I've spent a large portion of this day doing whatever strikes my fancy. Surprisingly, despite the break in which I made some parmesan crusted chicken and earl grey, that's consisted primarily of listening to the Kingdom of Heaven station on Pandora. The list of songs that fit this genre are comparatively few, yet exceedingly epic. Many are saturated with string virtuosos to make you weep, followed by the sustained wave of sound that accompanies an impending buildup of music that will swell forth to burst through your chest. This music makes me buoyant and smiles come unbidden to my face. It is sad to me that these songs are no longer appreciated as they once were. They are now relegated to poor grade school recitals and heard by unfeeling masses who understand movies only for the visual aspect they produce. The greatest gift that the movie industry has given is not the thousands upon thousands of hours of rather mediocre entertainment, but rather the outlet through which classical music has survived and evolved.
Sappy.
Alright guys, here's the rub: I have no goal for my life. I need one. I hate wasting time. It's a precious commodity that I can't get back. I want to use my overabundance of time to accomplish something. Unfortunately, I do not feel like I'm accomplishing anything worthwhile in college as college itself has been the biggest let down since The Phantom Menace. So, I need a side project. I need to commence writing this Byzantine epic and stop just talking about it. And I want to get into mosaics. Yup.
Pickup Line Outro: "Hey baby, you in Slytherin or Gryffindor? Because I'd like to Slytherin your Gryffindor."
gross. funny.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Cops and Robbersons
Those of you who've read up on your early nineties' Chevy Chase trivia probably just let out a little squeal of excitement, like a piglet. Alack and alay, that I must dash the very reasonable hopes of these pigmutants out there, but I am referring to the rather odd looks that TWO university cops gave me today. I'd compare their interest in me to if they saw a box of donuts attached to my head and that box of donuts was doing something suspicious, like not being frosted and sprinkled. I did not wholly understand because there was no suspicious box of donuts (I checked). I think I'll attribute it to the fact that I've got a rather Harry Potter-esque scar on my forehead at the moment and these cops must be in league with good ole Major Tom and Jerry. If you know me, you know that I am loathe to infringe on intellectual property, and describing my malediction in this way pains me to a great extent, but necessary nonetheless (it's so awesome that 'nonetheless' is one word).
TOPIC CHANGE:
Whenever I remember the name of Weezer's lead singer, I think "that's kinda neat." Then I think about this:
And bonus points* to the person that can tell me what this is.*Disclaimer! Bonus points are not actual currency and are not accepted in most states as legal tender, excluding Delaware.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Attack of the Bros!
In my morning class today, while quietly ignoring the professor and his incessant babbling, I was ignominiously assaulted with foul speech of the undereducated. It went something like this -
Bro 1: dude, i totally was gonna get word (as in microsoft. I admit that I assumed it was innuendo until later in the conversation. let's read on...) last night, but it cost like 40 bucks! i'm not gonna do that shit. dude, my cash is fo' my booze.
Bro 2: true that shit, dude. but, dude, why didn't you tell me, bitch? i pwn those codes for getting word.
Bro 1: fo'realz?
Bro 2: no doubt. word, excel, powerpoint, all taken care of, bitch (apparently, bro 1 is bro 2's bitch. while it seemed endearing, it also implied an inordinate amount of ownership for two fellas).
Bro 1: you can give me the code now, though, right, dude?
Bro 2: NOPE, shit, bitch. it's gone now. but, dude, it's like 10 dollas if you get it with they CYC's! GO TEAMS OF THE UNIVERSITY! (I paraphrase)
Bro 1: thanks dude.
Bro 2: no problem dude.
Bro 1: how do you use quicksilver?
Bro 2: DUDE. it's so simple.
Bro 1: dude, just tell me, dude.
Though the scene required proper action and terse words on my part, I suffered beautifully and did not administer sufficient chastisement as is demanded by the decorum of a gentleman.
P.S. The majority of that conversation has been tampered with by a scurrilous nave. I mainly wanted to talk like a knight, such as has been featured in the book I have been reading, in that last sentence there. Be warm in heart, I spared you the 'thees and thous'.
P.P.S. After class was over, I overheard those same Bros talking about trying to pick up chicks. They were quite philisophical about it. Well, medical maybe. They both agreed that it's much easier to hit on girls when they've already got a girlfriend. Their unassuming agreement with each other was quite funny, but...ASSHOLES. Jesus. Girls are people too.
