creepycreepycreepycreepycreepy

I saw a commercial today for Amazing Amanda, and...hoo boy. Towards the end of the spot, Amazing Amanda says to her live playmate, "I love you more than bunnies." That alone was enough to creep me out a bit, but after seeing this article, I nearly started hyperventilating. Amazing Amanda can actually ask you (amongst other things), "Do you want to see me cry?", and then do so; what on earth is this supposed to be teaching kids, other than the bizarre idea that watching a plastic person cry is an edifying activity? Who the hell wants an android for Christmas, especially one this demented?

Well, besides you, I mean.

read this and laugh uproariously

http://www.i-mockery.com/minimocks/3devadam.

I laughed! I cried! I almost peed my pants when I saw the awesome animated GIFs!

Turkish cinema has never looked so...uh...yeah.

sex made redundant...almost

Chocolate from Boule is so good, it oughta be illegal. Wait, no, that would be bad, because I am generally a law-abiding citizen, which would mean I couldn't have the chocolate anymore. Dammit. Okay, the chocolate from Boule is so good, it oughta have a national holiday dedicated to it. Yeah, that's more like it.

Who knew that green tea would work as a dark chocolate essence? Lordy.

musings upon the non-trivial

I knew this would happen. IknewitIknewitIknewit.

I have become a Barely Blogger, succumbing to having a life outside of blogging and therefore rarely updating this thing! Weep! Sigh! Gnashing of teeth!

Anyway, enough of that. I have read The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, volume one, for the first time ever, and I am in love. Or, perhaps more accurately, very deep like. Obscenely deep like. The art! The people! The story! The Wacky Dickensian(tm) aspects! If I had known that Capt. Nemo is so dashing, I'd have read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by now. Kevin O'Neill sure understands the art of a nontrivial beard, that's for sure. And I wanna houseboat that looks like O'Neill's Nautilus. Zowie.

Thanks to Rebekah, I have discovered the stupendous joy of Urban Dictionary. Today's fave: "Ivy Lagger: A person who graduated from an Ivy League college (such as Harvard, Yale), but "lags" behind either at work or socially. Essentially a play on the word, 'Ivy Leaguer.' ex. 'What's the matter, Ivy Lagger? They didn't teach you how to read at Harvard?'"

Love it.

gnu & improved

This has certainly been a weekend of novelty: blackberry soda, Santee Alley, gunmetal pearl necklaces, Run Lola Run and the like. Not "The Like," as in the band—but you knew that, right?

Cleaning my place is SO horrifically exhausting, and I'm not even close to finishing yet. How can one small apartment suddenly be so Sisyphean in terms of restoring order? Every time I clean something, I discover something else that needs to be sorted out. Grr argh. I need a housemaid. And a butler. And a chef. And a masseur. And an aromatherapist. And a fitness coach. And a secretary. And a box of Swiffer WetJet pads.

Honestly, some of us will never be satisfied....

Dr. Tran and other madness

I hung out with a popcult-savvy friend last night, and I now feel awash in media insanity. The movies! The comic books! The posters! The wacky shorts! How do people find the time to generate all this stuff, and then where do people find the time to absorb it? My mind is still reeling from the staggering output of creativity floating around out there, plus I now have an armload of popcult homework (Veronica Mars, Equilibrium, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) to work my way through. Whew.

Catching up on media literacy exhausts me.... How do normal people manage?

moderation is for twerps

It's interesting to note how action begets action, and sloth begets sloth. On the days that I work, I get a ton done, both work-related and non-work-related. However, on the days I have off, I do nothing. Nothing. It's sad, and the fact that it's so predictable makes it even sadder. I'm one of those people who, unless presented with a terrific reason to get out of bed (art, friends, bill-paying, imminent starvation), will just stay in bed forever 'n' ever, merrily doing crosswords and reading Archie comics.

Funny thing is, once I'm out of bed, I'm off to the races, living my guts out; ain't nobody gonna break my stride, nobody's gonna slow me down and so forth. I remember being forced to read As I Lay Dying in tenth grade, written by that laugh riot William Faulkner, and my English teacher was baffled by the father in the book. He, like yours truly, was a victim of inertia, never moving unless acted upon by an outside force, never stopping unless something put the brakes on for him. Live hard, laze hard. My English teacher made a huge deal out of this, saying that the father was insane and that Faulkner didn't always make sense. I happen to agree with the latter assessment, but I remember the pang of guilt I felt when I recognized a kindred spirit in this guy, only to feel the two of us being read the riot act by my teacher.

I should walk around town today, or die trying. I need paper towels, anyway.