tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79627241530188047222024-02-21T00:32:40.977-05:00The Unsolicited PorkchopThis blog will be the creative equivalent of the junk drawer - full of some random stuff that might end up useful or interesting, but often lacking in a unifying theme. So welcome to our junk drawer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-60456925895678239822014-05-21T22:41:00.001-04:002014-05-21T22:41:02.922-04:0033<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Work. Burgers, texts, drinks, Cards Against Humanity with friends. Let the Jesus year commence.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6Su2Ma669kpeh5nybcE5wcgH4BsHlGFa0FKlgVvgzvoIdcgDHQ8NytutqnTIDm8bRNaDBis2XQjsv6t5e03vcty3jSSkMrpJZZh2UuMo_NJW1s9CfaNJjFETSuKmmRiiUdV2uK2JJzQ/s640/blogger-image-635410731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6Su2Ma669kpeh5nybcE5wcgH4BsHlGFa0FKlgVvgzvoIdcgDHQ8NytutqnTIDm8bRNaDBis2XQjsv6t5e03vcty3jSSkMrpJZZh2UuMo_NJW1s9CfaNJjFETSuKmmRiiUdV2uK2JJzQ/s640/blogger-image-635410731.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-61849333731372473352013-05-21T07:20:00.001-04:002013-05-21T08:47:48.947-04:002 to the 5th<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Me- 31 years ago today. I think this sums it up rather well.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQx5usF1Mi5pVcSbmPF1hpw87l72LSa45VGFq-0CHMvUGxICJvKF7rMOAG03uLbS3GNLbPu7d1glnMJcDId4Uo_bDiB-RAXhXNcbQLYqV_moccOQFVWTlc8v-kvidq6aoEdtwLLSWH4Tw/s640/blogger-image--1564803532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQx5usF1Mi5pVcSbmPF1hpw87l72LSa45VGFq-0CHMvUGxICJvKF7rMOAG03uLbS3GNLbPu7d1glnMJcDId4Uo_bDiB-RAXhXNcbQLYqV_moccOQFVWTlc8v-kvidq6aoEdtwLLSWH4Tw/s400/blogger-image--1564803532.jpg" width="393" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meh.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-17374402198997863812013-03-12T09:42:00.002-04:002013-03-12T09:42:12.762-04:00Happy Birthday, Ma!Happy Birthday, Ma!<br />
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In honor of my mother's birthday, here is a picture of Robert Moses (this is where my mom is saying, "May he burn in hell" and then spitting on the floor. Sicilians!). I may have altered the image slightly to include stink lines, a mustache, devil horns, and an arrow through his head. I may also have placed a stick figure rendering of my mother shooting laser beams out her eyes at him from the bridge (not drawn to scale.) But the manipulation is so sophisticated, you'd be forgiven for not noticing it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic0ZLoZIHjTCbmo5cFe7K3eFvaU96kswv6Efg4H6iLkpldt8B2R4IaNSi5NThIdR5_3jEDdJNhtiIsvLdwq2Ny9aMndPIl4r98M3CPuevVO9Y7tUwgb0dKMhsgpgceuzMko58XDsjgt3s/s1600/Stinky+moses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic0ZLoZIHjTCbmo5cFe7K3eFvaU96kswv6Efg4H6iLkpldt8B2R4IaNSi5NThIdR5_3jEDdJNhtiIsvLdwq2Ny9aMndPIl4r98M3CPuevVO9Y7tUwgb0dKMhsgpgceuzMko58XDsjgt3s/s1600/Stinky+moses.jpg" height="400" width="380" /></a></div>
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If you don't know why I did this, you've never met my mother (or more clearly, you've never met my mother 2 beers in at a barbecue or 3 glasses of wine in at Thanksgiving.) That, or you didn't grow up in the Bronx in the 1950's. </div>
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Anyway - hope your birthday is awesome, Mom, and free of being rudely interrupted by the Cross Bronx Expressway.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-19241684362635138122013-03-11T21:32:00.002-04:002013-03-11T21:32:26.186-04:00Save itDaylight Savings Time... Why does the loss of one hour turn me into Kyle Reese?<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguwcZv7aSHJQUAEDnJ_dXGG7PFnSnfjQkMJWvRATuCxcnResdMf4wgFSSTycQ6ANqUIUR2KzFK00WUJp7i-3quP3m1sXQSbQxV7D7AqvA_QGYqCPQqcnAaNGMenWUO_ukeKpmKM6F-5PA/s1600/reese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguwcZv7aSHJQUAEDnJ_dXGG7PFnSnfjQkMJWvRATuCxcnResdMf4wgFSSTycQ6ANqUIUR2KzFK00WUJp7i-3quP3m1sXQSbQxV7D7AqvA_QGYqCPQqcnAaNGMenWUO_ukeKpmKM6F-5PA/s320/reese.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What day is it - WHAT YEAR?!?!?!?!</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-56272968597892228982013-02-16T12:23:00.000-05:002013-02-16T13:30:10.030-05:00Grapes of Wrath, Chocolate Chip Ice Cream, and Johnny Cash: Semi-annual SwanspirationBecause weekly is for the weak. <br />
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And I am lazy. <br />
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To make up for lost time, I'm gonna throw some at you from the previous episode's amazing Ron-tage. So consider this your ....<br />
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Spoiler alert.</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfb8NbsrAjR9a5HlGy0jZVlrtvmvygHRNq2qXWh7c5mBshvtVTVAzT-Y3O-4FvjvVaSNpNfWehHQcAVaf1QdZGLWHS3FxFOqVK6DdhwGD_KGzcZ4J4j6sFVFXMScz8ESMaGVVckBcA-nQ/s1600/swanspiration.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfb8NbsrAjR9a5HlGy0jZVlrtvmvygHRNq2qXWh7c5mBshvtVTVAzT-Y3O-4FvjvVaSNpNfWehHQcAVaf1QdZGLWHS3FxFOqVK6DdhwGD_KGzcZ4J4j6sFVFXMScz8ESMaGVVckBcA-nQ/s1600/swanspiration.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
