| Extra Extra |
[Aug. 3rd, 2006|06:30 pm] |
Yesterday's Red Eye had a cover story that was basically about how everyone likes attractive people because they are pretty. I thought I would help them out by suggesting a few other stories I think would really fit in with their hard hitting journalistic pursuits.
( Read all about it... ) |
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| A series of tubes. |
[Jul. 6th, 2006|11:06 am] |
This is actually almost poetic, beautiful like some strange outsider art.
I just the other day got an internet
by Senator Ted Stevens (R, Alaska)
It got tangled up with all these things
going on the internet commercially.
The internet is not something
you dump something on. It's not a truck.
It's a series of tubes.
You don't understand.
Those tubes can be filled, and if they are filled
you put your message in, it gets in line.
It's going to be delayed by anyone that puts into that tube
enormous amounts of material,
enormous amounts of material.
I mean, the senator is from Alaska so he's probably used to seeing the entire world as one big pipeline full of dead dinosaurs. I just hope the future of the internet isn't decided by a group of people who don't know how to work a Blackberry or sign into their webmail. |
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| Frolics. |
[Mar. 22nd, 2006|10:10 am] |
Holy crap, people! How did you let me miss World Puppetry Day?!?
Oh well. I hope everyone on my friends list had their hand deep inside something to commemorate it. |
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| Homererotic |
[Dec. 2nd, 2005|01:38 pm] |
A.) Instructions on the back of Listerine Pocketmist:
1. Press down on trigger until white mist hole is revealed.
2. Continue to press trigger firmly until mist is released.
B.) I bought a copy of The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood and it reminded me I haven't read the Odyssey since I was pretty much a kid. I mean, that's pretty understandable - it's not like it's been on Oprah's list and I'm pretty sure they didn't add a spunky boy wizard anytime in the last 10 years - but I still feel like I missed something. It's basically a founding text of western storytelling and in school we were saddled with a neutered translation that might as well have come from the folks who write instructions on shampoo. And yet, I know if I picked up some thrilling new version of the tale, I would put it down because "I already know this story." Yay for reading. I suppose there's always Joyce if I'm really desperate...
C.) Sports!
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| Revelations |
[Oct. 6th, 2005|10:21 am] |
I'm not afraid of global warming, bird flu or Christians destroying the world, but I am terrified of Entertainment Weekly, Sports Illustrated, and TVGuide. All of the magazines that won't stop coming even when you ask them to, that follow you around, address to address, state to state. With their dated news and gossip flooding our mailboxes and bathrooms, they sneak up on us. We'll save one because we want to read that article about the new TV season, we'll save another because we kind of like the cover. Eventually they'll take over our homes and our cities, our streets running glossy with page after page of recipes we thought we'd try when the parents visit.
The end times are nigh: TVGuide is getting bigger. It will start in the homes of the elderly and infirm, feeding on their frailty and loneliness, and the piles will grow. Perfume and cologne samples will mingle with the stale air in economy homes and create an incurable plague, leaving us completely unable to combat the swelling armies of shallow publications. I've seen the face of the Apocalypse, and it looks an awful lot like Kirsten Dunst.
No, I don't recycle. Do I look like some kind of hippie? |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 9th, 2005|11:57 am] |
I don't care what Gisele Bundchen thinks about the hurricane relief effort, even if technically I agree with her. A women best known for being Leonardo DiCaprio's crotch bag doesn't really deserve the airtime, no matter how sad she is about it, especially when in the next breath she's describing Victoria Secret's fall line to George W. Bush's cousin. Asking her to give her opinion is like asking a rabbit its feelings on female genital mutilation. If one person decides, "The elite supermodeling community is right, we could have done more to prevent this!", that person should be dragged into the street and fucked by a horse.
I'm glad that Oprah is using her influence to dispatch her Planeteers "Angel Network" out and help people directly, but couldn't she have sent qualified people instead of wasting helicopter space on celebrities? Julia Roberts looks so scary thin, I'm surprised the relief workers didn't mistake her for an evacuee and force food down her throat. Perhaps she was chosen because she could relate to the people - it doesn't look like she's had solid food in months. I'm glad that Matthew McConaughey helped rescue a hospital full of animals, but I when I read this line from his own "blog" I get skeptical:
After 5 hours of researching, my publicist called and said, 'I've talked to some producers at the Oprah Show and they are looking for people who want to get 'down and dirty'
You'd think that he could pop onto google or make a phone call himself. If I'd thought the camera crew filming him was there for actual journalistic purposes instead of just capturing his smelly, masculine fortitude and taking up seats and supplies, I wouldn't have a problem.
I know they're scared and upset, and trying their best to do what's right. I'm just sick of rich people, and their sad, sensitive eyes staring into the camera, no matter what they have to say.