Bro 1: dude, i totally was gonna get word (as in microsoft. I admit that I assumed it was innuendo until later in the conversation. let's read on...) last night, but it cost like 40 bucks! i'm not gonna do that shit. dude, my cash is fo' my booze.
Bro 2: true that shit, dude. but, dude, why didn't you tell me, bitch? i pwn those codes for getting word.
Bro 1: fo'realz?
Bro 2: no doubt. word, excel, powerpoint, all taken care of, bitch (apparently, bro 1 is bro 2's bitch. while it seemed endearing, it also implied an inordinate amount of ownership for two fellas).
Bro 1: you can give me the code now, though, right, dude?
Bro 2: NOPE, shit, bitch. it's gone now. but, dude, it's like 10 dollas if you get it with they CYC's! GO TEAMS OF THE UNIVERSITY! (I paraphrase)
Bro 1: thanks dude.
Bro 2: no problem dude.
Bro 1: how do you use quicksilver?
Bro 2: DUDE. it's so simple.
Bro 1: dude, just tell me, dude.
Though the scene required proper action and terse words on my part, I suffered beautifully and did not administer sufficient chastisement as is demanded by the decorum of a gentleman.
P.S. The majority of that conversation has been tampered with by a scurrilous nave. I mainly wanted to talk like a knight, such as has been featured in the book I have been reading, in that last sentence there. Be warm in heart, I spared you the 'thees and thous'.
P.P.S. After class was over, I overheard those same Bros talking about trying to pick up chicks. They were quite philisophical about it. Well, medical maybe. They both agreed that it's much easier to hit on girls when they've already got a girlfriend. Their unassuming agreement with each other was quite funny, but...ASSHOLES. Jesus. Girls are people too.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Classic
I explained in an earlier post, or at least I remember thinking about explaining, that the title of this diversion, Sailing to Byzantium, I stole from a William Butler Yeats poem. This one:
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
'Tis a great poem. And I don't really like poetry. Poets are musicians that can't sing or play an instrument. Less than, as it were, like an associate professor to a professor. But there is something magical about an artfully crafted sentence. In many cases, it's the difference between "Hulk Hogan" and "oscar material" in the movie world. Speaking of the movie world. The first line in this poem seems to have been the inspiration for a film. The other reason I couldn't be creative in my title is that I am instantly captivated by anything that makes the slightest reference to the Byzantine Empire. Something as esoteric and eloquent as sailing and Byzantium is quite a catch.
I've been trying to find the poem I wrote based on the 9th century Carolingian epic "Chevrefoil." Naturally, mine was "Aluminumfoil." It's been hard goings, as I wrote that on a computer that has since become obsolete. BSoD almost daily. I think I also wrote a poem about a squid. Or I read one about a squid once. I wrote some damn fine stories once too. The True Story of Snow White, consisting of 5 parts, and some story about an egyptian sage that was off the hook. Oh, my youth.
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
'Tis a great poem. And I don't really like poetry. Poets are musicians that can't sing or play an instrument. Less than, as it were, like an associate professor to a professor. But there is something magical about an artfully crafted sentence. In many cases, it's the difference between "Hulk Hogan" and "oscar material" in the movie world. Speaking of the movie world. The first line in this poem seems to have been the inspiration for a film. The other reason I couldn't be creative in my title is that I am instantly captivated by anything that makes the slightest reference to the Byzantine Empire. Something as esoteric and eloquent as sailing and Byzantium is quite a catch.
I've been trying to find the poem I wrote based on the 9th century Carolingian epic "Chevrefoil." Naturally, mine was "Aluminumfoil." It's been hard goings, as I wrote that on a computer that has since become obsolete. BSoD almost daily. I think I also wrote a poem about a squid. Or I read one about a squid once. I wrote some damn fine stories once too. The True Story of Snow White, consisting of 5 parts, and some story about an egyptian sage that was off the hook. Oh, my youth.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Really?
I recently came across a trailer for this new movie.
A few things. I don't know if you noticed, but the movie is called Clash of the Titans. Basically it is 300 with less naked dudes and more naked (hopefully?) fantastical Greek monsters. Then, I noticed the ever so hilarious sync up of the scorpion tail jabbing the ground with the ill fitting musical choice. That was trailer gold. Lastly, the only words shown during this little gem, used to clarify or explain in most trailers, instead repeated the title in a different word order (i.e. Titans will Clash). That, dear readers, was retarded. Uproariously so, but retarded nonetheless. The creative director of that trailer needs to be bitchslapped. Maybe shot. Whatever.