"Any dog under 50 pounds is a cat, and cats are pointless."<br />
<br />
"Your house isn't haunted; you're lonely."<br />
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"Replacing the chain on your chainsaw is child's play. Literally, grab your son or daughter and I'll walk 'em through it."<br />
<br />
"You should be allowed to brew whatever you want in your own bathtub."<br />
<br />
Caller: "Um, hello, is it cold outside? I'm all snuggled up and I do not want to get out of bed."<br />
Ron: "I refuse to help you. Next caller."<br />
<br />
"Also in my opinion, most women in this world are vastly too skinny."<br />
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<br />
Even though we'd disagree on government, I'd totally marry Ron. If only my name were Tammy.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-6084793960592141152013-01-19T21:38:00.000-05:002013-01-19T21:38:12.156-05:00The Flu Shot: Works 60% of the time, EVERY timeAnd 40% of the time NEVER.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvpWSREWowdxGMyExz31YhgoJWSeXGRSI73rQiNLMwFTfTvsYm7P4xJO3wULo2XA5z0CXTBN_SwCvDTvjtRAwvWQzEn2vLhgrlCvxyXJb-8LSu9jNln2-GFqi1I7AOstRmv7BzVQKUbw/s1600/scarf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvpWSREWowdxGMyExz31YhgoJWSeXGRSI73rQiNLMwFTfTvsYm7P4xJO3wULo2XA5z0CXTBN_SwCvDTvjtRAwvWQzEn2vLhgrlCvxyXJb-8LSu9jNln2-GFqi1I7AOstRmv7BzVQKUbw/s320/scarf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I got the flu shot back in October, so imagine my surprise when I was on my way home from work on Monday to find the little cold I had been nursing morphing into some kind of full-body immune-system assault. I was in total denial, of course. No, not happening, I'm fine, I'm just tired, I just need NyQuil. Ridiculously sore muscles? Lack of sleep. Unbearable back pain? Desk job with uncomfortable chair. Headache? Lack of coffee. Sneezing, sore throat? Well, I had a cold, that's...cold stuff. The fact that I felt like I got hit by a bus? Well, maybe the Crosstown 86 actually did hit me that morning and I just hadn't been paying attention. So I was on the train coming home, a train that was stuck underground and stopping for 5 minutes at every station north of 125th street, huddled on the bench against the corner of the car, being a gross sniffly, sneezy mess, arms crossed on my lap, faced buried therein. And getting sideways looks, because everyone knows about the flu epidemic and nobody wants anywhere near me (and really, who could blame them?)<br />
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Also, at work, my colleagues had been (kindly) encouraging me to go home if I felt sick. "Awww it's just a cold, I'm fine," I said, ignoring the tunnel vision and weird way the wall had switched places with the floor. I must have known on some level it was bad news though, because I washed my hands Lady MacBeth-style before touching anything I was going to hand off to someone, and I wiped everything I touched with a clorox wipe every time like I was trying to get rid of my fingerprints from a crime scene. <br />
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At long last I got home to the Bronx, and then I proceeded to stagger through CVS for provisions (why is there ALWAYS a line in that place?) The checkout guy looks at me and says, "Whoa." (more Ted "Theodore" Logan-style, less Joey Russo-style, for those of you playing at home.) And not because he found me stunning, but because his favorite song in high school was "Living Dead Girl," and he never thought he'd meet the subject of the song herself in person. And boy, she must really like Gatorade, huh?<br />
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It took almost 2 hours to get home from work that night, and I almost crawled into my apartment. I found out that my digital thermometer starts reading question marks and hieroglyphics when the body's temperature climbs over a certain point. It's like that counter in the hatch from Season 2 of LOST. And clearly, I had forgotten to push the button.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiy8p4uMmfbVDjSu3GqWy9UwlvlNWXTnq96yCAprDfXAhTpvWdbugn5YLKSissBVrvRSgPvTB9FXUbTKzs09nHPq4Bj-4GBvIjeTGEbzoxz3bjtQcw4ir7nDqwbehI2X8WBZrZ8p81OHI/s1600/crazyclock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiy8p4uMmfbVDjSu3GqWy9UwlvlNWXTnq96yCAprDfXAhTpvWdbugn5YLKSissBVrvRSgPvTB9FXUbTKzs09nHPq4Bj-4GBvIjeTGEbzoxz3bjtQcw4ir7nDqwbehI2X8WBZrZ8p81OHI/s320/crazyclock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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First it read 102.6, then 102.7, then I thought I'd cover a few more radio stations and then it was like, "103.HowAboutYouGetInAnIcebath?" </div>
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So of course I end up Googling the effectiveness of this year's flu-shot, and learned what a lot of people already knew. Stupid vaccine! I did my part for myself and society! And now I managed to be freezing while my skin was on fire. How was this possible?</div>
