I just found this video on YouTube, and I want to go on record for all the world that these are my people. I am a Gumby.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
(Which, as you may or may not know was when I saw the trailer for The Phantom Menace.) Also, I owed you all a silly video from the weekend. Man, that blew right past.
Requiem for a Grail gave me chills and made me cry. I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE THIS MOVIE!
Monday, January 29, 2007
From a nearby radio, Behind Blue Eyes plays. A green and orange rechargable battery sits on a chair, its positive terminal gazing blankly into space.
Q: So, you were lost for a while?
A: Yeah. It was rough.
Q: Separated from your partner--
A: Yeah, I guess it was rough for everybody.
Q: And you don't remember that night?
A: Well...it was New Year's Eve. I had just left my charger, and I was riding in a chest pocket, when we--
Q: You fell?
Q: Take all the time you need.
A: It's just, I laid there, I don't know how long.
Q: Then the dogs found you?
A: Yeah, and I was carried out--
Q: You were just dumped on the ground, weren't you?
A: There was so much going on.
Q: Were you--
A: Peed on? I can't remember.
Q: Were you happy when you found out you were going home?
A: Oh yeah, my partner and I, we just spent a night on the desk, and in the morning, I was right back to work, like nothing happened.
Q: What do you think other batteries will say about you?
A: I don't really care about that. I've gotten some negativity from the alkalines....
Q: The non-rechargeables?
A: Yeah, but they're jealous anyway. The important thing is I just want to go back to making music with my partner, and in a few days, I'll recharge again, and with any luck this will all be forgotten by the media.
Q: What do you think of batteries like the Telepower who was overcharged?
A: That's...that was a tragic, terrible thing. I knew that battery. We used to go to the charger together. I could have been in the charger that day.
Q: You're very lucky.
A: Yeah, I feel bad for the battery left, you know, they have to charge in pairs....
Q: Are you offering?
A: No. No, what kind of sicko do you think I am?
Q: Well I--
A: You're just like all the other reporters! This interview is over! Get me out of here.
The battery sits on a chair, light flashing angrily off its positive terminal. A cat paw reaches around the chair and pulls the battery to safety.
Friday, January 26, 2007
I've always been embarrassed by my astrological sign. Sure, it's friendly seafood, but the name is just too much. Who else is born under a sign that shares a name with a disease? How come no one is diagnosed with Pisces? Sure, it'd be weird, but I'm tired of being big evil disease sign.
Way back when I was a kid, I used moonchild, then I started getting nervous that wizards would come after me, so now I just call my star sign Basil. (Did you know I got a perfect score on the OKCupid Monty Python test? There's a prime example of why right there.)
But then it hit me, like a blow on the head, that all the signs are pretty damned murderous. Leo? It's a lion for crying out loud! With huge, sharp claws, and big pointy teeth. Taurus? A bull! Scorpio? It's a scorpion! Sagittarius is armed and dangerous, Pisces could very well be piranha, and don't tell me those Aries rams and Capricorn goatfishes are totally harmless on the edge of a cliff.
Forget the human signs, Aquarius has to be spiking somebody's drink, and Gemini? Ever heard of the Krays? That sweet-looking Virgo? I don't trust anything anymore.
That leaves Libra. Who did that sign have to sleep with to get something as innocuous as scales? Who am I kidding? Scales have taken their toll on the anorexics of the world.
I think I'll use my celtic tree sign: The fig.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The new passport rules that went into effect the other day got us thinking about getting passports. I was psyched because of that old dream of mine to be a spy, and have a passport for each country with different facial hair and names...learn from me, children: your dreams mean little in this cruel world.
Nan had gotten a passport back in the '90s to prove she was who her library card said she was, so my memories of passport procurement are a mix of feelings, all of which I'll call just nostalgia for the endless bureaucracy and the Woolworth's in Cross Country, which had the passport photo machine installed just after Nan got her passport.
Keep in mind that I do not travel. I wouldn't get on an airplane unless an unconscious B.A. Baracus was thrown on top of me, and I don't really ever, you know, leave my tree except to gather food, but by God, when it comes time to abandon my country, I will be prepared.
However...the county clerks office website only has links to forms that result in 404 errors and a note about the $97 fee required for the passport.
97 x 3 = we will just have to stay in the country.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Sometimes it's hard to be funny. Granted, Tom Green went and wrote that song called Feel Your Balls, and so I can't say no one laughs at cancer. I would guess that laughing helps more than being morose, even. However, that said...I'm getting on the Public Service soapbox to tell everyone to have their colons checked. Because someone else poking around your ass for a few minutes is less awkward than having to tell people someone you love has cancer.