A few things. I don't know if you noticed, but the movie is called Clash of the Titans. Basically it is 300 with less naked dudes and more naked (hopefully?) fantastical Greek monsters. Then, I noticed the ever so hilarious sync up of the scorpion tail jabbing the ground with the ill fitting musical choice. That was trailer gold. Lastly, the only words shown during this little gem, used to clarify or explain in most trailers, instead repeated the title in a different word order (i.e. Titans will Clash). That, dear readers, was retarded. Uproariously so, but retarded nonetheless. The creative director of that trailer needs to be bitchslapped. Maybe shot. Whatever.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Oh mercy me
Mercy is on odd thing. What's been bugging me about mercy is that the more likely it is that you possess it, the more likely it is that your enemies don't. In the over the top, grandiose way that I think about this, say there was a battle. I, the merciful one, have been captured by my unmerciful enemy. (you could ask why my enemy has to be unmerciful. Because I said grandiose, meaning there's probably some element of good vs. evil) Now, I probably have a mosquito's chance of surviving a napalm blast(barring some daring rescue on the part of my adoring followers) whereas should my enemy be captured by my forces, I will be merciful and let the bugger off the hook.
Huh. I think there is a point where being 'good' becomes detrimental. But this leads down a road of useless, moral-compromising justification.
Honestly, I'm just waiting for this episode of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia to buffer.
Rambling and Dyspeptic,
Rothgar.
Huh. I think there is a point where being 'good' becomes detrimental. But this leads down a road of useless, moral-compromising justification.
Honestly, I'm just waiting for this episode of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia to buffer.
Rambling and Dyspeptic,
Rothgar.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Irony Alert!
I am in love with Lagomarcino Hall on the ISU campus. More specifically the courtyard that I walk through is BEAUTY, readers. I'm in love with beauty. I encourage an afternoon stroll. Also, I'm big on reading again. Hurrah for books! The irony is, I hurried back to my room to write about going outside. I want to go back outside. I still have classes. Ain't gonna get me down! Although, I really wish Ross 124 had windows.
Who wants to go to Hastings/Hyvee with me later? I need a toothbrush, cheese, and some books.
Who wants to go to Hastings/Hyvee with me later? I need a toothbrush, cheese, and some books.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Unique Twin
The X-men soundtrack sounds suspiciously like the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack. I CAUGHT THEM! Shenanigans, reader. Fucking shenanigans.
Listen at 45 seconds in to 53 seconds in to how similar it sounds to this clip of Disney's classic masterpiece at 3:49 - 4:07.
Xerox machines. They're all hacks.
Loving Hollywood,
ROTHGAAAAAAAAR
Listen at 45 seconds in to 53 seconds in to how similar it sounds to this clip of Disney's classic masterpiece at 3:49 - 4:07.
Xerox machines. They're all hacks.
Loving Hollywood,
ROTHGAAAAAAAAR
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Best Thing in the Entire World
Breathe it in. This is KOTOR 3, unofficially. It's The Old Republic, the events in which take place about 300 years after KOTOR 2. I am shitting my pants right now, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, no release date has as yet been set. The only failing of this game that I can see, is that it is a MMO, which I find slightly less cool than actual video games. I don't really have any desire to be playing along with nerds halfway around the world. I prefer the nerds in my neighborhood. Those that can come over in the flesh and watch me play. They're the best kind of nerds. But still, when I see this trailer, get this light feeling in my chest, and then I try yet again, to push my desk around with the Force (no such luck...this time).
I could talk shop about this all day. Not really shop, because I don't know anything about computer technical thingamajiggers, but I can give you a complete essay on the history of the Star Wars universe up until that point. Which, I shouldn't have to point out, is the coolest thing you've heard of in the past seven months.
Look at how good it looks! It's not the retarded dungmation that George Lucas ruined the Star Wars movie franchise with. It's Fucking Legitimate. Capitalized. And how 'bout that battle? Epic. That single battle takes precedence over William Wallace, Joan of Arc, Saladin, Basil II Bulgaroctonus, and any other classic campaigns of "real" history. The Bounty Hunter was wearing lip gloss. This is also epic. There is no excuse for not looking your best, even in battle, and even if your face is covered by a helmet.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Things
Two things:
1. "Awry" is the most messed up word. It has cognates in Middle Low German, Greek, Old Frisian, Lithuanian (wtf?), and Proto Indo European. That last one makes sense considering Proto Indo European is the theoretical language that all the previous ones listed are descended from. I say theoretical because it's a made up language. It's one of those things that are decided upon by a bunch of white guys in a room because "hey, why not?" That is not to say there isn't proof. I'm sure there is. It just sounds like it could have been made that way.