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And then I knocked back some NyQuil and had dreams like this.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuAbd3zoHIfRUGHJ6hvEwAsE3CtaVhlXrOhYs52lWfA4a_U-Bj2WWFb08z5BwgP4NFIEl5EQYqHYAXEKG_PO-k38BloEHoXvcv5q_DjGGoEiyaUcINJbQsa6n3D9r7F69pasDESzEv8s/s1600/anigif_enhanced-buzz-6849-1354202331-3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuAbd3zoHIfRUGHJ6hvEwAsE3CtaVhlXrOhYs52lWfA4a_U-Bj2WWFb08z5BwgP4NFIEl5EQYqHYAXEKG_PO-k38BloEHoXvcv5q_DjGGoEiyaUcINJbQsa6n3D9r7F69pasDESzEv8s/s320/anigif_enhanced-buzz-6849-1354202331-3.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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Every day, I'd email my boss and say, "I'll totally be better by tomorrow, I'll definitely be in!" And she, a realistic person who knows what the flu is and doesn't want me anywhere near her in that state, would reply, "Uh, no you won't. Seriously." And I'd think to myself, "Psssshhh, what does she know, I'm getting better. I'm gonna get up and go over here and get some clean socks and oh my god why is my dresser so far away I need a nap zzzzzzzzzzzzz...."<br />
<br />
Fun fevered delirium aside, I was not loving the cough that I was developing. I called my doctor, who was not letting flu patients into the office AT ALL, and he did a kind of phone diagnosis and prescribed a codeine cough syrup. I... don't love codeine. It makes me nauseated. But I took it anyway, because, well, there's the old saying:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V_HFTcuGAhu1EtqlgTclJFQENPovHxnct1TF0MXwtCE9EYWKcP3LP55KE3pxiA01pNwUjxMT_6Qg-ZmK2fez5yL9bgKoPKFJUNbts7yALrr4ZDkB9SKjmjS6g-QVPWFRnhaltVn_9IM/s1600/pain+of+medicine.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V_HFTcuGAhu1EtqlgTclJFQENPovHxnct1TF0MXwtCE9EYWKcP3LP55KE3pxiA01pNwUjxMT_6Qg-ZmK2fez5yL9bgKoPKFJUNbts7yALrr4ZDkB9SKjmjS6g-QVPWFRnhaltVn_9IM/s320/pain+of+medicine.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm better today, but for a few days there, I was the most disgusting, cranky lump of sweaty misanthrope alive, subsisting on tea, gatorade, broth, and crackers. As a result, I was starting to resemble Skeletor.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVqLbPJhtoHHw709Msv3e7YqizfrSJMl9rpFTr_ys_9u8_r3_NifHaSjKtQATDy6y_WyZUUcUIcQmTWo9QDlg7NKVHtdk74DYP4Pnu-8b9WoQ_SGUuQdXwrrSdu4MkUtc8eOYcYWhTZ0/s1600/I'm+tired+of+SOUP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVqLbPJhtoHHw709Msv3e7YqizfrSJMl9rpFTr_ys_9u8_r3_NifHaSjKtQATDy6y_WyZUUcUIcQmTWo9QDlg7NKVHtdk74DYP4Pnu-8b9WoQ_SGUuQdXwrrSdu4MkUtc8eOYcYWhTZ0/s1600/I'm+tired+of+SOUP.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I grow tired of your SOUP!!!</td></tr>
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(Facially, anyway. He's way more jacked than I remember.)<br />
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I just wanted to sleep. (All the better to plot my takeover of Eternia that way, really.) I haven't been this sick since I was 15 and got the stupid Chicken Pox. During that particular illness, I remember waking up in the middle of the night in a fever, and was convinced that my pillows were homework assignments. And I freaked out because HOW was I supposed to finish it all?!<br />
<br />
It's been kind of like that all week. I've been stuck in a confusing and endless loop of Netflix and naps. I chose <i>The Walking Dead</i> over <i>The Stand, </i>because I like my T.V. shows like I like my illnesses - lengthy and debilitating. <br />
<br />
It took about 5 days for me to start feeling like myself again, but a walk to the corner today was still enough to send me back to bed for a couple of hours. <br />
<br />
I had taken it *very* personally that I had gotten the flu. Stupid? Absolutely. But understandable, I think. Because the very weekend I started with the seemingly innocent cold symptoms, I was catching up with former coworkers and telling them that even though I missed teaching, I was "happy to say that I haven't gotten sick yet this year!" That, my friends, is hubris. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXELtBgfdxt7rYhm7qrfzzTSauXAQE1NNl6hbx8M6QLR8LenvNw2EwUqx4Cah-y5JRiJhngYIrJHeZlILZfrhZxDn3JLJko8qQ9f_ahXgGKpNyzkXQ0teeVCAdeOH6N9vdvPg9gElg-U/s1600/hubris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXELtBgfdxt7rYhm7qrfzzTSauXAQE1NNl6hbx8M6QLR8LenvNw2EwUqx4Cah-y5JRiJhngYIrJHeZlILZfrhZxDn3JLJko8qQ9f_ahXgGKpNyzkXQ0teeVCAdeOH6N9vdvPg9gElg-U/s200/hubris.jpg" width="199" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oedipus and the riddle of the flu-shot</i></td></tr>
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And it doesn't help that people talk about the immune system like it's a measure of someone's worth. Everyone knows that friend who brags that getting sick is something only other people do. They boast about it, sometimes with a smug sense of moral and physical superiority. And when they find out you're the kind of unlucky human who gets sick from time to time, they either tell you you're coddling your immune system too much (I don't) or not washing your hands enough (I do.) No, clearly, I get sick because of some kind of character defect. <br />
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<br />
