http://news.yahoo.com/s/newsarama/20081113/en_newsarama/5lessonswehopeobamalearnedfromspiderman;_ylt=AlnveNlr46pla0cnauJQCzpxFb8C
The President Elect has read Harry Potter? He's a Mac guy? He collected Spiderman and Conan comics? Geeks rejoice! He's one of us! He's one of us! He's one of us! He's one of us! I've never felt so personally close to a Commander in Chief in my entire life.
Oh, my gods. We may have a President who . . . . knows better than to violate the Prime Directive.
Gasp.
I am so not joking about this. I trust my fellow geeks in a way that I don't, you know, them. Geeks get it. We love the elegant solution, the killer app, the gadget. We put our hope in science. But with caution (a genetically engineered virus that will turn belly button lint into clean burning fuel - mmmm, might want to be careful with that). We believe that evil should be defeated. But that what is different is not necessarily evil. We believe in heroism and valor. We believe in peace. We want to live in the future. And we want to start building it now.
And if Barack Obama is one of us? Smile, people. Smile.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Scientists discover that a walk can cure chocolate cravings.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20081112/sc_livescience/briskwalkcancurbchocolatecravings;_ylt=Alf55ddrlazNl3yCdMjsmfQPLBIF
And in my own in-depth scientific studies, I've discovered that eating a bar of chocolate can complete cure the craving to take a walk.
And in my own in-depth scientific studies, I've discovered that eating a bar of chocolate can complete cure the craving to take a walk.
U-kulele, I-kulele too
So, I’m trying to learn to play the ukulele. No wise cracks. I like the ukulele. And I’d been looking for a good deal on one for awhile, when my Dad said I could use his that’s been sitting in the closet. Now that’s a good deal. Ukuleles come in three basic categories: toys ($15-$20), student models ($30-$40), and concert (400 smackers and up). And this is in that mid-range. Should I develop a passion for the instrument, I might consider laying down some serious cash, but this is a good place to start.
The problem is, it is seriously difficult to develop a passion for the instrument when you have to play the kind of songs that are in the beginners books. They are chock full of the folk classics of yester year. Little Brown Jug? Freals? In my ever-so humble opinion, Little Brown Jug is the hillbilly version of Gin and Juice. If you are musically inclined, I’m sure you just blaze through LBJ and head on to the Izrael Kamakawiwo'ole Song Book. But seeing as I’ve got, not just a tin ear, an imitation tin ear and absolutely no musical talent at all, I’m going to be stuck slogging though freaking Little Brown Jug and Michael Row the Boat Ashore (gods help me) for a very long time. Not exactly fanning the flames of my desire to learn.
I’m not expecting to learn Ants Marching or When Doves Cry (but how cool would that be?). I really want to learn Hawaiian music. I like Hawaiian music. But there isn’t one bloody hula song in any of the 4 books that I have. Oh, they’ve got Für Elise. Yep, Beethoven’s Für Elise, as I'm sure he always intended it to be played - on a $30 ukulele. AND Boil ‘Em Cabbage Down. But not even Little Grass Shack. Sigh. This is going to be hard.
The problem is, it is seriously difficult to develop a passion for the instrument when you have to play the kind of songs that are in the beginners books. They are chock full of the folk classics of yester year. Little Brown Jug? Freals? In my ever-so humble opinion, Little Brown Jug is the hillbilly version of Gin and Juice. If you are musically inclined, I’m sure you just blaze through LBJ and head on to the Izrael Kamakawiwo'ole Song Book. But seeing as I’ve got, not just a tin ear, an imitation tin ear and absolutely no musical talent at all, I’m going to be stuck slogging though freaking Little Brown Jug and Michael Row the Boat Ashore (gods help me) for a very long time. Not exactly fanning the flames of my desire to learn.
I’m not expecting to learn Ants Marching or When Doves Cry (but how cool would that be?). I really want to learn Hawaiian music. I like Hawaiian music. But there isn’t one bloody hula song in any of the 4 books that I have. Oh, they’ve got Für Elise. Yep, Beethoven’s Für Elise, as I'm sure he always intended it to be played - on a $30 ukulele. AND Boil ‘Em Cabbage Down. But not even Little Grass Shack. Sigh. This is going to be hard.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
One more foot not in the grave
http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/11/12/canada.feet.mystery/index.html
Feet! Severed! Still in the shoe! In the river! No progress! Feet! Severed feet!
Never going to Canada! Never. Not as long as I have feet.
Feet! Severed! Still in the shoe! In the river! No progress! Feet! Severed feet!
Never going to Canada! Never. Not as long as I have feet.
Hark! Harold the Angel Sings!