Also, it looks funny.
2. I'm really jonesin' to go to a Sigur Ros concert. I rather think I'm going to board the next schooner to Reykjavik and see if they're there. I'm sure Bjork would be happy to give me a ride too. I hope nothing goes awry with this plan.
bye bye.
1. "Awry" is the most messed up word. It has cognates in Middle Low German, Greek, Old Frisian, Lithuanian (wtf?), and Proto Indo European. That last one makes sense considering Proto Indo European is the theoretical language that all the previous ones listed are descended from. I say theoretical because it's a made up language. It's one of those things that are decided upon by a bunch of white guys in a room because "hey, why not?" That is not to say there isn't proof. I'm sure there is. It just sounds like it could have been made that way.
Also, it looks funny.
2. I'm really jonesin' to go to a Sigur Ros concert. I rather think I'm going to board the next schooner to Reykjavik and see if they're there. I'm sure Bjork would be happy to give me a ride too. I hope nothing goes awry with this plan.
bye bye.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I've Been Had!
No no no, my eager readers. This is not about me losing my virginity. As if. I took that philosophy test I was dumping on earlier. Of the 15 questions on the study guide, there were three on the test. There were only three questions en totalus on the test. Retarded! I half almost tried to learn all that jazz and you crap all over me by saying it was time poorly spent because you decided to have a 10 point test (you in this sentence refers to my philosophy teacher. I shouldn't have to point this out. Stupid reader. Can't even tell what I'm meaning to say). Bright side: no class on thursday. Great. Now I've got even more free time. It's like getting socks for Christmas. I suppose it's useful, but I can't really appreciate it because its just so ordinary.
Today I went grocery shopping right around five o'clock. Bad decision. Harried parents were all over the place crashing into kiosks, trying to grab all the ingredients for a frozen pizza dinner. I have always maintained that I was raised on frozen pizza. My mom would always get these pizzas from Aldi's that had this orange pizza sauce. Didn't taste anything like a pumpkin. And they were the best.
Today I went grocery shopping right around five o'clock. Bad decision. Harried parents were all over the place crashing into kiosks, trying to grab all the ingredients for a frozen pizza dinner. I have always maintained that I was raised on frozen pizza. My mom would always get these pizzas from Aldi's that had this orange pizza sauce. Didn't taste anything like a pumpkin. And they were the best.
Monday, October 5, 2009
I've spent most of this night and, indeed, this day trying to learn enough about Descartes and Locke to be able to not only understand them well enough to relate them in an educated way, but also to understand them on a personal level; to find out what I think about their philosophical theories. Inevitably, "trying to learn" degenerated into tasting new tea and eating cheese while reading up on Silvio Berlusconi trying to out-maneuver the legal system (or what passes for the legal system) in Italy. And by the way, parmesan goes with almost no tea whatsoever.
Instead of buckling down and trying to garner the best grade I can from that jumped up 500 dollar waste of an hour and fifteen minutes, I decided that whether I can understand and relate two long dead philosophers' views or not, who gives a shit? I know I can understand them given enough willpower on my part, but I shouldn't need to, even if I want to understand myself or whatever trumped up meaning they're trying shove across. I've come to the conclusion that all philosophers are berks with more time on their hands than me. Who gives two shakes of a rat's tail if Descartes was a substance dualist or if Locke couldn't counter the Division argument for memory as the mechanism for personal identity?
Naturally, this little rant o' mine could be construed as the ramblings of a lazy student who doesn't want to actually try on his homework to get a good grade from the institution. While I am lazy, I've almost never not tried to get a good grade. I can usually be counted on to prioritize my life correctly. I'm making a half conscious decision to go into this test sand blind. But, in the end, I won't care what Descartes or Locke thought. I care what I think. And I think that, when I'm dead, I'll have found out whether there's a mind and body, whether it's memory or an immaterial soul that makes me who I am. I can philosophize all I want when I'm dead. And if I can't, then I think I beat the system.
On a more upbeat note: I found a lovely collection of mythological/fantasy picture books in the Browsing Library at the MU. Pretty exciting. I'm also way into sci-fi. Nerd Alert!