But there it is. Someone I love has cancer. If I were playing cancer in the family bingo, I'd now have five parts marked off, and that's too much for these people I look up to and care about.
So feel your balls, feel your boobs, go get your lady parts and butts checked, people. Don't let pesky little things like taking care of your family, business, life, and a million other things stop you. The CDC is working on a free screening project, which maybe they would expand if there was more call for it. Call for it, even if you have no intention of meeting Polyp Man. And there is a Polyp Man.
Colorectal cancer is preventable, treatable, and beatable.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Guess who got a brochure from the Navy Reserve?
Yeah, that's right, me! Your dear old pacifistic, conscientious objector pal, me.
The reason they dropped me a line? They know I'm in the health care field and my compassion is just what they're looking for. They want me to be a hospital corpsman.
I am seriously worried about the intelligence our Navy is using.
Now, granted, $20,000 just for looking down the throats of little kids in "exotic locations" seems like a great idea, and that's where my brain starts boiling, because I start wondering how many poor kids fall for that, thinking they're going to be a dentist and hand out lollipops and shite when what most likely is coming into hospital ships is nothing so fuzzily cute.
But I digress.
What I found most amusing is that I'm not in the health care field. Have Google and WebMD snitched me out for looking up so many skin diseases? I don't really care, because there's a lot of humor to be found in the image of me trying to administer medication to 1,000 naval men and women when I can't remember to take Excedrin even though my head has cracked open and fire is pouring out.
Compassion? Oh yeah, that's why my family calls me fun names like "Nazi" and "terrorist."
Oh boy, did I just get flagged. But no, compassion to me is just not killing someone that day. And that brings me to the reason I don't do more killin': I don't like to touch people. Really. I'll touch my family, sometimes, but generally, and particularly if you have some bodily fluids or perfume coming out of you, I don't really want to get near that. Is this what our military deserves? No, I think not. I have too much respect for our armed forces to put me in their path to healing and recovery.
The Navy wants my skills. My skills are falling down and speaking in funny voices. That's when my voice is working. Not to say the Navy wouldn't smack the jaw stiffness and crazy right out of me, but I know me better than the Navy, and aside from my deep-seated fear of the Kraken, I don't even get to the telephone in time to pick it up, so I'm pretty sure if I was faced with a bleeder (and cute little children's teeth can bleed too), that poor bastard would be dead.
And then where would my $20,000 be? Paying my funeral. Not that my funeral would cost $20,000, but the family of the little kid who died because I couldn't remove the IED from its molar would probably want some compensation.
Monday, January 15, 2007
I got the boiler explodin' blues,
My ol' boiler, it go boom.
Well, I got the boiler explodin' blues,
My old boiler, it went boom.
Well my daddy went and left me,
Left me with this evil boiler room.
Early Monday mornin',
That's the Monday 'fore today.
I said early last Monday mornin',
A man come here to say,
Said, "You need your filter changed soon,
but I won't do it for you today."
So my boiler done exploded,
Oily smell fill up the place.
I said my boiler done exploded,
Flipper valve...ain't no trace.
If I ever get some money,
I'm gonna hit them with a case.
Well, when my boiler 'sploded, it made my kitten jump.
Blew off all the ventpipes with an lightbulb-breaking thump.
Now I'm waiting for the smell to clear,
My Puppy, she done howl.
I'm waiting for this smell to clear,
My poor Puppy, she done howl.
Ever since that man come in here,
She won't shut up no way no how.
Now I'm dyin' and I'm chokin',
Don't look like I will last too long.
I'm dyin' and I'm chokin',
Oily smell done filled my lung.
When I'm dead maybe Jesus'
Cartoon gon' be bought and hung.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Mad Hot Ballroom, the documentary being shown on Showtime this month, features the school my mother and one of my aunts went to, P.S. 115.
Not only that, but at one point they show some kids dancing outdoors on a rock in Washington Heights. My youngest aunt (AKA "Superkid") once got out of her stroller and climbed that rock. Must've had her stealth bonnet on, too, as Nan was rocking the stroller totally unaware of the escape until someone said, "She's up there."
Saturday, January 13, 2007
And I've got nothing original to make you laugh, so I'll share with you some things off YouTube that made me laugh. Yeah, I know YouTube is so 2006, but I bet at least one of you has written a 6 instead of a 7...wherever you write down dates. Does anyone write dates down anymore? I do. I label my photo folders "2007-01," and so on.
