Well well well.
My life recently has gotten to the point that my own mother is starting to worry about me; not that I’m doing anything wrong, you understand, but I don’t seem to be doing much of anything. In the last, say, two weeks, I haven’t woven, haven’t walked, haven’t, as she put it, "done anything obsessively" (i.e. to fruition). Instead, I’ve watched television, which is rather out of character and additionally hugely unproductive. True, it’s summer, but that excuse only goes so far. Let’s see if I can’t get something started.
Last weekend I drove Mom and Dan down to the airport to fly out to Louisiana; we lightened the drive by singing like mad along with the Indigo Girls CD, because with three of us we can cover both leads and some of the background singers, plus the occasional guitar solo. Normally I’d just point them to the Marta station, but in this case 1) Mom didn’t get into Atlanta until about 2.5 hours before their flight left, and 2) there’s only one car with working windshield wipers/air conditioning (very useful for defogging purposes), and I didn’t want it sitting in the Marta parking lot all weekend. You may have noticed it’s been raining for the last thousand hours or so, so the windshield wipers were a must. And besides, I had big plans.
Yes, my friends, I drove down to Athens for a day (Sunday?) to hang out with Aaron and deliver some sweaters to a cold-sensitive friend facing a northern migration. Due to my recent overdedication to television (which, for me, means HGTV, TLC, Discovery, and Court TV, full stop), I’d recently forced Mom into a clean sweep, to the (lamentably minor) degree to which I can really exercise authority over her. Anyway, we did at least succeed in sorting out some obviously unnecessary pieces of clothing, and for a brief while her bed and floor were clear. Some of those clothes went to Goodwill, and some (especially the ones still bearing tags) took the trip to Athens.
Also in Athens I met the physical being attached to http://psync.net/, which marks, I think, the first time I ever met someone online and then in real life. Y'all might recognize him as aaronica's tattoo buddy. He is, as befits any friend of Aaron's, an excellent person with whom to eat pizza (Transmet) and ice cream (Cold Stone), even though he feeds rather than dampens Aaron's tendency to proclaim things like "That looks like a syphilis infection" - even though there were other people in the ice cream place - when confronted with an ice cream combo that, to be fair, did look a bit like a syphilis infection. I double-dog dare anyone to pay for and then consume the black licorice/raspberry combo they're selling now. Then again, they both thought my standard chocolate ice cream & gummi bears combination was grosser even than the new wasabi ginger flavor, so maybe they're just dumb.
But what am I saying? Charlie (for that is his name) lent me his copy of The Princess Bride (the book), and that is obviously a gift of great worth. If you've never read it, I think you should; so much of the movie's structure and attitude comes straight out of the text. It's not entirely surprising that it was written by a guy with a background in screenplays (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, for one). And no, I don't mean S. Morgenstern.
For the record, I didn't see Aaron's new apartment, although from his description it's in the same complex where Keith's was. I did see Charlie's, though, where I was introduced to SimAaron. Yes, the boys fired up The Sims 2 and lovingly created an exact replica of the man in question. Evidently Charlie doesn't have a screensaver, either, because throughout my stay there SimAaron was hovering in the background, slouching around and frequently adjusting his arms. They offered to make one of me, but that's a recipe for psychiatric problems if I ever heard one. Still, I'd be remiss if I didn't link you to the wonderful Something Awful feature on The Sims, which I tried to describe to them. (Note that for some reason Google and Something Awful don't get along, so to find this link I had to work through some French site. No technology can defeat the eerie readability of Romance languages.)
I mention the drive home only to point out that it's a good thing I had the fully functioning car, since it rained insanely the whole way. Adding to my minor woes, I had a crick in my neck. Oddly, the only heating pad-type implement in our house is a bear full of... something beady; he can be microwaved and then gives off heat for 30 minutes or so. Provided, of course, you can handle the sight of a teddy bear rotating in your microwave, fixing you with his glassy gaze for a moment before the mechanism carries him away again. I felt like apologizing. Eventually I did.
