I finally saw Up yesterday. I went to a 3d showing. The 3d was fun without being oppressive. People may have already told you about it, but I thought I was ready for the opening montage. I wasn't. One of the reviewers on CHUD described the montage as the most brilliant 20 minutes of cinema so far this century, so my expectations were pretty skewed, but goddam if I wasn't crying at the end of it.
It's hard to review a movie from a studio like Pixar without thinking about it in the context of all their previous offerings. If Cars was the Star Trek 5, Ratatouillie the Search for Spock (or even The Voyage Home), and Toy Story 2 (or The Incredibles) the Undiscovered Country, then Up is the Wrath of Khan. I think it will hold out against the future offerings simply because it all fits together so well. Nothing felt forced, nor was too much said. None of the characters was without humanity, and all were empathetic in some way, even the villain. I recommend this movie to anyone.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Progress of Equality
Hopefully. DC appears to be about two months from recognizing same-sex marriage/gay marriage/civil unions/the same inalienable civil rights for all. This is pretty great. What isn't so great is the mobilization of church-based resources against this push for a semblance of equality. From what I understand, most of the resistance is again from the black community in DC, an irony lost on some less than others. I would link some articles and resources here, but alt-tabbing and hot linking doesn't really work so well on my phone. Maybe tomorrow.
DC may have a harder time actually permitting the rights to be exercised, however. Apparently, there is some sort of legal difference between recognizing marriages and permitting them. I guess these are all steps, but I still think that's a fine line of bullshit to spread. Here's to hoping that some conservative fucktard in Congress remembers that his constituents don't live in the District, his bigoted morals aren't welcome here, and keeps his hands off our home rule.
DC may have a harder time actually permitting the rights to be exercised, however. Apparently, there is some sort of legal difference between recognizing marriages and permitting them. I guess these are all steps, but I still think that's a fine line of bullshit to spread. Here's to hoping that some conservative fucktard in Congress remembers that his constituents don't live in the District, his bigoted morals aren't welcome here, and keeps his hands off our home rule.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
People Really Eat Breakfast?
Normally, I'm the kind of slack-wit who barely makes it up in time for second breakfast, but today I was up before 10. AM. I KNOW. I decided that I would expand my horizons by having a hard-boiled egg. This is a decision I have never made before. "What do we think about having a hard-boiled egg, Genius Corpus?" "How, about let's have a slice of bread with barbecue sauce and watch Hard Boiled while pretending the bread is something healthy and delicious?" "Sounds like a plan!"
It may come as no surprise, but I have no idea how long it takes to hard boil an egg. I boiled two eggs for about 10 or so minutes and took one out. Realizing that cracking it open if it were unfinished would be sub-optimal, I shook the egg. Between the intense heat and the sudden pain in my fingers, I am not sure if the egg innards were solid or not. I am just leaving them in the boiling water until they decide to come out.
We're approaching 20 minutes in the boiling water, and the kitchen is getting pretty humid. I prodded the eggs with my scoop and the shells cracked like...eggshells? No, that's not right because I didn't prod them particularly hard. I am going to take this as a sign they are done and pull them out. I think I'll let them cool off before attempting to devour them, though. My fingers still hurt.
The real question plaguing some of your minds is not how long an egg takes to boil at various temperatures, but what the hell was I doing waking up at a nearly civilized hour? I'll happily tell you at length and tedium, or perhaps brevitiously and possibly wittiliously. I just made those up. I crashed at my brother's apartment last night. I am over here attempting to use the interweb to locate gainful employment of the salaried variety. Waiting tables at a beer bar is fun and all, living like a collegiate refugee, but the financials of this situation are not at all fun or even interesting. This is not why I woke up so early, however. I woke up at the ass crack of tomorrow because this apartment has lovely views and great honking windows from which to appreciate said views. And the sun crept its merry fucking way over the horizon and woke up some jackass who operates a pneumatic hammer and all of his jackass buddies and they had a happy-go-goddam-lucky time in the parking lot eight stories below the aforementioned windows.
Oh, and Brother of Mine and Your Sniper Loving Pal? Im in ur kitzen eetin ur foodz.
It may come as no surprise, but I have no idea how long it takes to hard boil an egg. I boiled two eggs for about 10 or so minutes and took one out. Realizing that cracking it open if it were unfinished would be sub-optimal, I shook the egg. Between the intense heat and the sudden pain in my fingers, I am not sure if the egg innards were solid or not. I am just leaving them in the boiling water until they decide to come out.
