago that, in the course of writing an e-mail to my friend Phil, I suddenly realized my life has been unbelievably fabulous lately. Shocking but true.
Exhibit A: Two weekends ago, I shot a movie! Good people all around, craft service included homemade scones with Grand Marnier, orange essence and dried cranberries, and the footage (nearly all of it, except for when it started raining) turned out gorgeously.
Exhibit B: On Memorial Day, I went to a barbecue at the home of an ex-wife of a veryveryvery famous film director. She was super nice, so was her boyfriend, the barbecue was smoked over mesquite to perfection by the nanny (also fab), everyone else in attendance totally rocked, and the pool was splendid. I even remembered to bring a swimsuit, hooray!
Exhibit C: Last weekend, I went to a croquet party, with a pleasant horde of architects from SciArc, and I wore a sexyglorious white dress and a Japanese parasol, and it was heavenly. I kicked off my gold sandal heels and played badminton, and didn't entirely suck at it.
Exhibit D: Immediately after the croquet party, I went to a bachelorette party, and four of us girls stayed overnight in Anaheim, across the street from Disneyland. The best part was that we didn't go to Disneyland. Despite the drinking/dancing/singing Def Leppard at a dueling-pianos bar well into the night, we still found the energy to play a round of The New York Minute Board Game, based upon the esteemed film of the same name starring the grande dames of cinema Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, sitting around in our PJs at three in the morning. Contrary to how this may sound, it was immensely satisfying.
Exhibit E: I got to see my friend Brett tonight at the film fest, and I also got to see a galley of her latest novel (The Lightning Rule, reserve it today)! I feel so cosmopolitan just for knowing her.
Exhibit F: I got to see my friend Brandon tonight at the film fest, AND he won for Best Student Film! Hopefully, we'll get to hang out tomorrow afternoon before he flies home.
Exhibit G: I'm shooting a movie this Saturday! Okay, to be fair, we're shooting pickups from two weekends ago (a bunch of inserts, and reshoots for scenes where we lost sunlight), but still. I'm shooting a movie!
Exhibit H: I'm going to a futurist salon at UCLA this Sunday! I haven't been before, and I'm not sure I'm cool enough for the reigning geeks, but I hope they'll at least let me be a groupie.
So, there you are. My life rocks. Why didn't anyone tell me this earlier? And why do I pathologically have to focus on just the bad stuff, except during rare moments like this? I'm a madwoman, I tell you. A MADWOMAN. If I ever complain again that my life is but a barren wasteland, I give you permission to yell out "SAYS YOU!" and pelt me gently with the candy of your choice. If said candy has dark chocolate in it, and was not manufactured by the Hershey corporation, try aiming at my mouth.
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
truly, truly, truly outrageous
I heard Falu for the first time about half an hour ago on KPFK, and she totally made my morning. Check her music out, if you haven't already.
On a slightly more serious note, I have finally mustered up all my courage and gotten myself my own accountant. I've been going through my family accountant for a while, but since he's a) based in NJ, and b) knows next to nothing about film biz matters, I figured it was High Time that I take matters into my own hands and get someone who can make sure that, yes, I CAN claim back episodes of "Jem" as a tax deduction. This is a huge step for me, and is extremely nerve-wracking, considering that I have literally never sat down with a CPA before. I normally just send my tax crap to my mom, who delivers it to her CPA for me with the rest of the family tax junk, and that's the end of that.
And this just occurred to me: I've been really good about keeping all my bills/receipts, except FOR MY PHONE BILLS. What the HELL is up with that?! As a dorm-mate once wrote on their dry-erase board, back at Michigan, "I am an idiot/sauteed in a fine wine." I couldn't have put it better myself. GAWD, I am SUCH a STUPID artist-type, gag me with a W2. Goddamn.
On a slightly more serious note, I have finally mustered up all my courage and gotten myself my own accountant. I've been going through my family accountant for a while, but since he's a) based in NJ, and b) knows next to nothing about film biz matters, I figured it was High Time that I take matters into my own hands and get someone who can make sure that, yes, I CAN claim back episodes of "Jem" as a tax deduction. This is a huge step for me, and is extremely nerve-wracking, considering that I have literally never sat down with a CPA before. I normally just send my tax crap to my mom, who delivers it to her CPA for me with the rest of the family tax junk, and that's the end of that.