Now, who else can't wait to watch the Emmys? |
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| Three short notes about drunk people |
[Aug. 24th, 2005|12:26 pm] |
Obviously drunk, he mouths, I'm taking a walk one half second before he starts walking toward Madison Square Garden, playing with a unlit cigarette, moving it from one hand to his mouth to the other hand. Stopping in front of the first homeless man he finds, he successfully begs a light and strikes up a conversation, gesturing wildly as if speaking in semaphore, a language of the compromised.
***
A group of wasted friends stumble onto the already crowded train, and fill in the empty seats here and there. A blond with a pug nose sits next to my uncle and strikes up a conversation with a polish kid across from her: 21, visiting the US on break from school, not terribly impressed by anything in our country except the parties. Their conversation starts off flirty, but quickly she starts to debate politics and economics with him - at 2 am, blitzed on Coors Light and jello shots, she needs some intellectual stimulation. She shares that she works for her father's "large, successful" software company, and that her job offers her "the best of both worlds," assuming that the two worlds are sales and consulting. She's a software engineer - sort of - and she taught school for two years before she left to make more money. Her love is fashion, and she hopes to get into that field someday. Money isn't important to her, and she works for everything she gets, and isn't it unfortunate that so many Americans don't feel that way. At this point her friends sitting behind her make guns with their fingers and point them at her head. One leans into my aunt and whispers, "Everything she's telling him is total bullshit."
***
A fat, bald man with crutches stands in the vestibule, leaning against a metal pole, too drunk to function. His fright wig beard sticks out about 3 or 4 inches from his face, a little further than the cigarette loosely hanging from his mouth. When my cousin cheekily waves to him, he steadies himself on a pair of crutches, leans his head back, points and winks at her like a rock-god guitarist picking a groupie from the front row. Then he rests against the pole again and closes his eyes.
After the Jamaica stop, he moves to take two empty seats near us. Settling, he produces three egg sandwiches from nowhere, the remnants of prior ones still dotting his beard. Just before our stop, he loudly belches three times, each identical and with perfect rhythm, like the chimes of a clock. |
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| Walkin' |
[Jul. 29th, 2005|11:45 am] |
Last week, I saw the most beautiful dead bird lying on the sidewalk. Perfectly preserved, just lying peacefully on it's side. I stepped closer and found it was not actually dead, but plastic. Assuming it wasn't a strange form of west nile virus, I gave a cursory look around, mumbling, "Oh, did someone leave this here guess not I better take it before someone steps on it" and shoved it in my bag. When I got home, I found out it's one of these things, either broken or without batteries. I haven't replaced them yet, but I hope that when I do, it starts to sing and drives my cat completely nuts.
***
I forgot my [unbranded music delivery device] on the walk home yesterday, so I thought that I would let the gorgeous day outside provide my soundtrack.
The gorgeous day outside can't play for shit. I think it needs a new rhythm section. Give me plastic birds over half-heard cellphone conversations and endless soft, wispy breezes. A breeze is the lite rock of wind - perfect for the dentist's office. I need something a little more substantial. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 1st, 2005|11:21 am] |
When I was a different person I wanted to be an astronaut.
I didn't have a lot of aspirations as a kid, but ending up in space was one of them. Owning a monkey was another. At 8 or 9, I quit afterschool catechism and took over a neighbor's paper route - the first of many times in my life I've chosen money over God. With what I collected, I started saving for Space Camp, because it seemed like a good start towards getting up there - it worked for Joaquin Phoenix (although I'm pretty sure he was called Leaf or Twig back then). When puberty hit, I cashed out a big chunk of my bank account and bought a stereo with a CD player, which seemed like a better investment at the time, and put the idea of ever leaving orbit out of my head.
I'd still like a monkey, though. |
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| Plus, the magnifying glass is useless. |
[Jun. 22nd, 2005|12:36 pm] |
I think I've been feeding a glass of water for about a week and a half.
In the move, I found a starter kit of sea monkeys, which I've had some nightmarish experiences with in the past. Thinking, "what the hell, father's day is coming, lets make some babies." I found my old tank, scrubbed it out, and ripped open the kit.
I don't know when I got this pack of sea monkeys - probably two years ago, around the same time I started the other set, I'd guess, which is why I never bothered to use them. They sat in the basement and absorbed humidity for all that time, because the powder in the egg packet had fused the unborn monkeys into rocky clumps of embryonic shrimp. Figuring that it couldn't hurt, I finished following the directions.