We're approaching 20 minutes in the boiling water, and the kitchen is getting pretty humid. I prodded the eggs with my scoop and the shells cracked like...eggshells? No, that's not right because I didn't prod them particularly hard. I am going to take this as a sign they are done and pull them out. I think I'll let them cool off before attempting to devour them, though. My fingers still hurt.
The real question plaguing some of your minds is not how long an egg takes to boil at various temperatures, but what the hell was I doing waking up at a nearly civilized hour? I'll happily tell you at length and tedium, or perhaps brevitiously and possibly wittiliously. I just made those up. I crashed at my brother's apartment last night. I am over here attempting to use the interweb to locate gainful employment of the salaried variety. Waiting tables at a beer bar is fun and all, living like a collegiate refugee, but the financials of this situation are not at all fun or even interesting. This is not why I woke up so early, however. I woke up at the ass crack of tomorrow because this apartment has lovely views and great honking windows from which to appreciate said views. And the sun crept its merry fucking way over the horizon and woke up some jackass who operates a pneumatic hammer and all of his jackass buddies and they had a happy-go-goddam-lucky time in the parking lot eight stories below the aforementioned windows.
Oh, and Brother of Mine and Your Sniper Loving Pal? Im in ur kitzen eetin ur foodz.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Federal Reserve Collective Tonight at Iota
Russian snipers aside, I will be sprinting from cover to cover tonight as I make my way to the First Mondays with the Federal Reserve at Iota Club and Cafe. The cover is only $5 and like air guitar competitions, everyone I have convinced to go to this show has raved about the amazing awesomeness seen and heard on the first Monday. You can buy me a drink or three.
You Know Who My Favorite WWII Sniper is?
I can't even name one, so there. If I had to name my favorite WWII Russian Naval Scout, he would be Vladimir Leonov. Dude was badass.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Absent-Minded Genius/History Lesson
Dearest audience,
You may notice that there is something...unusual about the following post. This is for a very good reason, which I will reveal in a moment.
First, I would like to tell you about Simo Hayha. For those of you who are familiar with WWII Finnish snipers, Simo Hayha is a household name. He is probably in my top ten WWII sniper faves, maybe even in the top 3.
Before entering combat, Häyhä was a farmer and a hunter. His farmhouse was reportedly full of trophies for marksmanship. It was during the Winter War (1939–1940), between Finland and the Soviet Union, that he began his duty as a sniper and fought the Red Army.
Häyhä was credited with 505 confirmed kills of Soviet soldiers, and 542 if including the unconfirmed deaths. The unofficial Finnish frontline figure from the battlefield of Kollaa places the number of Häyhä's sniper kills over 800! Häyhä was also credited with over two hundred kills with a Suomi KP/-31 submachine gun, thus bringing his credited kills to at least 705. All of Häyhä's kills were accomplished in less than 100 days.
One tactic used by Häyhä was to compact the snow in front of him so that the shot wouldn't disturb the snow, thus revealing his position. He also kept snow in his mouth so that when breathing he wouldn't reveal his position.
The Soviets tried several ploys to get rid of him, including counter snipers and artillery strikes. On March 6 1940, Häyhä was shot in the jaw during combat. The bullet tumbled upon impact and left his head. He was picked up by fellow soldiers who said "half his head was missing". He regained consciousness on March 13, the day peace was declared.
It took several years for Häyhä to recuperate from his wound. The exploding Soviet bullet had crushed his jaw and blown off his left cheek. Nonetheless, he made a full recovery and became a successful moose hunter and dog breeder after World War II.
When asked in 1998 how he had become such a good shot, he answered, "Practice." When asked if he regretted killing so many people, he has said "I did what I was told to as well as I could." Simo Häyhä spent his last years in a small village called Ruokolahti located in the south-east of Finland near the Russian border.
You may be wondering why you just read all of that. This is because Charles' blog has been hijacked by his brother Tim and his friend George. Always remember to log off Blogger on other people's computers.
You may notice that there is something...unusual about the following post. This is for a very good reason, which I will reveal in a moment.
First, I would like to tell you about Simo Hayha. For those of you who are familiar with WWII Finnish snipers, Simo Hayha is a household name. He is probably in my top ten WWII sniper faves, maybe even in the top 3.