I actually am glad I got the flu shot, because the more I read, the more I learn that even if it didn't keep me from getting the flu full-stop, it probably did keep me from getting the debilitating version that's got a lot of people laid up for 2 weeks or more. So while I'm annoyed that this past week of my life has flown off the calendar, I'm glad I didn't end up in the hospital, wearing my pants around my neck like Leslie Knope, or worse, like Chris Traeger.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhra020HwdsQMZGAS75BsgCTxZgpaC8K4pjhb8Kz9Ed0s7b9cg7-vGO9bB2uwDN3ABJ-qC-M9UUTdrQtkhMXyCw44H4PCSzOOARPB3cOJDOn4nX7BAYjAjNPd8zEDZOyZOu5G58lxBE1E/s1600/floor+friend.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhra020HwdsQMZGAS75BsgCTxZgpaC8K4pjhb8Kz9Ed0s7b9cg7-vGO9bB2uwDN3ABJ-qC-M9UUTdrQtkhMXyCw44H4PCSzOOARPB3cOJDOn4nX7BAYjAjNPd8zEDZOyZOu5G58lxBE1E/s320/floor+friend.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-49380236019823928792013-01-07T20:00:00.002-05:002013-01-07T20:00:47.341-05:00The Remix<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://on.aol.com/Video/The-Best-of-the-Dowager-Countess-517630458" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10px;" target="_blank">The Best of the Dowager Countess</a>
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This is almost two minutes of pure unadulterated bitch. Dame Maggie, I missed you. (From HuffpostTV.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-7372279851638002842012-12-24T23:04:00.001-05:002012-12-26T10:50:09.245-05:00Ghosts of Christmas Movies Past<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LgNBnxsKCwKaEvlcOAhTti6PHHclZAW8kkGvOTNZfXabcmNA2oIKu_YVrGlkpGUKSDEEGlDGBTWbH9kvLxlAgVUM-DgR4y0rRV7bASGCKJCYtP5XvDYH-8q4hueA3wlhRVeC1mzJztA/s1600/Scrooge_in_Mickeys_Christmas_Carol_7470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LgNBnxsKCwKaEvlcOAhTti6PHHclZAW8kkGvOTNZfXabcmNA2oIKu_YVrGlkpGUKSDEEGlDGBTWbH9kvLxlAgVUM-DgR4y0rRV7bASGCKJCYtP5XvDYH-8q4hueA3wlhRVeC1mzJztA/s1600/Scrooge_in_Mickeys_Christmas_Carol_7470.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, posting to my blog.</td></tr>
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It has been HELL trying to get into the Christmas spirit this year. Between a new job that reaches a high in workload in late December, the dregs of humanity constantly filling the airwaves, internet, and front pages, and the general seasonal malaise, there are many things I'd much rather deck than the proverbial halls. But I ended up at my parents' house the other day (drink!), and while they were napping (drink!) I was hanging out with the Stella and perusing the DVR for something to watch. Lo and behold, Mom and I had recorded the 1984 production of <i>A Christmas Carol</i> starring <strike>General Patton</strike> George C. Scott as the unfortunately-named Ebenezer Scrooge. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBU5NALmQirL4SUZZOYEbGz6eZaDQttA5qn5CwRUxlSzS7u-R0jA10U6NUlOyueDrWLd43FX7l0j6-__vMFBmc6upxbIv-4cx03iGYoHbxLls17d2ZQM32L-gRl38_1EhRzjdj_KoBu8Y/s1600/christmas-carol-1984-scott-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBU5NALmQirL4SUZZOYEbGz6eZaDQttA5qn5CwRUxlSzS7u-R0jA10U6NUlOyueDrWLd43FX7l0j6-__vMFBmc6upxbIv-4cx03iGYoHbxLls17d2ZQM32L-gRl38_1EhRzjdj_KoBu8Y/s1600/christmas-carol-1984-scott-2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next stop, the NYC Beard and Mustache Competition. <br />
Category: Mutton Chops, Extra Fierce</td></tr>
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So I decided to revisit this Christmas and childhood classic, figuring the Saturday before Jesus' Birthday (observed) was as good a time as any. Well, the following 90 minutes were a nostalgia-filled and navel-gazing Dickensian journey for me, which I feel nicely paralleled the theme of the tale I was watching. <br />
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First of all, let's address the fact that this thing was produced in 1984. Nineteen-eighty-fucking-four. I was just a wee girl who still believed in Santa, though not for much longer, according to Mom and Dad. A little handwriting analyses of both the Tooth Fairy and Santa's notes to me combined with some subtle questioning about the alleged Easter Bunny tipped my parents off that I had worked things out, apparently. Which is kinda sad, but funny when my parents tell the story, so ask them about it when you see them. My dad uses the phrase "stalking horse." It's great. And I guess it's also further proof that Christmas Spirit hasn't been plentiful with me for years. (This makes me less special than it does normal, methinks.)<br />
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Anywhozle, we had a tape of this that my brothers and I watched A LOT. It didn't even have to be within shouting distance of Christmas, because we were weird kids. We'd still watch this rather frightening and dark tale pretty much anytime, which might explain a lot about our dispositions. (Or be appropriate to our innate ones. I flip-flop on the whole nature-nurture debate. Still think it's both.) So revisiting something that we could recite by heart before the age of 10 was kinda fun. And when I hung out with Charlie later that evening, it turned out he had done the same earlier in the week and had a similar take on things.</div>