Now almost two weeks have passed and I've yet to see any real sea monkey growth. There are some floating dots in the water, but they don't quite "dance" like the package suggests - rather they sit there, suspended in the water above the plastic space capsule. The astronaut that originally came attached to the capsule has broken off and lies face down on the floor of the tank, random food particles and detritus settling on him. It's just about the saddest thing in the world. Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Now I'm pretty sure there's nothing in there but dirty water and sea monkey food. I'm going to keep going for a little while - it takes four weeks for them to fully grow, and I'd hate to accidentally destroy a population of struggling pygmy sea monkeys, but I'm also not holding my breath that I'll get my own colony of brine shrimp anytime soon. I am a horrible dad. |
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| GvE |
[Jun. 3rd, 2005|11:20 am] |
I just realized that I would use my powers for evil.
Not to imply that I have powers, nor do I plan on acquiring them. But if I do get struck by magic lightning or fuse with some alien consciousness, no good would come of it. It's a bit depressing - you try to live a well-intentioned life, do the right things, act a certain way toward other people. Then something makes you realize that gifted with, say, the ability to read minds, control over the weather, a love of clocks, you would abuse that power to gain every possible advantage. I wouldn't even be a bad guy who thought I was doing good - one of those "I've become the very thing I thought I was fighting against!" losers. I wouldn't have any extenuating circumstances like chemicals leaking into my brain or a seriously screwed-up childhood - just plain old greed and wanton indulgence.
In a way it's nice having my moral path already set. No internal struggle, no straddling the line between black and white. Should I tell that guy his fly is down? No, why would I do that? Can I knock that old woman over? Sure, not a problem. What about blowing up that bus? Of course, I'm evil! Really, it's just laziness that's keeping me from strapping on the cape and engaging in super-villainy. Plus, I look awful in a cape.
I guess being truly evil doesn't mean being rude, or mean, or kicking dogs all the time. It's just knowing that one day, given the ability and means to do a great deal of damage and cause a lot of pain, I would say, "Why not?" |
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| Wow. |
[May. 31st, 2005|10:24 am] |
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Frances Bean is like a real live person now. Saw her on the TV guide channel, she talked and everything - has a cute lispy thing going on. I've always been a little worried about her. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 27th, 2005|03:40 pm] |
I've written before about how I'm a consumer whore, a marketer's dream, and to prove the point just last night I bought the deodorant with the tiny blue power caps! because, duh! the tiny blue power caps! make it better than deodorants without any sort of power cap at all. But last night I think I hit a new low - I bought something not because I like the marketing, the packaging, or anything about it really, but because I hate it.
I won't tell you what the product is, but in reverse-ebonics it would be called Ask Body Wash. The ads are at least sexist, borderline misogynist, and I don't even find them funny in an sarcastic way. And yet, I saw their annoying sleek bottles in the store, looking like some kind of PSP gone horribly wrong, and I had to buy one. Is this what they mean by viral marketing? Subliminal advertising? Or just weak-mindedness? I've never felt so much a part of the toy commercial generation - I don't know if my wallet can withstand a deluge of ironic shopping. In a sense, I guess this is the best revenge, to let the public know that a product meant for sexy young virile straight men is being used by a big hairy queer, but now I feel like I should have picked something slightly less evil, and have to live in constant fear of sudden lap dances. |
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| Party like a Commuter |
[May. 13th, 2005|10:58 am] |
Today's message from Ticketmaster:
Don't miss Hilary Duff! [with a high powered rifle]
***
On the subway this morning, I saw a woman drinking Rockstar Energy Drink, which I'd never actually witnessed anyone consume before, despite it's apparent popularity on college campuses and in yuppie bars. When I'd seen it on the shelf, I assumed that all of the cans were empty and that it was actually a way for spies to send secret notes to each other. Because really, who wants to be seen drinking a giant can of something called, "Rockstar Energy Drink?" I don't understand what's so "rockstar" about drinking ginger ale with NoDoz dissolved into it. Especially on the Blue Line, at 7:45 in the morning. Extra especially when you're with your Dad, and are carrying your own luggage. Not to imply that rockstars don't ride the subway or don't have dads - these things just don't grab the press coverage. Unless they start adding some heroin or human blood to the recipe, I don't think I'll be able to take this beverage very seriously at all. Maybe I just have higher standards for my rockstars than some other people.
From the website, I see that she was drinking the white-canned Diet Rockstar Energy Drink. That seems explicitly un-rockstar to me. |
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| Any Other Name |
[Feb. 25th, 2005|09:54 am] |
I got a message from my evil name-twin yesterday - I imagine he was trying to forward a message to his own gmail account and forgot a dash or an underscore and ended up accidentally sending me his friend's newborn baby pictures. And because my actual life isn't exciting enough, I present:
( The Ugliest Baby in the World )
Why would anyone want to have one of those freaks when there are plenty of adorable older children waiting for adoption, who are much better suited for tasks like mopping the floor and stealing liquor from the grocery store?
