Monday, September 28, 2009

Flotsam

Sunday ended up being horrible. Although nothing happened. Because nothing happened? Suddenly this vague haze of general unpleasantness descended and that was that. I went to sleep knowing that all I had to do was somehow plow through into unconsciousness and have a brand new perspective delivered to my bed come morning. Instead, I got mired in various would- and neverhavebeens, reliving stuff best left decomposed. Finally, in order to clear my mind a bit, I started examining the best and easiest ways of ending one's tenure on this mortal coil (I know that might sound kind of creepy and disturbing, but it's an old, tested, and purely intellectual exercise). However, even that backfired - I started out with a relatively zen sneaking-out-into-a-blizzard scenario, which fit in nicely with trying to get some goddamned sleep, but as I started drifting off and thus lost my focus, my mind took it into hardcore frostbite, getting rescued, having my limbs amputated, and looking for a way to lunge myself jugular-first towards something sharp.

Yeah.

And so, here I am, reading the Internet at 4am. Apparently, all is well with the world.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Collected writings

I had to give up my not-so-leisurely strolls because I'm old now, and crippled (i.e. flat footed), and my joints decided they aren't putting up with them anymore. But you can finally taste fall in the air, and I started really missing my evening ritual, so I figured I'd just get myself those really fancy, personalized orthopedic insoles, and all will be well. The whole process started out very high-tech, with a special sensor mat, and computer imaging, but I think i failed at walking on it correctly, or standing on one foot steadily, or something... Either way, the technician seemed more and more annoyed, until finally he told me to just stand on a sheet of paper and off-handedly traced my foot with a very regular and not at all impressive pen. The final result looked like the work of a very accomplished kindergartener.

In my defense, I had a hard time keeping my balance because I could barely stop myself from laughing: in an apparent bid to add a little bit of oompf to the inherently unsexy ambiance of an orthopedic workshop, someone decided to hang a big, glossy male nude on one of the walls. But in keeping with the overall theme, the dude was draped over a wheelchair. No joke.

Anyway, my cyberfeet will be ready by the end of October. And then - pavements beware.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Religion

Anyone know what the dogmatic reason behind the Catholic NO CONDOMS obssession is? Is it the sanctity of life aspect, or that sperm is da bomb and thou shallt not spill it or subject it to latex?

I actually think it's about time for a change of the guard. For our society to lay down a bunch of rules to confound and incite the people of 4000AD ("What do you mean You shall not download Internet porn. The Internet IS porn.") We got a good start with Scientology, but that let's face it, that thing's already preposterous, so it's probably gonna age in dog years. I predict a major schism in 2020. You read it here first.

And on a related note: cool service.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Harder

A while ago ao gave me a version of The Taming of the Shrew that was part of a BBC mini-series called ShakespeaRe-Told (cringeworthy name, I know). I finally watched it last night, and it is absolutely brilliant. In fact, it was so good I'm totally getting it on DVD for Christmas. I'm posting the same scene ao tempted me with, because it simply has to be seen. And trust me, both Shirley Henderson and Rufus Sewell are spectacular throughout:



For the past 15 minutes I've been trying to come up with a way of expressing how incredibly sexy I find the 3:15-3:20 bit that would make it very clear it's not about violence at all, but as you can see I've had little success. The thing is: granted that an occasional Sunday armstice is observed, a perpetual tug of war really does seem like a dream romantic scenario to me. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention that it's a lot more difficult to meet someone in a metaphorical dungeon.

Australia



Mom sent me this tonight. I love it. Been trying to find an mp3 version, but no luck so far. If anyone's able to overcome the whole transcription issue and actually locate it - I'll be very grateful.

I've been to another themed party recently - this time it was the 60s. I had so much fun at the noir event that I decided I wasn't above spending a little dough to piece together the right look. It kind of paid off, in that almost everyone turned up in costume, so I fit right in. The party itself was pretty stellar - we convened at the birthday boy's apartment, had a bit of various spirits to grease the gears, and then spilled out into the streets of Warsaw, glass in hand, to shock and awe - or as was mostly the case: bewilder and preplex - the uncouth masses. Then we were picked up by a private tram, which drove us across the city to a river-adjacent hotel... I'd write "riverside", but even though the street name has the word "embankment" in it, Vistula was nowhere to be seen. Which might have actually been a good thing.

I hardly knew anyone there, except for the hosts, a couple of very fresh or very distant acquaintances, and a guy I had seen once before - over a year ago, and even that in passing - whom I nonetheless remembered quite well. The guy turned out to be spoken for, and I lost my favorite, and at this point irreplacable, hoodie. That collectively put a bit of a damper on things, so I went home early. It took me a day to live down the dissolution of the shade of a sketch of a prospect, but I'm still bummed out about the hoodie.

On Sunday I'm going to another birthday party. This one's completely prospect-free, so there's a chance my wardrobe will escape intact.