And this just occurred to me: I've been really good about keeping all my bills/receipts, except FOR MY PHONE BILLS. What the HELL is up with that?! As a dorm-mate once wrote on their dry-erase board, back at Michigan, "I am an idiot/sauteed in a fine wine." I couldn't have put it better myself. GAWD, I am SUCH a STUPID artist-type, gag me with a W2. Goddamn.
Friday, May 26, 2006
architectural dreams
I'm not sure why, but whenever I remember a dream of mine, it's invariably situated within a very interestingly-designed space. Perhaps I've missed my calling as a designer of buildings, but I'd much rather be an architect of film than of corporate headquarters. Unless, of course, it could be the headquarters for a supervillain. Talk about artistic license!
So, anyway, here's what I dreamt last night:
I'd heard word around town that one simply had to visit Magic _____. I'm still not sure what "_____" was—Castle? Mountain? Village? Chalet? Overpriced Theme Park? Point is, it's a tourist destination wherein one is dropped off in these very picturesque hills, finds the sprawling estate of said Magic _____ for themselves, far away from the rest of civilization, and by virtue of discovering the various secret passages honeycombed throughout the vast area, one ends up tumbling back along various slides/pneumatic tubes to the original ticket area, which (conveniently enough) is behind the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood.
Yes, you read that right: tickets to this place were only available at the Hotel Cafe, which looked the same as its real self from the outside, but step inside and HOLY COW it looks exactly like a barely-refurbished 1950's-era mental institution! It was all plaster and linoleum and turquoise doors and robin's-egg-blue walls, but the fluorescent fixtures were replaced with halogen lighting, which clearly communicated "Hey—we're being ironically kitschy, as evidenced by the dated, institutional quality of the place as seen under terrific lighting!"
So, the ticket counter (which is where the Hotel Cafe's counter normally is) is also a concession stand. Since it's typical to be stuck at Magic _____ for a long time until you find a passage which will bring you back, they strongly recommend bringing provisions. I notice that they have a "blubber sandwich" on sale, which actually looks like a delicious Moroccan tomato paste on pumpernickel.
"Hey," I ask the ticket guy after buying my ticket, "that's not really blubber, is it?"
He looks at me like I'm nuts, the whole line erupts into laughter behind me, he tells me that I am an idiot, that OF COURSE it's blubber, gee whiz; I shrug my shoulders and buy it. Silly people laughing at me. ME! Hmph.
So. I step out back to the van which awaits us tourists, and I realize I am no longer in Hollywood. No sirree, I have stepped out into WALES. Saw that coming, didn't you? Anyway, the gorgeously verdant hills are unmistakeable. We wind our way through the countryside, and (as part of the adventure) it's up to each rider to decide when to get off, since the van driver isn't allowed to tell us precisely where Magic _____ even is. I get off first, everyone looks at me like I'm nuts, and I spend a day and a half wandering through the countryside, NEVER FINDING THE MAGIC _____. What a waste! The sandwich lasted me the whole time, which was impressive, but I was still peeved when I landed back at the Hotel Cafe. While I was grumbling at the staff, who are impressed that I made it back without any secret passageway help whatsoever, I recognized my friends Matt and Isa (hi, guys!).
So, Matt, true to form, teases me mercilessly for missing Magic _____ completely ("Wow, whatta dumbass," are his exact words, "but we love you anyway"), and then we agree to investigate Magic _____ together, the Hotel Cafe staff grudgingly letting me try all over again. This time, Matt and Isa (being old pros at this) guide me unerringly to the Magic _____. We meander about, oohing and aahing at the very House-of-Usher-meets-La-Dolce-Vita aspects to the estate, and then do some serious investigating, trying to avoid the many kids running around screaming and galumphing about the courtyards and corridors, ripping down the ivy and so forth. I walk into a sumptuous, decaying bathroom straight out of The Shining, and step into the shower stall, Matt and Isa right behind.
"Hey, guys," I say, "do you think this could be a secret passagewaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" as the bathtub falls away beneath me and WHOOOOOOOOOOSSSHHHHHHH I find myself sliding at an ungodly number of miles per hour down a very zigzaggy tunnel, wide enough for one person, and it's very much like a typical water tunnel at a water-themed amusement park, only there's no water, and it's pitch black, and I'm convinced I'm about to die, when WHAM I spill out into a fountain in a main courtyard, tourists applauding me as I make my splashy appearance, and I see the back of the Hotel Cafe right in front of me.