After the Great Christmas Party Poop I've been the last couple of years, I'm actually kind of surprised to find myself already kind of getting geared up. I'm not singing Christmas carols geared up yet, but it's coming.
Maybe it was buying my nephew the coolest, hand-made wooden flatbed-truck with extra cars that ride in the back. I just can't wait to give it to him.
Maybe it was agreeing with my friends to skip gifts this year for each other, and donate to a charity like heifer.org instead. There's something about the idea of giving a flock of baby chicks or a hive of honeybees to a family that needs it that must makes me feel all holly-jolly.
Or maybe it's just that I've invited people over to drink hot buttered rum and watch the Stephen Colbert Christmas Special. Nothing like getting tanked and laughing your ass off to put you in the holiday spirit.
But something about this year is making me happy to see the holidays roll around. I heard a holiday tune and my face didn't go all grinchy-scroogy. I'm listening for the jingle of bells. I think this may be the best Christmas ever.
Maybe it was buying my nephew the coolest, hand-made wooden flatbed-truck with extra cars that ride in the back. I just can't wait to give it to him.
Maybe it was agreeing with my friends to skip gifts this year for each other, and donate to a charity like heifer.org instead. There's something about the idea of giving a flock of baby chicks or a hive of honeybees to a family that needs it that must makes me feel all holly-jolly.
Or maybe it's just that I've invited people over to drink hot buttered rum and watch the Stephen Colbert Christmas Special. Nothing like getting tanked and laughing your ass off to put you in the holiday spirit.
But something about this year is making me happy to see the holidays roll around. I heard a holiday tune and my face didn't go all grinchy-scroogy. I'm listening for the jingle of bells. I think this may be the best Christmas ever.
Recount!
http://www.reuters.com/article/entertainmentNews/idUSTRE4AA7BZ20081111
It's so nice to know that the popularity contests don't end when you graduate from high schol. Take the Rolling Stone poll for greatest vocalist of the rock era. I take no issue with Aretha. Queen of Soul, and all that. My kvetch is farther down the list.
Bob Dylan in the top 10? Really? Was there a requirement that you actually had to listen to the person before you voted for them? Cause Bob Dylan sounds like a cat with adenoids on helium. All respect to his skill as a song-writer and icon of a generation. And for plugging in, he's got a lock on the rebel thing. And he's definitely a unique vocalist. The man is loved for reasons. But great? No. No.
Bob Dylan ahead of Roy Orbison. Janis Joplin. Freddy Mercury. Even ahead of Iggy freaking Pop. It's rock. It don't have to be pretty. And Iggy is a hell of not pretty. But rock vocals do have to have power, balls. It has to make your hair stand up on the back of your neck. And with all due respect, Bob Dylan as a vocalist doesn't. At least not in the good way.
It's so nice to know that the popularity contests don't end when you graduate from high schol. Take the Rolling Stone poll for greatest vocalist of the rock era. I take no issue with Aretha. Queen of Soul, and all that. My kvetch is farther down the list.
Bob Dylan in the top 10? Really? Was there a requirement that you actually had to listen to the person before you voted for them? Cause Bob Dylan sounds like a cat with adenoids on helium. All respect to his skill as a song-writer and icon of a generation. And for plugging in, he's got a lock on the rebel thing. And he's definitely a unique vocalist. The man is loved for reasons. But great? No. No.
Bob Dylan ahead of Roy Orbison. Janis Joplin. Freddy Mercury. Even ahead of Iggy freaking Pop. It's rock. It don't have to be pretty. And Iggy is a hell of not pretty. But rock vocals do have to have power, balls. It has to make your hair stand up on the back of your neck. And with all due respect, Bob Dylan as a vocalist doesn't. At least not in the good way.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Alert-Alert!
Okay, I had said awhile ago that I was going to try to quit man-bashing. Not that I thought I was ever a man-hater, but evidently the perception existed, so I'll own up to the BS call, and I've really tried to watch my mouth. And, additionally, I've always been a little sceptical of the All Women MUST Stick Together theory. Frankly, some gals make the rest of us look bad, and I don't roll like that.
But in this case, I'm going to have to put out the Sister Siren - cause frankly All Women MUST Stick Together on this one.
I just read this quote from a book called ‘‘Brocabulary: The New Man-i-festo of Dude Talk’’ by a man named Daniel Maurer. In it he defines the term ‘‘Trojan whores — hot chicks that you hide amidst in order to get into a club: ‘The doorman wasn’t going to let us in but we told these Trojan whores we’d buy their drinks all night if they took us in with them.’ ’’
Huh-what? Did he just call a group of women that he does not know personally "whores" on the basis that A) they are hot, and B) they are nice enough to let him ride their skirt tales to get into a bar. Uh-huh. Dude. Not cool.