Instead of buckling down and trying to garner the best grade I can from that jumped up 500 dollar waste of an hour and fifteen minutes, I decided that whether I can understand and relate two long dead philosophers' views or not, who gives a shit? I know I can understand them given enough willpower on my part, but I shouldn't need to, even if I want to understand myself or whatever trumped up meaning they're trying shove across. I've come to the conclusion that all philosophers are berks with more time on their hands than me. Who gives two shakes of a rat's tail if Descartes was a substance dualist or if Locke couldn't counter the Division argument for memory as the mechanism for personal identity?
Naturally, this little rant o' mine could be construed as the ramblings of a lazy student who doesn't want to actually try on his homework to get a good grade from the institution. While I am lazy, I've almost never not tried to get a good grade. I can usually be counted on to prioritize my life correctly. I'm making a half conscious decision to go into this test sand blind. But, in the end, I won't care what Descartes or Locke thought. I care what I think. And I think that, when I'm dead, I'll have found out whether there's a mind and body, whether it's memory or an immaterial soul that makes me who I am. I can philosophize all I want when I'm dead. And if I can't, then I think I beat the system.
On a more upbeat note: I found a lovely collection of mythological/fantasy picture books in the Browsing Library at the MU. Pretty exciting. I'm also way into sci-fi. Nerd Alert!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Logic
I like this famous person. A lot.
She is pretty.*
I don't like this thing:
She is an alien.*
*confirmed by a panel of smart dudes.
She is pretty.*I don't like this thing:
She is an alien.*
Monday, September 28, 2009
Dear Night...
It is, for all intents and purposes, nighttime. Sadly, I'm not tired. I fucked that up. Those people that lived before electricity had this thing where they went to bed at dusk and rose at dawn. Man, were they out of the loop. They probably sat up half the night with their spouse/goat and imagined a time when they could stay up late, get up early, not get as much sleep as a consequence, and LOVE IT!!!!
I don't love it. The internet is great and all, but it represents a severe lack of anything substantial in my life. I retract that last statement. The internet isn't great and all, it was invented by Al Gore, who surprisingly has a sense of humor.
Yes, anyway, the internet is evil.
peace, love, and chlamydia
I don't love it. The internet is great and all, but it represents a severe lack of anything substantial in my life. I retract that last statement. The internet isn't great and all, it was invented by Al Gore, who surprisingly has a sense of humor.
Yes, anyway, the internet is evil.
peace, love, and chlamydia
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The One Dealing with T.V.
I have a penchant for British television, or telly, as those bucktoothed fools refer to it. I say that with love. It's like if I called my wife a "paunchy little squirrel." The origin of my fondness for their grotesquely underdeveloped television (they only have one CSI type show! what's up with that?*), I can recall and trace quite vividly. It all started a good 7 or so years ago...As per my usual Saturday night ritual, I would sneak downstairs to watch MADTV at 10:00, because my parents did not approve. During the commercials, I would channel surf and eventually land on the heaven of all tv programming for 13 year olds, PBS.
Quite spectacularly, their Saturday night line up consisted of British shows. And rather olde (intentional) ones at that. Keeping Up Appearances was my first exposure to this cavalcade of dusty humour. This show follows the exploits of the notorious social ladder climbing Hyacinth Bucket (bookay, as in bouquet), and her trying to deal with her wacky relatives who don't fit her picture of the appropriate family. Oh my, it's a laugh riot.
Naturally, my appetite expanded to all the Saturday Night BBC programming including Are You Being Served, a delightful late 70's romp through the fictional Grace Bros. department store with such lovable characters as Mr. Peacock, Mrs. Slocum, Mr. Humphreys, and the senile womanizer Mr. Grace (only one part of him ever left that wheelchair).
For quite some time, I was stalled in my quest for a decent British t.v. show for the lack of any decent British t.v. shows. It was only later, once my parents had gotten Netflix, that I stumbled across As Time Goes By, starring Judi Dench as a mixture of M from the James Bond movies and something less likely to saw your johnson off.
Then, I reached the height of British telly with the refreshingly irreverant vicar of Dibley, Boadicea Geraldine Granger. This is comedy. Watch it, while drinking tea. MANLY, MOTHERFUCKER.
I find it odd that I'm blogging about watching t.v. And I can't even claim that it's "culture." British culture is about as different from my own as a wheat thin is to a cheeze it. America just has more cheeselike product. Maybe next time, I'll frighten you all with an introspective look into imitation crab meat.
*made that up
Quite spectacularly, their Saturday night line up consisted of British shows. And rather olde (intentional) ones at that. Keeping Up Appearances was my first exposure to this cavalcade of dusty humour. This show follows the exploits of the notorious social ladder climbing Hyacinth Bucket (bookay, as in bouquet), and her trying to deal with her wacky relatives who don't fit her picture of the appropriate family. Oh my, it's a laugh riot.