The way I name my folders is not funny, but these are.
First off, there is this collection of David Caruso's lines right before the theme to CSI: Miami plays. I can tell you I will never hear Won't Get Fooled Again the same way ever again, and also that I laughed so hard I developed pains.
Battered Hat Productions has made a hilarious mockumentary called Guerilla Distribution, and from it is this secret audition tape from Shirley Major and John Spate's version of Lord of the Rings featuring Sir Ian McKellan. Go check out their other videos, because they're bloody great. I wish I lived in England so I could buy their video and also lurk creepily around them and absorb some of their glorious British humor.
Now, I am a girl, so I can post this answer song to the greatest video YouTube ever saw without it being all weird and creepy and sexist. Box in a Box may not be climbing the dance charts any time soon, but...oh hell, just watch it if you want.
Which brings me to the last video for this weekend. Tickle Me Emo brings back memories for me. You may not know it, but once, a long time ago, I fought in a Sith War alongside the greatest Porkinites who ever lived and died and lived again. I also abused punctuation horribly, but that's another story. Elmo, sweet Elmo. He sang a song of despair, and I threw rocks at him. I was so foolish in those days.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Have you missed me, my friends? Eh. Maybe I shouldn't ask questions like that, just like I shouldn't post videos of my cat dancing without a disclaimer that no bodily fluids are leaving any part of him as he dances because that's not how he rolls. (For real!)
We haven't seen many movies this year as my mum is hiving up again, but what we have seen have been good ones.
Syriana was better than Ishtar, but Syriana does not end with a musical number. I recommend it anyway.
Lady In The Water got bad reviews, and I'm not sure why. It was clever, and I'm not going so far as saying I wish I had water deep enough for a Narf to live in, because that's a whole load of responsibility I'm not equipped for, but it was very good.
Down By Law, the Jim Jarmusch movie with Tom Waits, Roberto Benigni, and John Lurie was fascinating. It is a sad and beautiful world, man. I love it.
The Producers with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick was incredible. I feel like I'm late to the bandwagon, but I love that movie so much it's scary. No really, I'm scared. I usually don't enjoy fun, but I always did love a good Mel Brooks movie, and this is one of the best.
Other than that, Nan and I have caught some good stuff on tv, like Undertaking Betty, which is great Welsh town/Christopher Walken goodness--with cats, even; Gold Diggers of 1935, which has a young old Rose from Titanic in it along with crazy mathematicians and Buzby Berkley routines; Fascination with Ioan Gruffudd's gf as a wacky nympho with interesting first-aid techniques; Valley of Hunted Men, which is a 1942 western about Nazi rubber-rustlers; and several Blackadder and Benny Hill episodes. Good times!
Yesterday I discovered a webcomic I like so utterly and completely, I read the entire archive in one sitting. Without clicking away for any reason at all. I laughed, that's how good this comic is. Journey to Mt. Moriah is that comic. Go read it, and be entertained.
I still have not seen comet C/2006 P1, or McNaught as the Earthlings call it. I have been fortunate to catch a few comets in my time, and every one of them impress the hell out of me. Ten years ago, I saw Hyakatake and Hale-Bopp, and I remember being happy for days after seeing them. Even in 1986, when I thought Venus was comet Halley because despite my opinion at the time I was not a bright child, I had the comet bug. So I'm watching. And waiting. Sunset today is my last shot to catch it, according to Starry Night.
I got a Starbird ranking on The Halley Project, you know. That game was great. If I could rank video games in migraines, it would get a ten. I crash-landed on Titan, and startled the freaky green wildlife. Those were the days.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
A distraught woman walked into a café and was directed to a booth in the back where a tall, dark, and handsome man sat hunched on the table pushing some grated cheese around with his nose.
"Are you..." she began in a ridiculously breathy voice, "Secret Agent LeFlüffe?"
"YA BEBBE!" came the answer from underneath a placemat, where LeFlüffe's head currently was. "But don't spread it around, y'know, it's a secret, bebbe."
The woman sat down and quickly stood up again to brush the muffin crumbs off the seat. As she sat a second time, LeFlüffe reached a strong arm out from under the placemat and swiped at the tissue in her hand. "You don't need that, bebbe," he said reassuringly, "You go get into bed, I'll be up there in a minute."
"But...a terrible wrong has been done!" the woman told Secret Agent LeFlüffe, whose eyes went all wide and googly at this news.
"They put the drugs in the milks?" LeFlüffe asked.