Before entering combat, Häyhä was a farmer and a hunter. His farmhouse was reportedly full of trophies for marksmanship. It was during the Winter War (1939–1940), between Finland and the Soviet Union, that he began his duty as a sniper and fought the Red Army.
Häyhä was credited with 505 confirmed kills of Soviet soldiers, and 542 if including the unconfirmed deaths. The unofficial Finnish frontline figure from the battlefield of Kollaa places the number of Häyhä's sniper kills over 800! Häyhä was also credited with over two hundred kills with a Suomi KP/-31 submachine gun, thus bringing his credited kills to at least 705. All of Häyhä's kills were accomplished in less than 100 days.
One tactic used by Häyhä was to compact the snow in front of him so that the shot wouldn't disturb the snow, thus revealing his position. He also kept snow in his mouth so that when breathing he wouldn't reveal his position.
The Soviets tried several ploys to get rid of him, including counter snipers and artillery strikes. On March 6 1940, Häyhä was shot in the jaw during combat. The bullet tumbled upon impact and left his head. He was picked up by fellow soldiers who said "half his head was missing". He regained consciousness on March 13, the day peace was declared.
It took several years for Häyhä to recuperate from his wound. The exploding Soviet bullet had crushed his jaw and blown off his left cheek. Nonetheless, he made a full recovery and became a successful moose hunter and dog breeder after World War II.
When asked in 1998 how he had become such a good shot, he answered, "Practice." When asked if he regretted killing so many people, he has said "I did what I was told to as well as I could." Simo Häyhä spent his last years in a small village called Ruokolahti located in the south-east of Finland near the Russian border.
You may be wondering why you just read all of that. This is because Charles' blog has been hijacked by his brother Tim and his friend George. Always remember to log off Blogger on other people's computers.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Totally Tarantula Tuesday: Extra Special Biting the Hand That Feeds You Edition
Typing one handed is a lot tougher than all those people on message boards joke about it being. Especially when your roommate and one time confidante has assaulted you while you were watering the remaining cricket crop. Not cool. Seriously not cool.
In other news, my hand had almost healed from it's injurious wounding back in February. In somewhat related news, it still hurts. In less than truly related news but still sorta relationary, I will not be reviewing Bear Republic Racer 5 IPA any time soon. In less than related news, nor will any of the so-called contributors to Well-Rounded Nerds, despite their claims of near-constant Spotted Cow consumption. In totally unrelated and not at all interesting-ness, if you want something done, blog about it four months later.
In other news, my hand had almost healed from it's injurious wounding back in February. In somewhat related news, it still hurts. In less than truly related news but still sorta relationary, I will not be reviewing Bear Republic Racer 5 IPA any time soon. In less than related news, nor will any of the so-called contributors to Well-Rounded Nerds, despite their claims of near-constant Spotted Cow consumption. In totally unrelated and not at all interesting-ness, if you want something done, blog about it four months later.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
How Can This Not Be Awesome?
How could anyone not be eagerly awaiting Mega-Shark vs Giant Octopus?
The IMDB page says "Up 11,403% in popularity this week." I laughed out loud.
The IMDB page says "Up 11,403% in popularity this week." I laughed out loud.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
It Happened Again
I had a great post idea last night while talking on the phone with my brother, and now I can't remember it. I think it was one of those observational humor/advice from an idiot ones that are pretty good/stupid. Let's all just assume it was hilarious and you all loved it and linked to me and sent me tons of fan mail.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Two Words on the Show Bearing My Name
SAVE CHUCK.
And now, some more words on the show:
I wish I had tv reception so that I could have watched season 2, but I don't have an antenna nor do I have the cash for a converter. Whatever, I still like the show.
And now, some more words on the show:
I wish I had tv reception so that I could have watched season 2, but I don't have an antenna nor do I have the cash for a converter. Whatever, I still like the show.
Someone's in the Kitchen with the Genius
Here's what I made to eat a couple weeks ago and forgot to blog until now:
-4 slices of roast turkey (Oscar Meyer low fat style)
-Remains of a bag of peas and carrots
-five eggs
-can of tomatos with green chili and celery
-sharp cheddar cheese
-potatos from November
-various spices
Sautee turkey and peas and carrots in butter and whatever spices you want. Spice eggs how you want, whisk eggs. Once the turkey and peas are browned enough for you taste, toss in can of tomatos and etc. Let it simmer for a while, then toss in eggs and mix. Throw cubes of cheese on because you are out of bread and fuck it, you could use the fat for energy.