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It's also been years since I read the actual book, so I was kind of surprised by how well the plot holds up. (And I'm having a "no duh" moment as this blog post is forming. No wonder people still read Dickens.) As I was watching it, especially in the beginning, I found myself thinking, "Wow, Scrooge really is a <i>dick</i>." I mean, for Dickens (haha, dick, Dickens, so many jokes) to set up this character with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever only for the readers - or audience, in the case of this really good production - to be rooting for his redemption halfway through and celebrating with him in the end is a testament to his work as a storyteller. In this case, anyway. I've only read 2 books by Dickens. The other one was Great Expectations, which I also liked, though wasn't surprised to hear that he was paid by the word for it.</div>
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So yeah, Scrooge. A dick. I mean, he's practically knocking over old ladies in the icy English streets and setting fire to the very poorhouses he frequently mentions as a solution to the rampant poverty around him, cackling and rubbing his hands in glee while doing so.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_TKaFnt98GpQT1MgnLzvWIljC54-Khvat1VNT1LiatReFTjCpKRpAgB6bhaJNyiGl-UM9VyKHx7O05adhArgv1cFStZUWVIrj4IXpCogv5gGLyMD-ZbvhPMtE9Fv00kXGp350kfB56c/s1600/excellent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_TKaFnt98GpQT1MgnLzvWIljC54-Khvat1VNT1LiatReFTjCpKRpAgB6bhaJNyiGl-UM9VyKHx7O05adhArgv1cFStZUWVIrj4IXpCogv5gGLyMD-ZbvhPMtE9Fv00kXGp350kfB56c/s200/excellent.jpg" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are there no prisons?</td></tr>
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He just seizes every opportunity to shit all over anyone's optimistic take on the season, or family, or charity, or anything, really. You like it, Scrooge shits on it. Coal, caroling, and Christmas-related anything. People remind him that Christmas is a time for generosity and why not make donations (hey, they must work in the Development office!) and he's like, yeah, I'm gonna have to say fuck off. He treats his assistant like dirt, barely acknowledges Tiny Tim on his way home (more on that dude later) and acts like Clint "Cranky Old Man" Eastwood toward all the public carolers. Who, by the way, are totally laying waste to the Christmas classics and playing a tuba in the street, like you try rocking the brass section in this weather, Ebenezer! His nephew, who really does come across as sweet but none-too-bright, asks him over for Christmas dinner and he's like, No fucking way, I hate everything and everyone and most of all, I hate you (paraphrasing here). I mean, wow, what the hell is this guy's problem, right? But then Dickens goes and SHOWS you what his problem is, and that's when you're reminded of what good writing is.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpMbp3Eudk_Jx4LN5pVtAOt7OuLd3R1v7BOV64o_xDbJQVOkUVpWEfxFXtR5afiyuXenuUKXoXV0vAOEaOfq8TFYbC_E2QxhMXcKPr7rTuFuW9oIxjgU05wOfY2TYq5uc0aZo1XWgsKI/s1600/marley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpMbp3Eudk_Jx4LN5pVtAOt7OuLd3R1v7BOV64o_xDbJQVOkUVpWEfxFXtR5afiyuXenuUKXoXV0vAOEaOfq8TFYbC_E2QxhMXcKPr7rTuFuW9oIxjgU05wOfY2TYq5uc0aZo1XWgsKI/s1600/marley.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm screwed!</td></tr>
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GHOSTS! First up Jacob Marley. THE CHAINS, people. (I had a Dickens-themed Christmas party last year and my parents were some of the only guests to dress according to the theme. Dad wore Stella's chain and went as Marley. Mom had a newsboy cap and crutch and went as Tiny Tim. It was pretty awesome.) Nice metaphors, those chains. I really would have liked to see a good slap from Marley to Scrooge, because you'd think seeing a reanimated long-dead coworker would inspire you to cut the sarcasm, but not here. So, he gets more ghosts for his sass.<br />
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Childhood is really the best time to lay some solid emotionally-destructive groundwork on a person, won't you agree? And clearly the Scrooges wasted no time. When the ghost of Christmas Past shows up and brings him back to gaze at himself as a boy, the poor little sap is sitting all alone in a freaking schoolroom on Christmas Day reading Robinson Crusoe. And then we see him later as youngish man, when he gets a visit from his sister and finally perks up a little. And lemme tell you, at this point in the film, so did I, because I never realized who played Fan all those times I watched as a kid. That's right, the future (and now once) bride of Mad Martigan both on and off screen - Joanne Whalley!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r5C-H9Mhgd1g3ELAO2Ycm4fRVeQNv89EyqB1o7Qp8DyoSLmEmofx7AbpcuiFr2aa5Dyp3T-Ce9lScJB46q9vIHAps3IC1EZ1NUX6Ycnv8ZaarbDpgTkcbMvTIBRHOjHPZKuvVcmmISo/s1600/Fan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r5C-H9Mhgd1g3ELAO2Ycm4fRVeQNv89EyqB1o7Qp8DyoSLmEmofx7AbpcuiFr2aa5Dyp3T-Ce9lScJB46q9vIHAps3IC1EZ1NUX6Ycnv8ZaarbDpgTkcbMvTIBRHOjHPZKuvVcmmISo/s1600/Fan.jpg" /></a></div>