I understand that he's bitter that it's easier for a hot chick to get into a bar than the rest of the world (i.e, him). But the reality of the matter is that when he gets in the bar, he wants hot chicks to be there - ergo . . . you do the math. Unfair to the rest of us who aren't hot chicks, but that's the way of the world. And the hot chicks did not make the rules, and it's not really nice to call them whores because they get past the velvet rope.
But that's exactly what he did. So I see 2 possibilities: either he's a bitter little troll who hates women, or he's a writer who makes money pandering to bitter little trolls that hate women. And, as they say, a difference that makes no difference is no difference. He's a troll no matter how you slice it.
So here's where our Girl Power Moment comes in. It's a free country, and he's allowed to say whatever he wants. But you also have the freedom of association. God Bless America. So you don't have to date this guy. You don't even have to talk to this guy. And you certainly don't have to ever help him get in a club. Cause he's going to turn around and call you a whore. Here's his picture for future reference:
Oh, and GIRL POWER!
But in this case, I'm going to have to put out the Sister Siren - cause frankly All Women MUST Stick Together on this one.
I just read this quote from a book called ‘‘Brocabulary: The New Man-i-festo of Dude Talk’’ by a man named Daniel Maurer. In it he defines the term ‘‘Trojan whores — hot chicks that you hide amidst in order to get into a club: ‘The doorman wasn’t going to let us in but we told these Trojan whores we’d buy their drinks all night if they took us in with them.’ ’’
Huh-what? Did he just call a group of women that he does not know personally "whores" on the basis that A) they are hot, and B) they are nice enough to let him ride their skirt tales to get into a bar. Uh-huh. Dude. Not cool.
I understand that he's bitter that it's easier for a hot chick to get into a bar than the rest of the world (i.e, him). But the reality of the matter is that when he gets in the bar, he wants hot chicks to be there - ergo . . . you do the math. Unfair to the rest of us who aren't hot chicks, but that's the way of the world. And the hot chicks did not make the rules, and it's not really nice to call them whores because they get past the velvet rope.
But that's exactly what he did. So I see 2 possibilities: either he's a bitter little troll who hates women, or he's a writer who makes money pandering to bitter little trolls that hate women. And, as they say, a difference that makes no difference is no difference. He's a troll no matter how you slice it.
So here's where our Girl Power Moment comes in. It's a free country, and he's allowed to say whatever he wants. But you also have the freedom of association. God Bless America. So you don't have to date this guy. You don't even have to talk to this guy. And you certainly don't have to ever help him get in a club. Cause he's going to turn around and call you a whore. Here's his picture for future reference:
Oh, and GIRL POWER!
Rough Weather
I believe perhaps the National Weather Service was remiss in performing their duties. I heard all about tropical storm Paloma out in the Atlantic. But they totally missed the boat on the next one. What would it be? Quimby? Quinn? Quince? Quartermain? I can see where it would have come in under the radar. Because instead of forming off the coast of Africa, it generated in the greater Dallas metropolitan area. What?! Dallas, you say? That’s right. Dallas Metroplex. Specifically, in my spare bedroom.
It started to rain around 8:30 pm. I thought, mmm, rain makes me seepy, wan go bed. So I shut off the lights and went upstairs to cuddle under the blankets and read. At the top of the stairs, I think – what the eff is that noise? Did I leave the light in the guest room on? I open the door and there’s a hurricane. In my house. There’s rain coming from the ceiling, straight through the ceiling fan, shorting it, so that the light is on, the blades are moving, and it’s whipping rain around the room like a mini Cat 3.
I know I stood there with my mouth hanging open, trying to process what I was seeing. I was half expecting to see a soggy Anderson Cooper jump out of my closet and start a live feed back to the studio. It was that bad.
It took me a while to figure out that I wasn’t able to turn the fan off at the switch because of the short and then go and figure out which breaker to throw. Then I spent about half an hour on my hands in knees, feeling around in the dark for puddles to mop up before they ruined the laminate floor. Isn’t that a lovely image?
The only real piece of luck was that it was only coming in through the ceiling fan (!) and I had an empty Rubbermaid carton that I could throw underneath the leak. Of course I had to listen to the dripping every time the rain kicked up again throughout the night. I guess you could also consider it lucky that we have a dry forecast for at least another week. So hopefully I can get the HOA to come out and fix things before I get another weather event inside my home. Ah, the joys of home ownership.
It started to rain around 8:30 pm. I thought, mmm, rain makes me seepy, wan go bed. So I shut off the lights and went upstairs to cuddle under the blankets and read. At the top of the stairs, I think – what the eff is that noise? Did I leave the light in the guest room on? I open the door and there’s a hurricane. In my house. There’s rain coming from the ceiling, straight through the ceiling fan, shorting it, so that the light is on, the blades are moving, and it’s whipping rain around the room like a mini Cat 3.