In another pan, stir fry cubed potatos with spices and butter. Then lower the heat and cover. Use as base for other pan's contents, and also because those fucking potatos have been in your fridge since Q4 2008. Maybe get rid of the ugly ones and the ones gone too soft even for your broke ass sensibilities? Maybe.
Toss the potatos on your plate and then pile on the other crap, realizing that the potatos and butter are the best part of your meal. Receive an understanding from the universe about peas, and the frying thereof. Gain sudden insight into why you've never heard of a recipe that calls for fried peas. That oatmeal and potato diet you've read about seems pretty damn good while you chomp away on your balogna pie.
-4 slices of roast turkey (Oscar Meyer low fat style)
-Remains of a bag of peas and carrots
-five eggs
-can of tomatos with green chili and celery
-sharp cheddar cheese
-potatos from November
-various spices
Sautee turkey and peas and carrots in butter and whatever spices you want. Spice eggs how you want, whisk eggs. Once the turkey and peas are browned enough for you taste, toss in can of tomatos and etc. Let it simmer for a while, then toss in eggs and mix. Throw cubes of cheese on because you are out of bread and fuck it, you could use the fat for energy.
In another pan, stir fry cubed potatos with spices and butter. Then lower the heat and cover. Use as base for other pan's contents, and also because those fucking potatos have been in your fridge since Q4 2008. Maybe get rid of the ugly ones and the ones gone too soft even for your broke ass sensibilities? Maybe.
Toss the potatos on your plate and then pile on the other crap, realizing that the potatos and butter are the best part of your meal. Receive an understanding from the universe about peas, and the frying thereof. Gain sudden insight into why you've never heard of a recipe that calls for fried peas. That oatmeal and potato diet you've read about seems pretty damn good while you chomp away on your balogna pie.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Definitions
From Dictionary.com:
an⋅tique
/ænˈtik/ [an-teek] adjective, noun, verb, -tiqued, -ti⋅quing.
–adjective
1. of or belonging to the past; not modern.
2. dating from a period long ago: antique furniture.
3. noting or pertaining to automobiles approximately 25 years old or more.
4. in the tradition, fashion, or style of an earlier period; old-fashioned; antiquated.
5. of or belonging to the ancient Greeks and Romans.
6. (of paper) neither calendered nor coated and having a rough surface.
7. ancient.
dai⋅ly
/ˈdeɪli/ [dey-lee] adjective, noun, plural -lies, adverb
–adjective
1. of, done, occurring, or issued each day or each weekday: daily attendance; a daily newspaper.
2. computed or measured by the day: daily quota; a daily wage.
–noun
3. a newspaper appearing each day or each weekday.
4. dailies, Movies . a series of hastily printed shots from the previous day's shooting, selected by the director to be viewed for possible inclusion in the final version of the film; rushes.
5. British .
a. a nonresident servant who comes to work every day; a permanently employed servant who sleeps out.
b. a person employed to do cleaning or other household work by the day.
–adverb
6. every day; day by day: She phoned the hospital daily.
in⋅con⋅ceiv⋅a⋅ble
/ˌɪnkənˈsivəbəl/ [in-kuhn-see-vuh-buhl]
–adjective
1. does not mean what you think it means.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Totally Tarantula Tuesday: Extra Special "I Think My Pet Thinks I'm Food" Edition
This morning, as I stumbled blearily past my roommate's terrarium and cricket death chamber, she/he/it/bird/spider licked her lips at me. I shit you not. I stopped and looked back at her, and he/she/it/bird/spider stopped moving for a brief moment and then continued running her pedipalps over her fangs. WHILE LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I guess she/he/it/bird/spider hasn't learned yet to avoid biting the hand that feeds. I took another step toward the kitchen and the inevitable cup of coffee and Helob turned to the left to watch me while continuing to rub his/her/it/bird/spider's fangs. Disconcerting does not begin to describe the feelings engendered by my roommate's actions, especially considering how she/he/it/bird/spider is nearly blind.
Helob has been getting damn testy of late, refusing to get out of the way when I need to refill the water dish. He/she/it/bird/spider has reacted violently to my attempts to clean the terrarium of cricket corpses, striking out at the fork I use to scrap the dirt clean. I am a little worried that Helob might be meeting a rough crowd and experimenting with drugs and piercings. She/he/it/bird/spider has certainly attempted to pierce my water bottle and fork.