Adventure and bears and whatever aside, there's no denying Mom has a point about the television. I have watched shit-tons of the stuff since I got home. A few notes on that, then:
I'm very happy with the recent ad for HP photo products, the one in which the actor uses two cut picture mats to create a morphing series of pictures. It helps that the soundtrack is very catchy ("Out of the picture, out of the frame/Now when you see me, nothing's the same."), but most of all the effect is just so fun to watch. Vehix.com, meanwhile, has created a pair of the lowest-budget, lowest-tech ads ever, and yet they're still very effective. I see them a lot and still don't hate them, which has to mean something. For (basically) the cost of two long shots of cars parked in bright rooms, some construction paper, and two actors who don't get paid the higher rate for speaking, whoever handles Vehix's account did a great job.
On the less-effective but definitely memorable end, I notice that one of the spots for TLC's "Miami Ink" features an artist (Chris Garver, I think; the one who "pimps a lot of tattoos from the nineties.") who bears an certain fleshy-lipped resemblance to the kindly psychiatrist on "Law & Order" original flavor. Then there's the inscrutable ad for (deep breath) Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper (you can watch it if you're willing to reward them for making an unlinkable Flash site, and fight your way to the DCVDrP Media page). Huh-num-ma-nuh doo-DOO doo-doo-doo, etc. I've no interest in drinking the stuff, but it is, as Thurber once said about something else, to a regular cola ad "as an old ukelele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts."
Thurber rocked so hard.
I was thinking about advertisements like these this morning (okay, my mind was wandering while I took a shower) and I came up with what I believe to be a winner. Have you noticed how recently, instead of normal branded ads with "drink responsibly" messages tacked onto the end, there have been "drink responsibly" ads that only at the end identify the substance in question? I have a contribution along those lines.
You'd need a typical beer-ad scene, by which I mean tons of attractive people biting their lips at one another and tossing their hair around and trying not to spill $8 drinks on $300 jeans. Then you need one seriously busty individual; not grossly disproportionate, but someone who deserves a lot of tat, if you see what Mama's saying. She walks around flirting with a couple of guys in a beer-ad way, by which I mean prolonged eye contact followed by a downward glance and possibly a tie-grab for one, and prolonged eye contact followed by a downward glance and a direct reach into the hip pocket for the other. Goal: she secures their car keys and proceeds to stuff them (lovingly) down her cleavage. Then she performs a similar trick on a couple of girls (still beer-ad hot, of course, but sparser in the boobage), lending the spot the classic beer-ad Lesbian PatinaTM. Finally, end on a shot of her driving everyone off in a sweet beer-ad car, panning down to her chest before zooming back and fading to black (you may want to increase the tambourine here for a subliminal key-jingle). Tagline: "Every party needs a double-d. Drink responsibly; always pick a Designated Driver."
My shocking cleverness (I do try to be modest, but honestly) contrasts sharply with the dumbness of our nation's dumbest criminals, in a way that reflects well on my genetics and upbringing. You see, the other day I watched one of those forensic shows that warm my heart by raining on the devious and the dumb alike. In this case, a woman reported she and her husband had been bound by home invaders, who robbed them and beat her husband to death. At the crime scene were one (1) dead husband, etc., plus the shreds of duck tape she tore off to make her escape. Only problem: not only wasn't there residue on her wrists or mouth, or any hair or skin on the tape, but the "torn" edges had clearly been cut with pinking shears for easier removal. If you're going to have your boyfriend kill your husband, risking life imprisonment for both of you plus an eternity in hell (where applicable), is it possible you're too frail and feminine to temporarily apply duck tape to your skin? You've already conspired to have your husband beaten to death; go that extra mile and don't embarrass yourself. Pinking shears. Unbelievable.
On a lighter - and concluding, because Jesus - note, I believe I know why the Make-A-Wish Foundation and similar institutions more or less limit their interventions to the young. Because a little bald girl riding a pony named Princess? Very cute. An... intense wrestling match between Marc Goldberg and Evan Farmer? It'd be cute, alright, and yet... There's a problem of some kind. Seriously, though, read Mr. Farmer's bio. What is that? And he welds! Delightful.