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You know, Sorsha?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbEolPgmF_EDCdxdfB2AjtcVJh3MtgVjVWh9dtXthDAfZuULXUQHtwBHTU2YUEepS3ojUlplyKb1oqxKG_4M6X2pOanUXq8hj62SttA7-gg-afyS6e4tEXotACcQja4ZrQoxeFAyvnWQ/s1600/kickmeintheface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbEolPgmF_EDCdxdfB2AjtcVJh3MtgVjVWh9dtXthDAfZuULXUQHtwBHTU2YUEepS3ojUlplyKb1oqxKG_4M6X2pOanUXq8hj62SttA7-gg-afyS6e4tEXotACcQja4ZrQoxeFAyvnWQ/s320/kickmeintheface.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorsha? I don't love her - she kicked me in the face!</td></tr>
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YES! SORSHA! I'll tell you who loved Sorsha - this girl! She kicked ass (among other parts, when the situation called for it). And got to smooch Val Kilmer. And by the way, she is still gorgeous, according to IMDB.<br />
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But our hero's happiness is short-lived, because his dad is outside, and he looks like the ultimate sinister version of the Quaker Oats guy with his perma-scowl and pilgrim hat. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBr4RGsHdYsnmyC5IAd12c4ZurEYMKHU6AiljVZ_1nhX0uMH_mJwyncp1agQekFbRE_W2Fy1E4KZgenOM5-LP8JLbY5XEa9_zQy_eW2DVqIzXYihvJCWjbva7jCyPfmeCNvrNqnBeP7xA/s1600/ebeneezer+and+silas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBr4RGsHdYsnmyC5IAd12c4ZurEYMKHU6AiljVZ_1nhX0uMH_mJwyncp1agQekFbRE_W2Fy1E4KZgenOM5-LP8JLbY5XEa9_zQy_eW2DVqIzXYihvJCWjbva7jCyPfmeCNvrNqnBeP7xA/s320/ebeneezer+and+silas.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ooh, Juxtaposition...</td></tr>
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<strike>Edmund and the White Witch</strike> Scrooge and the Ghost then hit up a bumpin' party at Mr. Fezziwig's place (that guy rules) but we get to see Ebenezer strike out royally with the nice girl who got away, and then flash forward to watch her happy with another guy and their 42 kids. Nice going, Neezy. Those brats coulda been yours.<br />
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Tangent re: The Ghost of Christmas Past. Earlier in the week, Morgan and I went to Santaland in our...12th(!?) annual Morgan+Rosie+n* trip to Santaland, where I decided that I needed a nice self-pic to have as my G+ icon (instead of the Bullock? Never.) so I turned the phone on myself and came up with this masterpiece.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8ZzRtVlhxsyiGmYX_WrT1sS0MO3zHv7CShpy-NJ-SKg0uVAnDYM1eLejcSWRkDzI3QCbI92PwI5eS49XL4gIgj2aaarM-NIwg976-GNC_MVAOgd0oSSFppjJ_6AA__k6vV36dyrMfWk/s1600/rosiedoll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8ZzRtVlhxsyiGmYX_WrT1sS0MO3zHv7CShpy-NJ-SKg0uVAnDYM1eLejcSWRkDzI3QCbI92PwI5eS49XL4gIgj2aaarM-NIwg976-GNC_MVAOgd0oSSFppjJ_6AA__k6vV36dyrMfWk/s320/rosiedoll.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am surrounded by toddlers running amok.</td></tr>
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And my mom saw this pic, and always knowing how to make me feel particularly pretty, told me I looked like David Doll.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCntG8lsaDH0KxUY1DR640fIH9pvbNIuE5wDvEaIj-wRoMVgeX9C_HAABPTz4Cm-kBX0c3SPYwBW1pv29sAqLtIbg3chQHRNUECQvNg0JkqUx1cUDfSy99Hke4HSzq_3aXOGmJV6NHdE/s1600/nydpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCntG8lsaDH0KxUY1DR640fIH9pvbNIuE5wDvEaIj-wRoMVgeX9C_HAABPTz4Cm-kBX0c3SPYwBW1pv29sAqLtIbg3chQHRNUECQvNg0JkqUx1cUDfSy99Hke4HSzq_3aXOGmJV6NHdE/s1600/nydpic.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks, Ma. </td></tr>
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Which is actually kind of perfect timing, because David "Doll/Buster Poindexter" Johansen was the world's GREATEST ghost of Christmas Past in the Bill Murray movie <i>Scrooged</i>. Which is amazing. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXU8EXbZfSh9afq9Q9FIDWpzXhqOnZFh0PgO2a1ZhSmD5aqvx8scsawBTJhPeBuEs_A9cnGhpSncd7vpdf1LjE7fjV_-aEM0VFtNGMhy1FmwyJ3vW2jZmEpSrSy0vyGmS7xLZ02cAotZw/s1600/past.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXU8EXbZfSh9afq9Q9FIDWpzXhqOnZFh0PgO2a1ZhSmD5aqvx8scsawBTJhPeBuEs_A9cnGhpSncd7vpdf1LjE7fjV_-aEM0VFtNGMhy1FmwyJ3vW2jZmEpSrSy0vyGmS7xLZ02cAotZw/s320/past.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niagara Falls, Frankie Angel...</td></tr>
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So I didn't mind the comparison, because it's seasonally appropriate. But back to Patton and Company.<br />
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After he snuffs the Ghost of Awkward Adolescence and Fumbled Romances, THIS GUY shows up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JYVqQsXIKwXRLNg3nuN4VAsiJDyBZfDiisTkIHBKwX5_6O04Tz7_GPwbqqCkibBd16Mz1nhwf_Fpmsd6Q-v7KbYukkTr17nI2Ht4RYo3XB8XipgOkQuUQUDIBImWmD7yt6ERBDKfUeQ/s1600/Bitch,+Please.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JYVqQsXIKwXRLNg3nuN4VAsiJDyBZfDiisTkIHBKwX5_6O04Tz7_GPwbqqCkibBd16Mz1nhwf_Fpmsd6Q-v7KbYukkTr17nI2Ht4RYo3XB8XipgOkQuUQUDIBImWmD7yt6ERBDKfUeQ/s320/Bitch,+Please.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bitch, please.</td></tr>