I should also mention the strange incident that happened last night. I heard a strange noise as I was falling asleep and thought that something had fallen over or perhaps a new roommate/tarantula food source was moving in. I turned on the lights and looked around for the source of the scuffling. I heard the strange scratching sound again, and it was definitely coming from the terrarium. I peered into Helob's dirty domain of cricket doom and saw her/him/it/bird/spider standing on the cricket's food dish. His/her/it/bird/spider's front pair of legs were on the ground and she/he/it/bird/spider was using his/her/it/bird/spider's pedipalps to lift the dish, which would then make the scratching-scuffling sound when the pedipalps lost their grip. Helob could only lift the dish about a centimeter before her/his/it/spider's weight caused Helob to drop the dish. I think the devious and deadly spider was trying to frighten the cricket that shelter underneath the food dish, but the meals of wheels weren't obliging him/her/it/bird/spider. Wanting some peace and quiet, and also to appease the great beast, I opened the terrarium and shooed the large-fanged and furry creature off the food dish. I carefully lifted the dish, not to avoid harming the crickets cowering underneath, but to avoid being attacked by a rabid tarantula. The crickets scattered for all corners of the terrarium, yet not a chirp was uttered. They had nowhere to run and no stage on which to sing and be free of the tyranny of venom enforced by Helob. I had a quiet night, but the next morning Helob's attitude toward me was decidedly un-passive and un-roommatey. Figures. I buy all the food and clean the place constantly and somehow, I'm the shithead.
Helob has been getting damn testy of late, refusing to get out of the way when I need to refill the water dish. He/she/it/bird/spider has reacted violently to my attempts to clean the terrarium of cricket corpses, striking out at the fork I use to scrap the dirt clean. I am a little worried that Helob might be meeting a rough crowd and experimenting with drugs and piercings. She/he/it/bird/spider has certainly attempted to pierce my water bottle and fork.
I should also mention the strange incident that happened last night. I heard a strange noise as I was falling asleep and thought that something had fallen over or perhaps a new roommate/tarantula food source was moving in. I turned on the lights and looked around for the source of the scuffling. I heard the strange scratching sound again, and it was definitely coming from the terrarium. I peered into Helob's dirty domain of cricket doom and saw her/him/it/bird/spider standing on the cricket's food dish. His/her/it/bird/spider's front pair of legs were on the ground and she/he/it/bird/spider was using his/her/it/bird/spider's pedipalps to lift the dish, which would then make the scratching-scuffling sound when the pedipalps lost their grip. Helob could only lift the dish about a centimeter before her/his/it/spider's weight caused Helob to drop the dish. I think the devious and deadly spider was trying to frighten the cricket that shelter underneath the food dish, but the meals of wheels weren't obliging him/her/it/bird/spider. Wanting some peace and quiet, and also to appease the great beast, I opened the terrarium and shooed the large-fanged and furry creature off the food dish. I carefully lifted the dish, not to avoid harming the crickets cowering underneath, but to avoid being attacked by a rabid tarantula. The crickets scattered for all corners of the terrarium, yet not a chirp was uttered. They had nowhere to run and no stage on which to sing and be free of the tyranny of venom enforced by Helob. I had a quiet night, but the next morning Helob's attitude toward me was decidedly un-passive and un-roommatey. Figures. I buy all the food and clean the place constantly and somehow, I'm the shithead.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Working Projects
I'm working on a number of writing projects, and I'm finding myself disappointed with my writing ability. Part of the disappointment comes from the repetition that I think I am injecting into the piece and part of it seems to be coming from the act of writing itself. Or maybe I just feel sort of empty afterward. I am not sure. It's certainly a new feeling.
I wrote something today, and I almost felt a bit of sympathy with George Lucas. As soon as I hit publish, I immediately had to revise some of it. And then some more. And then, the next thing I know my protagonists are annoying children and racists aliens. Maybe not quite that bad, but close. I've already got a few paragraphs I want to add to the thing, so I guess it's a good thing I haven't really told anyone about my other blog, er, um.
SHIT.
I wrote something today, and I almost felt a bit of sympathy with George Lucas. As soon as I hit publish, I immediately had to revise some of it. And then some more. And then, the next thing I know my protagonists are annoying children and racists aliens. Maybe not quite that bad, but close. I've already got a few paragraphs I want to add to the thing, so I guess it's a good thing I haven't really told anyone about my other blog, er, um.