I later ask people how long it usually takes to find one's way out of Magic _____, and the answer is "about two days," so I didn't feel so bad about making it back within a day and a half, my first time around. It was a lot of fun, and great to hang out with Matt and Isa, but there was a lot to be said, too, for wandering about on my own through the picturesque Welsh hills—just myself, the pretty clouds, the mild sun, a full moon, and a Moroccan tomato paste sandwich on pumpernickel to keep me company.
So, anyway, here's what I dreamt last night:
I'd heard word around town that one simply had to visit Magic _____. I'm still not sure what "_____" was—Castle? Mountain? Village? Chalet? Overpriced Theme Park? Point is, it's a tourist destination wherein one is dropped off in these very picturesque hills, finds the sprawling estate of said Magic _____ for themselves, far away from the rest of civilization, and by virtue of discovering the various secret passages honeycombed throughout the vast area, one ends up tumbling back along various slides/pneumatic tubes to the original ticket area, which (conveniently enough) is behind the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood.
Yes, you read that right: tickets to this place were only available at the Hotel Cafe, which looked the same as its real self from the outside, but step inside and HOLY COW it looks exactly like a barely-refurbished 1950's-era mental institution! It was all plaster and linoleum and turquoise doors and robin's-egg-blue walls, but the fluorescent fixtures were replaced with halogen lighting, which clearly communicated "Hey—we're being ironically kitschy, as evidenced by the dated, institutional quality of the place as seen under terrific lighting!"
So, the ticket counter (which is where the Hotel Cafe's counter normally is) is also a concession stand. Since it's typical to be stuck at Magic _____ for a long time until you find a passage which will bring you back, they strongly recommend bringing provisions. I notice that they have a "blubber sandwich" on sale, which actually looks like a delicious Moroccan tomato paste on pumpernickel.
"Hey," I ask the ticket guy after buying my ticket, "that's not really blubber, is it?"
He looks at me like I'm nuts, the whole line erupts into laughter behind me, he tells me that I am an idiot, that OF COURSE it's blubber, gee whiz; I shrug my shoulders and buy it. Silly people laughing at me. ME! Hmph.
So. I step out back to the van which awaits us tourists, and I realize I am no longer in Hollywood. No sirree, I have stepped out into WALES. Saw that coming, didn't you? Anyway, the gorgeously verdant hills are unmistakeable. We wind our way through the countryside, and (as part of the adventure) it's up to each rider to decide when to get off, since the van driver isn't allowed to tell us precisely where Magic _____ even is. I get off first, everyone looks at me like I'm nuts, and I spend a day and a half wandering through the countryside, NEVER FINDING THE MAGIC _____. What a waste! The sandwich lasted me the whole time, which was impressive, but I was still peeved when I landed back at the Hotel Cafe. While I was grumbling at the staff, who are impressed that I made it back without any secret passageway help whatsoever, I recognized my friends Matt and Isa (hi, guys!).
So, Matt, true to form, teases me mercilessly for missing Magic _____ completely ("Wow, whatta dumbass," are his exact words, "but we love you anyway"), and then we agree to investigate Magic _____ together, the Hotel Cafe staff grudgingly letting me try all over again. This time, Matt and Isa (being old pros at this) guide me unerringly to the Magic _____. We meander about, oohing and aahing at the very House-of-Usher-meets-La-Dolce-Vita aspects to the estate, and then do some serious investigating, trying to avoid the many kids running around screaming and galumphing about the courtyards and corridors, ripping down the ivy and so forth. I walk into a sumptuous, decaying bathroom straight out of The Shining, and step into the shower stall, Matt and Isa right behind.
"Hey, guys," I say, "do you think this could be a secret passagewaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" as the bathtub falls away beneath me and WHOOOOOOOOOOSSSHHHHHHH I find myself sliding at an ungodly number of miles per hour down a very zigzaggy tunnel, wide enough for one person, and it's very much like a typical water tunnel at a water-themed amusement park, only there's no water, and it's pitch black, and I'm convinced I'm about to die, when WHAM I spill out into a fountain in a main courtyard, tourists applauding me as I make my splashy appearance, and I see the back of the Hotel Cafe right in front of me.
I later ask people how long it usually takes to find one's way out of Magic _____, and the answer is "about two days," so I didn't feel so bad about making it back within a day and a half, my first time around. It was a lot of fun, and great to hang out with Matt and Isa, but there was a lot to be said, too, for wandering about on my own through the picturesque Welsh hills—just myself, the pretty clouds, the mild sun, a full moon, and a Moroccan tomato paste sandwich on pumpernickel to keep me company.