Naturally, my appetite expanded to all the Saturday Night BBC programming including Are You Being Served, a delightful late 70's romp through the fictional Grace Bros. department store with such lovable characters as Mr. Peacock, Mrs. Slocum, Mr. Humphreys, and the senile womanizer Mr. Grace (only one part of him ever left that wheelchair).
For quite some time, I was stalled in my quest for a decent British t.v. show for the lack of any decent British t.v. shows. It was only later, once my parents had gotten Netflix, that I stumbled across As Time Goes By, starring Judi Dench as a mixture of M from the James Bond movies and something less likely to saw your johnson off.
Then, I reached the height of British telly with the refreshingly irreverant vicar of Dibley, Boadicea Geraldine Granger. This is comedy. Watch it, while drinking tea. MANLY, MOTHERFUCKER.
I find it odd that I'm blogging about watching t.v. And I can't even claim that it's "culture." British culture is about as different from my own as a wheat thin is to a cheeze it. America just has more cheeselike product. Maybe next time, I'll frighten you all with an introspective look into imitation crab meat.
*made that up
Friday, September 25, 2009
Pastimes
I will record on the interwebs what I do in my free time. On the record, this is for posterity. Off the record, posterity doesn't give enough shit to fill snake hole and I'm really doing this because I misplaced my glasses, so watching t.v. is out.
Last night, I attended a show at Ames Progressive to support mi hermano. I don't know why I wrote that; he's white. He's pretty good at the whole "music" thing. So yeah, he was at this show in Ames and did quite well. And much to my surprise, everyone else did too! This is not my usual experience with these "local" band gigs. I usually go for one particular act (such as in this case) and then the following bands just blow like Louisiana did four years ago. Not so, I say! Everybody made it up to "Will listen again" on my Suck-o-meter (a little above halfway).
While at this show, mi hermano (white) was relating to me his merchandising idea for his band. It's scarves. Who doesn't love a good scarf? No one, that's who! And incidentally, I know how to knit. So, I'm all like "Skellee (name changed to protect identity), I'll make you some scarves!" and he's all like "shut up, you suck." But I persisted and he relented. So after the show, I started a scarf. The next day, I finished the scarf. With just me, an empty schedule, and a good half season of Arrested Development, I made a really good scarf. That was anticlimactic.
now taking preorders. 12 dollarsish.
i also watched every show in nbc's thursday night line up. so lame. so funny. need a life. Btdubs, I drank six cups of tea today. I'm not talking prissy tea set cups. I'm talking pints. almost lit'r'lly. I have to go bleed the dragon. gu'bye.
Last night, I attended a show at Ames Progressive to support mi hermano. I don't know why I wrote that; he's white. He's pretty good at the whole "music" thing. So yeah, he was at this show in Ames and did quite well. And much to my surprise, everyone else did too! This is not my usual experience with these "local" band gigs. I usually go for one particular act (such as in this case) and then the following bands just blow like Louisiana did four years ago. Not so, I say! Everybody made it up to "Will listen again" on my Suck-o-meter (a little above halfway).
While at this show, mi hermano (white) was relating to me his merchandising idea for his band. It's scarves. Who doesn't love a good scarf? No one, that's who! And incidentally, I know how to knit. So, I'm all like "Skellee (name changed to protect identity), I'll make you some scarves!" and he's all like "shut up, you suck." But I persisted and he relented. So after the show, I started a scarf. The next day, I finished the scarf. With just me, an empty schedule, and a good half season of Arrested Development, I made a really good scarf. That was anticlimactic.
now taking preorders. 12 dollarsish.
i also watched every show in nbc's thursday night line up. so lame. so funny. need a life. Btdubs, I drank six cups of tea today. I'm not talking prissy tea set cups. I'm talking pints. almost lit'r'lly. I have to go bleed the dragon. gu'bye.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Bloody Politics
Once again, I've taken it upon myself to lie in the title of this post. However, it is a half truth and therefore only a quarter lie and a quarter grey area. My feelings towards politics generally are in the hue of "bloody," but I was referring instead to the most foul excuse for a book any tree hugging, bullshit Stanford degree-having, retardess could come up with. I am, of course, talking about "Blood Politics: Race, Culture, and Identity in the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma," the book I'm required to read for my cultural anthropology class. Doesn't that just make you wanna take out the flail and have at your backside?