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This guy looks like a '70s porn star and Grizzly Adams had a baby. In a Christmas bath robe. This is when we get to see Tiny Tim in all his preachy glory and feel horrible about ourselves because he's so damn pious and holy and can't freaking walk and oh my god, gimme a break already. Nobody is that well-adjusted.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w6ed_fkYcJLzV_3oqrpcyoCcg-YYdO0px8Ibtcgr1qT7fl4cn0LILZWhUyDlV9-1mysL5v99S4HnkDsemDtzfCWtOpQVHCeO4fmP5WBfo1q3ji_eJvxGtHfUdmwLedvxwXO7aCYl3FA/s1600/1984-xmas-tiny-tim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w6ed_fkYcJLzV_3oqrpcyoCcg-YYdO0px8Ibtcgr1qT7fl4cn0LILZWhUyDlV9-1mysL5v99S4HnkDsemDtzfCWtOpQVHCeO4fmP5WBfo1q3ji_eJvxGtHfUdmwLedvxwXO7aCYl3FA/s1600/1984-xmas-tiny-tim.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plate 267 from <i>The Big Book of British Smiles</i></td></tr>
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My mom had joined in the rewatch at this point, and she and I were trying to figure out Tiny Tim's deal. Birth defect? Scarlet Fever? What? My mom changed her diagnosis from Polio to Diptheria based on geography and historical context. I choose to believe it's some sort of Rickets-Consumption-Scurvy hybrid that would have landed him a guest spot on <i>House</i> about 150 years later. Also, I like to reference consumption whenever I can, because it is an awesome word (albeit for a terrible disease.) <br />
<br />
But how the Cratchits put up with Tim's incessant optimism, I'll never know. I just know that I'd feel like a terrible person all the time around the kid, because he's knocking at Death's door and selling cookies, and I am Abe Simpson.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIHg6rODA3FfuI85Y4KpQ7YmU4JZH9rtT1dwOm1nqaOptOJ66S7jTNWRJRWJeUlNZM0YlnaWY8-zrJtSpWL2POO4zlP-YOLmaAjev1OMe51V6aBaGS0g75ffI-JAwRUdKyZMNIhAVoks/s1600/cloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIHg6rODA3FfuI85Y4KpQ7YmU4JZH9rtT1dwOm1nqaOptOJ66S7jTNWRJRWJeUlNZM0YlnaWY8-zrJtSpWL2POO4zlP-YOLmaAjev1OMe51V6aBaGS0g75ffI-JAwRUdKyZMNIhAVoks/s320/cloud.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I lied about being Scrooge McDuck. Sorry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Once the ghost of Christmas Present is done with him, the next ghost shows up, and it's actually pretty creepy for a while here. First of all, the ghost looks like Emperor Palpatine, and doesn't speak. It just points at things, and the Foley artists make with the squeaky gates. This used to TERRIFY me.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCQuqayiPonazBXi1axDDmn17Wcl1oYAepa-IYL6vsinLAtgvBfsOzII6YqJZW2FT09jWybJqbzLa0RfwlIecn5l8FhbejCfuE480E8HQQr8s_Z6KRe0zHhXwlcm1HRYflpr7z0ZDgaE/s1600/ghost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCQuqayiPonazBXi1axDDmn17Wcl1oYAepa-IYL6vsinLAtgvBfsOzII6YqJZW2FT09jWybJqbzLa0RfwlIecn5l8FhbejCfuE480E8HQQr8s_Z6KRe0zHhXwlcm1HRYflpr7z0ZDgaE/s1600/ghost.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy crap, I forgot about the fog. Fog always makes it scarier!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It takes him to a Christmas yet to come where Tiny Tim is dead and people are sad, and Scrooge himself is dead but nobody gives a shit. In fact, his maid fences all his stuff, and he's just lying there dead, all alone. And it's really, really sad. <br />
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And then he wakes up and turns into Oprah.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4JxYe7w65fBPLIp_0rFdV06wTPP7MRIIBI6MhG3rKzqTp6-Xsc3v7SMoa0f3-Kzmw2XNjJq213a2fidIgI-oGRlu_SMCvdO3SmN2ohU_Klh8gvT1cwndWshEZKsYyHhyphenhyphentMYievZy15k/s1600/goose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4JxYe7w65fBPLIp_0rFdV06wTPP7MRIIBI6MhG3rKzqTp6-Xsc3v7SMoa0f3-Kzmw2XNjJq213a2fidIgI-oGRlu_SMCvdO3SmN2ohU_Klh8gvT1cwndWshEZKsYyHhyphenhyphentMYievZy15k/s1600/goose.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AAAAAAAAND *you* get a goose! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And at this point, I had (temporarily) drunk the Dickensian Christmas Kool-Aid. I was like, yeah, Scrooge! You go! You buy people geese and be nice to your nephew and actually treat people like they exist for reasons other than to piss you off with their humanity! YAY! Give your clerk a raise! Kiss the crippled boy! Give the Whos down in Whoville their Christmas presents back because your heart grew three sizes that day!<br />
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I'm not saying that catching this on TV turned my Christmas frown upside-down and cured me of my seasonal ails (consumption?) and changed my life forever. That crap only happens in TV-movies based on hit Dickensian novels. And ABC family movies. But it was a lot of fun re-watching something that was a childhood staple as a somewhat jaded adult and still get a little caught up in the excitement of watching this shmuck turn his life around for the better. <br />
<br />
So the lesson? Don't be an asshole. You'll die alone. Also, there might be ghosts involved.<br />
<br />
Now I'm on my way to midnight Mass. Whatever perky lessons I learned from Dickens may very well be snuffed out by the homily. If I can stay awake...<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas!<br />