EDIT: I see that I linked the wrong article up there, because I didn't re-read it before assuming I'd found the right SA feature on The Sims 2. How embarrassing! I meant, of course, to refer you to "The Terrible Metamorphosis of K. Tomishekmann". My apologies for the inconvenience.
Last weekend I drove Mom and Dan down to the airport to fly out to Louisiana; we lightened the drive by singing like mad along with the Indigo Girls CD, because with three of us we can cover both leads and some of the background singers, plus the occasional guitar solo. Normally I’d just point them to the Marta station, but in this case 1) Mom didn’t get into Atlanta until about 2.5 hours before their flight left, and 2) there’s only one car with working windshield wipers/air conditioning (very useful for defogging purposes), and I didn’t want it sitting in the Marta parking lot all weekend. You may have noticed it’s been raining for the last thousand hours or so, so the windshield wipers were a must. And besides, I had big plans.
Yes, my friends, I drove down to Athens for a day (Sunday?) to hang out with Aaron and deliver some sweaters to a cold-sensitive friend facing a northern migration. Due to my recent overdedication to television (which, for me, means HGTV, TLC, Discovery, and Court TV, full stop), I’d recently forced Mom into a clean sweep, to the (lamentably minor) degree to which I can really exercise authority over her. Anyway, we did at least succeed in sorting out some obviously unnecessary pieces of clothing, and for a brief while her bed and floor were clear. Some of those clothes went to Goodwill, and some (especially the ones still bearing tags) took the trip to Athens.
Also in Athens I met the physical being attached to http://psync.net/, which marks, I think, the first time I ever met someone online and then in real life. Y'all might recognize him as aaronica's tattoo buddy. He is, as befits any friend of Aaron's, an excellent person with whom to eat pizza (Transmet) and ice cream (Cold Stone), even though he feeds rather than dampens Aaron's tendency to proclaim things like "That looks like a syphilis infection" - even though there were other people in the ice cream place - when confronted with an ice cream combo that, to be fair, did look a bit like a syphilis infection. I double-dog dare anyone to pay for and then consume the black licorice/raspberry combo they're selling now. Then again, they both thought my standard chocolate ice cream & gummi bears combination was grosser even than the new wasabi ginger flavor, so maybe they're just dumb.
But what am I saying? Charlie (for that is his name) lent me his copy of The Princess Bride (the book), and that is obviously a gift of great worth. If you've never read it, I think you should; so much of the movie's structure and attitude comes straight out of the text. It's not entirely surprising that it was written by a guy with a background in screenplays (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, for one). And no, I don't mean S. Morgenstern.
For the record, I didn't see Aaron's new apartment, although from his description it's in the same complex where Keith's was. I did see Charlie's, though, where I was introduced to SimAaron. Yes, the boys fired up The Sims 2 and lovingly created an exact replica of the man in question. Evidently Charlie doesn't have a screensaver, either, because throughout my stay there SimAaron was hovering in the background, slouching around and frequently adjusting his arms. They offered to make one of me, but that's a recipe for psychiatric problems if I ever heard one. Still, I'd be remiss if I didn't link you to the wonderful Something Awful feature on The Sims, which I tried to describe to them. (Note that for some reason Google and Something Awful don't get along, so to find this link I had to work through some French site. No technology can defeat the eerie readability of Romance languages.)
I mention the drive home only to point out that it's a good thing I had the fully functioning car, since it rained insanely the whole way. Adding to my minor woes, I had a crick in my neck. Oddly, the only heating pad-type implement in our house is a bear full of... something beady; he can be microwaved and then gives off heat for 30 minutes or so. Provided, of course, you can handle the sight of a teddy bear rotating in your microwave, fixing you with his glassy gaze for a moment before the mechanism carries him away again. I felt like apologizing. Eventually I did.