I once got an email from another person who shares my name, challenging "If you want to see what a real Sean D_______ looks like, check out my home page. Loser." I pretty much assume that's what we're all like, now.
As far as I know, I'm not named after anyone - my name is my own, such as it is. My mother looked at me, all wrinkled skin and snot, and declared me Sean. My middle name belongs to the sons of the family, and I kind of like being a part of that tradition. As soon as I adopt a male cat or dog, he'll get the name as well, although finding that out would probably kill my grandfather.
When I hear or read my name, I assume something painful is about to happen, like an omen or albatross, or venom spat at me from a vindictive enemy ready to strike. Most of the time though, people are just trying to get my attention. |
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| 10 |
[Feb. 23rd, 2005|12:14 pm] |
First - I think the only thing keeping me from turning into a world class sociopath is lack of upper body strength and a good gimmick.
Next - I've been going to the gym.
After - When something isn't working, I either need to stay until I fix the problem, or seal it away in Tupperware.
Sometime later - Do not microwave in this pouch.
ZZZ - When presented with a self-serve soda fountain, it takes a huge amount of willpower to keep from mixing all the flavors together. And then setting it on fire.
The next day - I'm terrified of getting addicted to hand sanitizer.
March - Oh, I know. You may think I don't, but I do.
Columbus Day - I was once trapped in an elevator and nobody had a baby. I was disappointed.
Almost - I'd love to ruin Christmas for everyone some year, but my sister always beats me to it.
Last - Ten minutes before I die I'll be waiting at a bus stop, coming home after a late movie. Bored with my cell phone games, I'll pull a quarter out of my pocket and start flipping it, heads over tails. As the streetlight above me burns out, I miss the coin and smack it into the street with the heel of my hand. Bending over to get it, I misjudge my balance and stumble, head first, into a speeding Toyota. The last thing on my mind is the theme song to Family Ties. |
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| Signs I've Seen |
[Feb. 18th, 2005|09:34 am] |
| [ | music |
| | The Aislers Set - Been Hiding | ] |
2. On the bike at the gym, there is a chart of ages and "target heart rates" to achieve while you are exercising. The list goes up to 100 years old. The target heart rate during a cardiac workout for a centenarian is 96 beats per minute, and the target heart rate for a fat burning workout is slightly lower. I personally think that, if you've celebrated your 100th birthday, you probably should stop worrying about losing weight and focus on not crapping your pants.
1. "Say no to drugs" - read off the plastic splash guard at the bottom of a urinal. I generally don't want advice from something I'm pissing on, but I suppose there are stranger places for a life-changing epiphany. |
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| Finally she had found True Love. This was the best Valentines Day ever!!!! |
[Feb. 14th, 2005|08:54 am] |
1. Everyone should visit Donna's Valentine's Day and Unicrons [sic] Page today. I have no idea is this is some meta prank or genuine, but it fills me with endless joy. Make sure to check out the story and picture gallery.
"Unicorn Suicide - 1999
This one is more serious. The unicron is mad at modern things like a jukebox. But I thought it would be more sad if instead of running off because she's all upset, she miscalculates and runs into it, accidentally. Uh-oh! See, its the modern world versus the unicorn.
I'm writing a poem about this picture. I'll post it soon!"
Sadly, that poem never came.
2. Speaking of horrible webpages, I followed ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) mississippicub's link this morning to the news story about Alan Keyes's daughter coming out as a lesbian. They linked to something that purports to be her journal, and while I think she's extremely brave and strong to do what she's doing, and that she must have gone through so much torture growing up with her father, her blog makes me want to tear out my eyes. I mean, Sad Butterfly Girl? Ouch. |
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| I could really use an english muffin. |
[Feb. 9th, 2005|11:37 am] |
I barely remember a time when I believed in anything, but as a kid, I trusted that adults told the truth and that magic was real. The tooth fairy, Bigfoot, Jesus - I didn't need a lot of proof, pretty much just the occasional dollar under my pillow ("Thank you, Bigfoot!"). Now I'm professionally cynical, and I think it all stems back to being 4 years old and staring into Mickey Mouse's eyes at Disney World. Perhaps it was the angle of the sun, or just that he brought his face so close to mine, but I could see through the dead black plastic of the costume's eyes straight into the face of some dumb guy. He must have noticed my expression, as he retreated to another family - I'm pretty sure if they catch you disillusioning children at Disney World you get put on vomit duty or maybe deported.
A few years after that, my uncle tried to convince me that The Hamburger Helper Hand had actually been amputated from Mickey, but it didn't work.
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