The woman shook her head. "No, no, my husband, the scientist Roger Roget, has been taken prisoner by a shadow government agency!"
"What do I do for that?" LeFlüffe asked her.
"I...I thought you could help rescue him."
LeFlüffe thought this over. "Oh, ya, ya, I could do that. Ya. You wanna get into bed?"
The woman shrugged. "Okay."
Secret Agent LeFlüffe jumped off the table and sprinted up the stairs. "That's more like it, bebbe!"
The bartender watched LeFlüffe and the woman playing smackies through the railing, and said to a drunken customer, "There goes Secret Agent LeFlüffe, the hottest damn special operative this side of the turnpike; he'll die like he lives: in bed, surrounded by women."
The drunken customer puked all over the bar in amazement.
Secret Agent LeFlüffe could be heard yelling, "Put on the flannel nightie!" from the room at the top of the stairs as he pushed a lamp out the window.
TO BE CONTINUED....
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Tragically, I think cursing is a necessary part of life. Being articulate is all well and good, but give me an old-fashioned four-letter word any time some part of my body has been injured in any way, and I'll be happy...once the bleeding stops.
That said, the following video uses only the word beginning in F and ending in K which is not firetruck, and all its colorful derivatives. If this word offends you or your bosses, or you're not mature enough to hear the word and know not to use it in certain company, do not click the link or watch the video. I don't want to be the one who corrupts a society, you know. I'm just a girl who likes crude humor and functioning digestive tracts--although that last part is always in short supply.
Pulp Fiction -- effin' short version:
Friday, January 05, 2007
My subconscious must be really busy, because I don't know how this ended up on the floppies from my camera:
It was on the same disk as this:
Now, I had always said that the day The Puppy walked on her repaired leg, I would play Mr. Blue Sky by ELO at the highest volume my ears could stand, but really...usually when I'm taking pictures of the sky, something is happening in it, like weird cloud patterns or blimp fights. It was like part of my brain was working that day and said, "You know what would kick ass? A picture of a clear blue sky to represent how cool everything is right now."
I might have been aiming at a bird. Silly bird, getting out of frame before I'd focused.
I know of at least two members of the clan who would have rathered a less mobile puppy and more photos of juicy, juicy birds.
No, I kid. They're very happy the hopping has ceased. There are few things more frightening than having someone three times your size hopping awkwardly in your direction. Except maybe choking, but that's another story for another time. As of this moment, nothing but blue skies do I see.
Oh kittens, I'll see you in bed. Sexy, sexy sandwich of love.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
When Grand Theft Auto III was released for the Playstation 2 in October of 2001, I had no idea what it was. My cuz-brother told us about it, and the sheer glee in his voice as he described the game put the bug in our collective gaming head to check it out. Mum went down to Toys 'R' Us and asked the woman behind the counter for a copy. She merely had to pass the test of worthiness with one question: "It's not for a minor?"
Mum once traumatized a little boy in Software, Etc. by telling him that not only does she play Tomb Raider, her mother plays it, and had I been there in Toys 'R' us that night, I probably would have started laughing at the memory of that boy's face. Had I been there, they probably wouldn't have given us the game because I act 12.
I will never be able to explain the greatness that is the Grand Theft Auto franchise beyond, "OMFG it's so cool!" but last night we started GTAIII over again for maybe the 40th time. Mum picked up a busload of prostitutes to take to the Policeman's ball, I blew up trucks, and Nan blew up Lips Forelli and then hijacked an armored car.
Life has changed quite a bit over these five years, and we've played that game in all sorts of weird places, but Mum still puts on Jah Radio as she's driving around, Nan still puts on Chatterbox, and I still put on Rise-FM and say, "I used to listen to that guy," every time DJ Andre speaks because I've hit the age where I just keep saying the same thing in the hopes it'll be interesting. Rise-FM is in fact the only station I can listen to and complete Smack Down.
People give the games a hard time, because people who can't think for themselves need an excuse to go be violent and stupid and then blame anything for their inability to tell what's real from what isn't. I'm just grateful for a video game my family plays together, no matter what else happens. It can be an irritating bastard at times, but it's also given us a lot of laughs. Nan flying CJ from GTA: San Andreas across the desert wearing a jet pack and gimp suit, carrying a dildo, for instance. Just to get a pass card for the casino heist. That's good times, my friends. Trying to get to the airport in a crap boat before the plane gets to the drug dealers, that's something else. I usually end up with that mission. I've been run over by a million FBI cars.