Adventure and bears and whatever aside, there's no denying Mom has a point about the television. I have watched shit-tons of the stuff since I got home. A few notes on that, then:
I'm very happy with the recent ad for HP photo products, the one in which the actor uses two cut picture mats to create a morphing series of pictures. It helps that the soundtrack is very catchy ("Out of the picture, out of the frame/Now when you see me, nothing's the same."), but most of all the effect is just so fun to watch. Vehix.com, meanwhile, has created a pair of the lowest-budget, lowest-tech ads ever, and yet they're still very effective. I see them a lot and still don't hate them, which has to mean something. For (basically) the cost of two long shots of cars parked in bright rooms, some construction paper, and two actors who don't get paid the higher rate for speaking, whoever handles Vehix's account did a great job.
On the less-effective but definitely memorable end, I notice that one of the spots for TLC's "Miami Ink" features an artist (Chris Garver, I think; the one who "pimps a lot of tattoos from the nineties.") who bears an certain fleshy-lipped resemblance to the kindly psychiatrist on "Law & Order" original flavor. Then there's the inscrutable ad for (deep breath) Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper (you can watch it if you're willing to reward them for making an unlinkable Flash site, and fight your way to the DCVDrP Media page). Huh-num-ma-nuh doo-DOO doo-doo-doo, etc. I've no interest in drinking the stuff, but it is, as Thurber once said about something else, to a regular cola ad "as an old ukelele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts."
Thurber rocked so hard.
I was thinking about advertisements like these this morning (okay, my mind was wandering while I took a shower) and I came up with what I believe to be a winner. Have you noticed how recently, instead of normal branded ads with "drink responsibly" messages tacked onto the end, there have been "drink responsibly" ads that only at the end identify the substance in question? I have a contribution along those lines.
You'd need a typical beer-ad scene, by which I mean tons of attractive people biting their lips at one another and tossing their hair around and trying not to spill $8 drinks on $300 jeans. Then you need one seriously busty individual; not grossly disproportionate, but someone who deserves a lot of tat, if you see what Mama's saying. She walks around flirting with a couple of guys in a beer-ad way, by which I mean prolonged eye contact followed by a downward glance and possibly a tie-grab for one, and prolonged eye contact followed by a downward glance and a direct reach into the hip pocket for the other. Goal: she secures their car keys and proceeds to stuff them (lovingly) down her cleavage. Then she performs a similar trick on a couple of girls (still beer-ad hot, of course, but sparser in the boobage), lending the spot the classic beer-ad Lesbian PatinaTM. Finally, end on a shot of her driving everyone off in a sweet beer-ad car, panning down to her chest before zooming back and fading to black (you may want to increase the tambourine here for a subliminal key-jingle). Tagline: "Every party needs a double-d. Drink responsibly; always pick a Designated Driver."
My shocking cleverness (I do try to be modest, but honestly) contrasts sharply with the dumbness of our nation's dumbest criminals, in a way that reflects well on my genetics and upbringing. You see, the other day I watched one of those forensic shows that warm my heart by raining on the devious and the dumb alike. In this case, a woman reported she and her husband had been bound by home invaders, who robbed them and beat her husband to death. At the crime scene were one (1) dead husband, etc., plus the shreds of duck tape she tore off to make her escape. Only problem: not only wasn't there residue on her wrists or mouth, or any hair or skin on the tape, but the "torn" edges had clearly been cut with pinking shears for easier removal. If you're going to have your boyfriend kill your husband, risking life imprisonment for both of you plus an eternity in hell (where applicable), is it possible you're too frail and feminine to temporarily apply duck tape to your skin? You've already conspired to have your husband beaten to death; go that extra mile and don't embarrass yourself. Pinking shears. Unbelievable.
On a lighter - and concluding, because Jesus - note, I believe I know why the Make-A-Wish Foundation and similar institutions more or less limit their interventions to the young. Because a little bald girl riding a pony named Princess? Very cute. An... intense wrestling match between Marc Goldberg and Evan Farmer? It'd be cute, alright, and yet... There's a problem of some kind. Seriously, though, read Mr. Farmer's bio. What is that? And he welds! Delightful.
EDIT: I see that I linked the wrong article up there, because I didn't re-read it before assuming I'd found the right SA feature on The Sims 2. How embarrassing! I meant, of course, to refer you to "The Terrible Metamorphosis of K. Tomishekmann". My apologies for the inconvenience.