I know I stood there with my mouth hanging open, trying to process what I was seeing. I was half expecting to see a soggy Anderson Cooper jump out of my closet and start a live feed back to the studio. It was that bad.
It took me a while to figure out that I wasn’t able to turn the fan off at the switch because of the short and then go and figure out which breaker to throw. Then I spent about half an hour on my hands in knees, feeling around in the dark for puddles to mop up before they ruined the laminate floor. Isn’t that a lovely image?
The only real piece of luck was that it was only coming in through the ceiling fan (!) and I had an empty Rubbermaid carton that I could throw underneath the leak. Of course I had to listen to the dripping every time the rain kicked up again throughout the night. I guess you could also consider it lucky that we have a dry forecast for at least another week. So hopefully I can get the HOA to come out and fix things before I get another weather event inside my home. Ah, the joys of home ownership.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Once they roamed these planes
I found Ice Pirates* on the cheap DVD rack at Target. Had to have it. So I’m watching it and it’s just as silly as I remember. What I had forgotten is how handsome Robert Urich was. Just flat out handsome. It’s just something you don’t see in movies much any more. What happened to the handsome men? The Robert Urichs, the Cary Grants, Robert Wagners, the Bill Pullmans?
Not that you don’t see attractive men. But it’s the pretty boys that rule the screens these days. Hmmm. How to define it. Handsome is groomed but not primped. Handsome is a firm jaw instead of kissable lips. A handsome man is masculine without trying, rather than with a little bit more effort he could pass for a girl. I’m not saying pretty is bad. I’m just saying the handsome is a flavor that I’m not finding on the buffet these days.
There are plenty of overgrown pretty boys (Brad Pitt, Zac Efron, Terrence Howard), frat boys (the Wilson brothers, Seth Rogen, virtually anyone in a Judd Apatow movie), sensitive guys (Ryan Gosling, Milo Ventimiglia, Adrien Brody), rough hewn types (Tommy Lee Jones, Daniel Craig, Clive Owen) and quirky galore (Vince Vaughan, Ben Stiller, et al). All nice in their own way. But after awhile, you get tired of Lean Cuisine. A bit of steak would be nice.
Of overtly, straight-up, plain ol’ handsome, I can think of George Clooney and Denzel Washington. That’s it. Hugh Jackman is handsome, but he verges on the pretty. But even the handsome verging on the pretty is getting scarce. You don’t see a Cary Elwes any more. Kevin Sorbo doesn’t show up much. It appears to be hard for the handsome man to get a job in Hollywood these days.
I’d hate to see the handsome man disappear entirely. The guy that can pull off white dinner jacket. The guy you and your mom agree on – “Oh, my yes, he’s very handsome.” Maybe they exist. Somewhere out there in the wild. And all it will take is one wily casting director to spot one – maybe at the yacht club or a charity ball. He’s the one with a gin martini and a pocket square. Isn’t he handsome?
Not that you don’t see attractive men. But it’s the pretty boys that rule the screens these days. Hmmm. How to define it. Handsome is groomed but not primped. Handsome is a firm jaw instead of kissable lips. A handsome man is masculine without trying, rather than with a little bit more effort he could pass for a girl. I’m not saying pretty is bad. I’m just saying the handsome is a flavor that I’m not finding on the buffet these days.
There are plenty of overgrown pretty boys (Brad Pitt, Zac Efron, Terrence Howard), frat boys (the Wilson brothers, Seth Rogen, virtually anyone in a Judd Apatow movie), sensitive guys (Ryan Gosling, Milo Ventimiglia, Adrien Brody), rough hewn types (Tommy Lee Jones, Daniel Craig, Clive Owen) and quirky galore (Vince Vaughan, Ben Stiller, et al). All nice in their own way. But after awhile, you get tired of Lean Cuisine. A bit of steak would be nice.
Of overtly, straight-up, plain ol’ handsome, I can think of George Clooney and Denzel Washington. That’s it. Hugh Jackman is handsome, but he verges on the pretty. But even the handsome verging on the pretty is getting scarce. You don’t see a Cary Elwes any more. Kevin Sorbo doesn’t show up much. It appears to be hard for the handsome man to get a job in Hollywood these days.
I’d hate to see the handsome man disappear entirely. The guy that can pull off white dinner jacket. The guy you and your mom agree on – “Oh, my yes, he’s very handsome.” Maybe they exist. Somewhere out there in the wild. And all it will take is one wily casting director to spot one – maybe at the yacht club or a charity ball. He’s the one with a gin martini and a pocket square. Isn’t he handsome?
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