Let's break this down:
The title starts out like it's going to rock your world. "Blood Politics" , YEAH! How bitching is that? This book is going to inform me about the darker side of politics with all the assassinations, hidden agendas, and secret societies. Alas! It was not to be. It only goes downhill from here and that hill just became mountainous because Little Miss Author thought to trick us with her clever eye catching title.
Next comes "Race, Culture, and Identity." What the hell am I going to do with that? Once that first word is out of the gates, like the stallion ridden by the jockey from hell (Gilbert Godfrey), you know the previous two words were utter falsitudes.
Race is a word that only works when used with dogs...or rats. Otherwise it's just the another word to tell me that I should feel guilty for an act of the world decades ago.
Culture, in and of itself, does not bring up horrible connotations to my mind. So...meh.
Identity. Here's a tough one to figure out. On one hand, identity theft, which is cool if you've got to infiltrate a Soviet bunker as James Bond. On the other, if this is about all that "finding yourself" identity, I may upchuck. Projectile upchuck.
If we view this title as a steep playground slide into Hell, we have already slid into the heat and can just now feel the flames licking our toes. Because now we've reached "in the Cherokee Nation" on our whirlwind tour of this macabre title. I cannot describe in sufficient eloquence the horror, the undulating waves of terror and pain that accompany that phrase. As a people, I have no problem with the Cherokees. As a topic of study, I will murder them. Without mercy. Sorry Cherokees.
As the title moves on down the slide, past the first high plateau of "blood politics" then down the curve to "race, culture, and identity" to the small depression at the bottom "in the cherokee nation" we, as a figurative idea, fly off that small depression and sail through the air, like a missile from a medieval trebuchet, straight into Beezlebub's gaping maw with the discouraging, hope draining, warmth stealing phrase "of Oklahoma." Fuck me. Oklahoma? Really? No one honestly sees that word and thinks, " Hey! I love that place! I'm a real sucker for tumbleweeds."
I'm just trying to avoid reading it. A scathing criticism of the title seemed like the best way to go about it. Anybody watch the season premiere of Heroes? I did. I like it, generally. Basically a modern day X-men, in the way that Latter Day Saints are modern day Lutherans. Which is to say, more crazy.
Let's break this down:
The title starts out like it's going to rock your world. "Blood Politics" , YEAH! How bitching is that? This book is going to inform me about the darker side of politics with all the assassinations, hidden agendas, and secret societies. Alas! It was not to be. It only goes downhill from here and that hill just became mountainous because Little Miss Author thought to trick us with her clever eye catching title.
Next comes "Race, Culture, and Identity." What the hell am I going to do with that? Once that first word is out of the gates, like the stallion ridden by the jockey from hell (Gilbert Godfrey), you know the previous two words were utter falsitudes.
Race is a word that only works when used with dogs...or rats. Otherwise it's just the another word to tell me that I should feel guilty for an act of the world decades ago.
Culture, in and of itself, does not bring up horrible connotations to my mind. So...meh.
Identity. Here's a tough one to figure out. On one hand, identity theft, which is cool if you've got to infiltrate a Soviet bunker as James Bond. On the other, if this is about all that "finding yourself" identity, I may upchuck. Projectile upchuck.
If we view this title as a steep playground slide into Hell, we have already slid into the heat and can just now feel the flames licking our toes. Because now we've reached "in the Cherokee Nation" on our whirlwind tour of this macabre title. I cannot describe in sufficient eloquence the horror, the undulating waves of terror and pain that accompany that phrase. As a people, I have no problem with the Cherokees. As a topic of study, I will murder them. Without mercy. Sorry Cherokees.
As the title moves on down the slide, past the first high plateau of "blood politics" then down the curve to "race, culture, and identity" to the small depression at the bottom "in the cherokee nation" we, as a figurative idea, fly off that small depression and sail through the air, like a missile from a medieval trebuchet, straight into Beezlebub's gaping maw with the discouraging, hope draining, warmth stealing phrase "of Oklahoma." Fuck me. Oklahoma? Really? No one honestly sees that word and thinks, " Hey! I love that place! I'm a real sucker for tumbleweeds."
I'm just trying to avoid reading it. A scathing criticism of the title seemed like the best way to go about it. Anybody watch the season premiere of Heroes? I did. I like it, generally. Basically a modern day X-men, in the way that Latter Day Saints are modern day Lutherans. Which is to say, more crazy.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Introductions are in order.
Dammit. I already lied.