Friday, March 10, 2006
i hate sheep
Okay, I don't hate actual sheep; actual sheep are quite adorable, really. My problem, to be honest, is with sheeplike people. Take tonight's party...please.
My friend Rebekah brought me along to a party for a friend of hers, which seemed well and good. Rebekah is a fab individual, and it is generally a good idea to get out of your house and have a life every so often. Still, the promise of the evening came to a grinding halt when we were introduced by the hostess, within the first five minutes of our arrival, to a guy who asked us "What do you do?"
GAH.
Rebekah, being superfab, replied calmly, "I'm a contortionist." I immediately burst out laughing, the guy responded with disbelief, I insisted that her five-in-a-row backflips are truly something to behold, and then Rebekah had to ruin it all by confessing that she is, in fact, not a contortionist after all. Damn her honesty.
GAH.
Then more people showed up, most of whom failed to ask me anything about myself. I learned a great deal about them, inquiring into the thrilling details of their lives, but no curiosity on their ends. The brave few who bothered to ask about me had no idea what cinematography is, which is certainly fair enough. I explained it, they nodded politely, and the conversation died—until I asked some more about their lives, and they lit up and just blathered away merrily again.
GAH.
The worst, though—THE ABSOLUTE PITS—were these law students talking about Coachella. They asked me if I planned to go, and I said No Thank You, I am not into Festivals of Trendiness for the Sheeplike Masses (I neglected to further mention that I can't afford the ticket—but even if I could, I seriously doubt I'd go). One of the law students replied, "Astrid, you think too much."
Think too much?
"Gee," I said, "that sure inspires confidence, coming from a law student. Remind me to hire you sometime."
"Seriously, though," he said in a genuinely earnest fashion, "I do very little thinking, and my life is great."
GAH.
Then he asked me what I'm drinking.
"Coke," I replied.
"And what?" he asked.
"Just Coke."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
The poor guy experienced some serious consternation at this point. He studied my face carefully, clearly expecting me to break down and tearfully admit that I am a total loser, and don't know how to party. Little does he know that my brain synthesizes LSD naturally, and I've danced on bars—and gotten chased away by security—completely stone-cold sober. I am perfectly comfortable with having fun on caffeine only, and it freaked him out royally.
"But it's FRIDAY!" he exploded.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you drink at all?"
"Sure."
"But not now."
"Right."
He regarded me some more, shook his head whilst mumbling wonderingly, and backed away into the crowd. He looked a tad frightened, which I found oddly satisfying.
But still: GAH.
I hate sheep. Where O where are the contortionists, the feverish thinkers, the folks who would rather get their fingernails ripped out one by one than ask somebody what they "do"?
My friend Rebekah brought me along to a party for a friend of hers, which seemed well and good. Rebekah is a fab individual, and it is generally a good idea to get out of your house and have a life every so often. Still, the promise of the evening came to a grinding halt when we were introduced by the hostess, within the first five minutes of our arrival, to a guy who asked us "What do you do?"
GAH.
Rebekah, being superfab, replied calmly, "I'm a contortionist." I immediately burst out laughing, the guy responded with disbelief, I insisted that her five-in-a-row backflips are truly something to behold, and then Rebekah had to ruin it all by confessing that she is, in fact, not a contortionist after all. Damn her honesty.
GAH.
Then more people showed up, most of whom failed to ask me anything about myself. I learned a great deal about them, inquiring into the thrilling details of their lives, but no curiosity on their ends. The brave few who bothered to ask about me had no idea what cinematography is, which is certainly fair enough. I explained it, they nodded politely, and the conversation died—until I asked some more about their lives, and they lit up and just blathered away merrily again.
GAH.
The worst, though—THE ABSOLUTE PITS—were these law students talking about Coachella. They asked me if I planned to go, and I said No Thank You, I am not into Festivals of Trendiness for the Sheeplike Masses (I neglected to further mention that I can't afford the ticket—but even if I could, I seriously doubt I'd go). One of the law students replied, "Astrid, you think too much."
Think too much?
"Gee," I said, "that sure inspires confidence, coming from a law student. Remind me to hire you sometime."
"Seriously, though," he said in a genuinely earnest fashion, "I do very little thinking, and my life is great."
GAH.
Then he asked me what I'm drinking.
"Coke," I replied.
"And what?" he asked.