SHIT.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Where I Write These Days
Sitting on the rocks by the babbling sewage and road runoff rivulet behind my apartment. Canal Road and the Canal are below me and the sun is warm. The burble babble of the poisoned water drowns out most of the traffic noise, and the smell is tolerable most days. The sunlight glitters and gleams on the fouled falling water, uncaring of our damage or danger. That orb will bear silent witness far longer than our life, our love, and our crime.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Two Recent Pictures From Dulles
A friend of mine sent me two pictures of the great sea of humanity in which she swam at Dulles airport. The first one is rather poetic:
I like the expression on the child's face, utter despair. The resignation is writ large on the adults behind her, yet she is still so full of life, happiness, hope, and innocence and thus she alone can feel the crushing emptiness of this hideous ordeal.
The second picture is completely rage-worthy and sadly unpoetic:
That is indeed a Twilight: the movie tote bag in the hands of one clearly beyond the intended age-range. One could say at least she's reading, but to my ears that insults me and displays a startling lack of faith or hope in America. One could also say that there is no accounting for taste, but to my tongue that says this pathetic creature has no sense of taste left. One could say that she is a sad and lonely person whose life has been rendered empty and cold like the wind-swept barrens of Wyoming, and she reaches toward the story as a plant reaches toward the meager light of the winter sun. To my ears, this is rank and melodramatic hogwash. One might believe such things if only she didn't posses the tote. One might be willing to grant the largest benefit of the sum of all doubt, if not for that tote. I wonder if she has a lifetime subscription to the Harlequin Novel of the Week Club. And I don't mean that the club merely sends out one novel a week, I mean also that they write a novel a week. Find and Replace features heavily in this writing, as does the word turgid. Fye on thee, Satan.
I like the expression on the child's face, utter despair. The resignation is writ large on the adults behind her, yet she is still so full of life, happiness, hope, and innocence and thus she alone can feel the crushing emptiness of this hideous ordeal.
The second picture is completely rage-worthy and sadly unpoetic:
That is indeed a Twilight: the movie tote bag in the hands of one clearly beyond the intended age-range. One could say at least she's reading, but to my ears that insults me and displays a startling lack of faith or hope in America. One could also say that there is no accounting for taste, but to my tongue that says this pathetic creature has no sense of taste left. One could say that she is a sad and lonely person whose life has been rendered empty and cold like the wind-swept barrens of Wyoming, and she reaches toward the story as a plant reaches toward the meager light of the winter sun. To my ears, this is rank and melodramatic hogwash. One might believe such things if only she didn't posses the tote. One might be willing to grant the largest benefit of the sum of all doubt, if not for that tote. I wonder if she has a lifetime subscription to the Harlequin Novel of the Week Club. And I don't mean that the club merely sends out one novel a week, I mean also that they write a novel a week. Find and Replace features heavily in this writing, as does the word turgid. Fye on thee, Satan.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
New Netflix Arrivals
Man, I should really check out my Netflix queue. I returned three movies last week and received Insomnia, On The Waterfront, and A Streetcar Named Desire. The last three movies I have watched were: Serenity, Logan's Run, and The Living Daylights. Yes, the first Dalton Bond movie. There does seem to be a slight disconnect between my recent habits and my queue, but I can always blame that on my recent illness and cabin fever.
I am remembering now that I was on a bit of a Brando kick while last tinkering with my queue, and I might have several or several dozen more Marlon Brando movies to get through before I hit a rich vein of anime, or a big basaltic block of britcoms. I suspect that I will have to drill through a hardened layer of surf documentaries before hitting the Hitchcock Aquifer that is rumored to exist near a sediment of 70s softcore and science fiction.
I am remembering now that I was on a bit of a Brando kick while last tinkering with my queue, and I might have several or several dozen more Marlon Brando movies to get through before I hit a rich vein of anime, or a big basaltic block of britcoms. I suspect that I will have to drill through a hardened layer of surf documentaries before hitting the Hitchcock Aquifer that is rumored to exist near a sediment of 70s softcore and science fiction.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Google's April Fools Joke Not as Funny as Nature's
Google has added a new feature to gmail. Hardy-har-har. On Sunday, nature left me a lovely flu that is currently the bane of my existence. I am not sure which of these pranks is funnier.
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