To begin with a sweeping (meaning probably untrue) generalization, most blogs are created as an outlet for truth (oh, the irony). Truth of all kinds, be it an accurate account of one's day or taking on the big bad corporations/media/government/what have you, or even the truth of your own thoughts. Aaaand to swing it back around to why I lied; the lie, you see, is in the title of my firstest blog post. No introductions are in order by the simple fact that if this is read, I will have told the reader quite explicitly to come here and fucking read it. I've also just assumed I'm going to tell you to read this with profanity. It's a possibility. Watch yaself.
Yet...yet maybe not. Do you know me? Maybe the truth of this matter is that I'm an unknown. Maybe not as an acquaintance, but as a person. Sure, I'm a name you've heard (extremely famous: my brothers' have a band. nbd) but WHO am I? Here goes:
My foremost (current) passion is for the Byzantine Empire. That's epic. . And I'm not even joking. I recently acquired a trio of embossed folios detailing the history of Byzantium. Suck it.
I'm a reader, which is due in no small part to my crippling habit of being an introvert. People freak me out. Mainly, I freak me out, which has (upcoming boast!!) given me a surprisingly awkward/insightful way of observing the world with an apathetic detachment. I analyze everything but fail to communicate my findings with those that would be interested. This is, I suppose, because of my introversion. And the reason for this asstastic blog.
To move on: I can now justify watching t.v. with knitting and have a recent perverse attachment to tea. Please don't read into my use of "perverse."
My purpose in constructing this pleasure dome, this brothel of thought, this harem of hype, this Xanadu, if you will, is entirely selfish. duh. Please inform me if you ever think of a plausible reason for blogging that does not have a root in downright self-centeredness. This is essentially a stopgap measure. As I am at university, and am righteously underachieving it, free time abounds. I could continue to watch every video on the good ole interwebs and lose myself in video games, or I could commence an activity that is halfway constructive. Make sense?
Despite the previous egotistical paragraph, I do hope you are, at the very least, entertained; whether that's because I've related some topic that appeals to you or you happen to be a stalker. I haven't quite decided what path to take my blogging down. It will most likely be a compilation of intensely interesting historical exposes and profound insights acquired by living my life. Either way, it promises to be better than your Grandma's blog.
Thanks Guys.
To begin with a sweeping (meaning probably untrue) generalization, most blogs are created as an outlet for truth (oh, the irony). Truth of all kinds, be it an accurate account of one's day or taking on the big bad corporations/media/government/what have you, or even the truth of your own thoughts. Aaaand to swing it back around to why I lied; the lie, you see, is in the title of my firstest blog post. No introductions are in order by the simple fact that if this is read, I will have told the reader quite explicitly to come here and fucking read it. I've also just assumed I'm going to tell you to read this with profanity. It's a possibility. Watch yaself.
Yet...yet maybe not. Do you know me? Maybe the truth of this matter is that I'm an unknown. Maybe not as an acquaintance, but as a person. Sure, I'm a name you've heard (extremely famous: my brothers' have a band. nbd) but WHO am I? Here goes:
My foremost (current) passion is for the Byzantine Empire. That's epic. . And I'm not even joking. I recently acquired a trio of embossed folios detailing the history of Byzantium. Suck it.
I'm a reader, which is due in no small part to my crippling habit of being an introvert. People freak me out. Mainly, I freak me out, which has (upcoming boast!!) given me a surprisingly awkward/insightful way of observing the world with an apathetic detachment. I analyze everything but fail to communicate my findings with those that would be interested. This is, I suppose, because of my introversion. And the reason for this asstastic blog.
To move on: I can now justify watching t.v. with knitting and have a recent perverse attachment to tea. Please don't read into my use of "perverse."
My purpose in constructing this pleasure dome, this brothel of thought, this harem of hype, this Xanadu, if you will, is entirely selfish. duh. Please inform me if you ever think of a plausible reason for blogging that does not have a root in downright self-centeredness. This is essentially a stopgap measure. As I am at university, and am righteously underachieving it, free time abounds. I could continue to watch every video on the good ole interwebs and lose myself in video games, or I could commence an activity that is halfway constructive. Make sense?
Despite the previous egotistical paragraph, I do hope you are, at the very least, entertained; whether that's because I've related some topic that appeals to you or you happen to be a stalker. I haven't quite decided what path to take my blogging down. It will most likely be a compilation of intensely interesting historical exposes and profound insights acquired by living my life. Either way, it promises to be better than your Grandma's blog.
Thanks Guys.
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