"Just Coke."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
The poor guy experienced some serious consternation at this point. He studied my face carefully, clearly expecting me to break down and tearfully admit that I am a total loser, and don't know how to party. Little does he know that my brain synthesizes LSD naturally, and I've danced on bars—and gotten chased away by security—completely stone-cold sober. I am perfectly comfortable with having fun on caffeine only, and it freaked him out royally.
"But it's FRIDAY!" he exploded.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you drink at all?"
"Sure."
"But not now."
"Right."
He regarded me some more, shook his head whilst mumbling wonderingly, and backed away into the crowd. He looked a tad frightened, which I found oddly satisfying.
But still: GAH.
I hate sheep. Where O where are the contortionists, the feverish thinkers, the folks who would rather get their fingernails ripped out one by one than ask somebody what they "do"?
Friday, March 3, 2006
rainy fridays
Wouldn't it be cool to have a band called The Rainy Fridays? Well, okay, maybe it just sounds cool to me.
Anyway, I'm really liking this switcheroo in L.A. weather—bring it on, Mother Nature! The main thing I like about rain is how musical it makes my brain; I start thinking endlessly about all the rain-related songs I know, and it makes for an amusing day. My personal favorites are "I Can't Stand the Rain" by Ann Peebles, "November Rain" by Guns & Roses, and "Come Clean" by Hilary Duff. A co-worker also mentioned "Fool in the Rain" by Led Zeppelin, which I've never heard, and I also briefly debated including "No Rain" by Blind Melon, which I think has us covered. (Yeah, yeah, I know the Grateful Dead did their own rain thing, as did Madonna, Neil Young, Mariah Carey, Whitesnake, and other musical luminaries—I've just never heard their particular odes to dampness, excepting Madonna's.)
Totally unrelated: someone said to me last night, "You're doomed to failure, but in a good way." Assuming he was joking, I consider this brilliance. Maybe I need new friends, or at least a lobotomy.
Anyway, I'm really liking this switcheroo in L.A. weather—bring it on, Mother Nature! The main thing I like about rain is how musical it makes my brain; I start thinking endlessly about all the rain-related songs I know, and it makes for an amusing day. My personal favorites are "I Can't Stand the Rain" by Ann Peebles, "November Rain" by Guns & Roses, and "Come Clean" by Hilary Duff. A co-worker also mentioned "Fool in the Rain" by Led Zeppelin, which I've never heard, and I also briefly debated including "No Rain" by Blind Melon, which I think has us covered. (Yeah, yeah, I know the Grateful Dead did their own rain thing, as did Madonna, Neil Young, Mariah Carey, Whitesnake, and other musical luminaries—I've just never heard their particular odes to dampness, excepting Madonna's.)
Totally unrelated: someone said to me last night, "You're doomed to failure, but in a good way." Assuming he was joking, I consider this brilliance. Maybe I need new friends, or at least a lobotomy.
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
Le fromage bleu
Why do I love bleu cheese so much? No, really—why? I don't get it. I used to think the stuff was nasty, back in the day, but this was also back in the same day when I hated anything made with whole grains. Taste buds are curious things.
So, for the first time in my life, believe it or not, I have finally tried frozen grapes. Frozen grapes! I love how there's that moment when you first bite into a frozen grape and your gums go YOWTCH from the searing cold and then suddenly the grape juices melt and HOORAY it's a party in your mouth and a grape was invited. Ooee, I just love it.
Can you tell I just went grocery shopping yesterday? Garlic rosemary crackers are FAB. Pearl tomatoes are fab, and doubly fab when you wrap each tomato in some fresh basil. Oh, man, I'm hungry...and I didn't really have a proper lunch...gah. I'd get something now, but I'm going to Ammo tonight, so I need to save room. Alas, my existence is so difficult.
So, for the first time in my life, believe it or not, I have finally tried frozen grapes. Frozen grapes! I love how there's that moment when you first bite into a frozen grape and your gums go YOWTCH from the searing cold and then suddenly the grape juices melt and HOORAY it's a party in your mouth and a grape was invited. Ooee, I just love it.
Can you tell I just went grocery shopping yesterday? Garlic rosemary crackers are FAB. Pearl tomatoes are fab, and doubly fab when you wrap each tomato in some fresh basil. Oh, man, I'm hungry...and I didn't really have a proper lunch...gah. I'd get something now, but I'm going to Ammo tonight, so I need to save room. Alas, my existence is so difficult.
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