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*Let n= whoever the hell shows up</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-25727985436117270792012-12-16T10:58:00.000-05:002012-12-16T10:58:00.372-05:00Birth Happy Birthday to my baby brother, who turned 29 yesterday. (Chriiiiiiiiiist...)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa5oYlPdesgZXL6Menu0rQ5rf-2Tn-iDRewAT2aHl0OvCkSt4tGg9_ZuAZbVcpRMTzRTFg-0WVLqINzjoOgIl5GOHJpQYqVA0HfUxQPbnnTjHNmx_ofikYaP67Ljn3Y0k2E53E1XatUI/s1600/CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa5oYlPdesgZXL6Menu0rQ5rf-2Tn-iDRewAT2aHl0OvCkSt4tGg9_ZuAZbVcpRMTzRTFg-0WVLqINzjoOgIl5GOHJpQYqVA0HfUxQPbnnTjHNmx_ofikYaP67Ljn3Y0k2E53E1XatUI/s320/CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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Happy Birthday to my Stella, who turns 4 today.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0x6VZqhWwzM89kJ48da-x7PuegwjhKicdR64lubfr5Qa-YxdXPeOJMP1uobnlUsO_kTwjxqA-kYp69UYP4UY0a8aX_DHoyyUalI-okGiHClamoRhdIjGyUuqPuDii1TsGjBmDy1j_kk/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0x6VZqhWwzM89kJ48da-x7PuegwjhKicdR64lubfr5Qa-YxdXPeOJMP1uobnlUsO_kTwjxqA-kYp69UYP4UY0a8aX_DHoyyUalI-okGiHClamoRhdIjGyUuqPuDii1TsGjBmDy1j_kk/s320/011.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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And while I'm at it, Happy posthumous Birthday to Beethoven. If only you were alive to hear my say it. (oooooh, so mean, so sorry...)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFZaDTegftjcnrZXEZ8L-6Af23YN8bVhKWqPBnSalBds0TdwNNUYioubzYj_SqcPxo5n1qWPDWCtrZ_rAmejhT63tXnqRuzdEuXEcq_aD0Ca6qnT7FlKyNQncfF5duMNxeDf1xH6rGy4/s1600/ludwig-van-beethoven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFZaDTegftjcnrZXEZ8L-6Af23YN8bVhKWqPBnSalBds0TdwNNUYioubzYj_SqcPxo5n1qWPDWCtrZ_rAmejhT63tXnqRuzdEuXEcq_aD0Ca6qnT7FlKyNQncfF5duMNxeDf1xH6rGy4/s320/ludwig-van-beethoven.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Watch the hair."</td></tr>
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Incidentally, I want to focus on birthday wishes for my beloved (and I guess in this case, the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0110116/" target="_blank">Immortal Beloved</a>) this weekend.<br />
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And now for some Batman-related humor.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE7xvGRUDl6ZgOtZyi1tJQz7diWICsaZtl80z7R-JNEfog-UWeIGOXna3j5esp0Fc2ERDH5s-r220Jr9Ajl4JTswRJYD0XOPrx7-FIRcRwPXTMh0WaHZwJx0L59TYYbq_ci5CyDf5c83I/s1600/holmesbatman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE7xvGRUDl6ZgOtZyi1tJQz7diWICsaZtl80z7R-JNEfog-UWeIGOXna3j5esp0Fc2ERDH5s-r220Jr9Ajl4JTswRJYD0XOPrx7-FIRcRwPXTMh0WaHZwJx0L59TYYbq_ci5CyDf5c83I/s400/holmesbatman.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOq2Q46wL6-XpaEKjaR-V53-DtxOukk4Gl6xDpcz4JqF60ac6_3Jk492hAzYXgom2lMTObGt2DxDRjLPUlyVOrFrcYUP6rB1PeE4nSm09XPYcy0CflMloDrmBh2EW5y5sLPgy70pLSt0/s1600/drunkbatman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOq2Q46wL6-XpaEKjaR-V53-DtxOukk4Gl6xDpcz4JqF60ac6_3Jk492hAzYXgom2lMTObGt2DxDRjLPUlyVOrFrcYUP6rB1PeE4nSm09XPYcy0CflMloDrmBh2EW5y5sLPgy70pLSt0/s320/drunkbatman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-66841414346517399102012-12-02T21:23:00.001-05:002012-12-02T21:23:18.563-05:00A Stellavision commercial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My dog: a s<strike>pecial snow</strike>flake. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4C9YB2nHvfhV6vv6awJ2Rci5fn-ClA-CM4UzX8BfG69tlOS5H8NNzICgcp61EYL1xP0XWRKcSHe9MtB2yle2Tk5iun-Kkkt-YTZEXvbyBybMVJsn8pMRQBcAOyjoUesLtzfi5QjmQcw/s1600/Stellavision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4C9YB2nHvfhV6vv6awJ2Rci5fn-ClA-CM4UzX8BfG69tlOS5H8NNzICgcp61EYL1xP0XWRKcSHe9MtB2yle2Tk5iun-Kkkt-YTZEXvbyBybMVJsn8pMRQBcAOyjoUesLtzfi5QjmQcw/s640/Stellavision.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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That crown stayed on for 5 seconds. And then she tried to eat it.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-91054680583040218212012-11-26T22:13:00.000-05:002012-11-26T22:13:08.818-05:00The War Effort in a NutshellWhen I switched to basic cable, I knew I'd miss a lot of things. Non-stop Law and Order, NY1 (God I miss, you, Pat Kiernan) and Comedy Central, especially. Even though in recent years, it has paled in comparison to the Comedy Central I discovered in 8th grade, when my parents got us basic cable. Back then, basic cable actually MEANT something ::waves cane angrily:: I could tune in and watch hours and hours of stand-up, marathons of "Whose Line is it, Anyway?", and imported Canadian gems like the "Kids in the Hall." Now, the "basic" in "basic cable" is a shortening of "Basically, you're screwed when it comes to entertainment." I really miss Comedy Central. <br />
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But I've got Fox News, so at least there's still something to laugh at.<br />
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Like <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2012/11/24/war-on-men/#ixzz2DJQ9goGj" target="_blank">the war on men.</a><br />
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My first reaction:<br />
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Followed by:<br />
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"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!" ::points finger at screen:: "War on..??. HAAHAHAHAHAHA!" ::slaps knee, gasps for air, tries to wipe spitwater off of monitor::<br />
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Yeah. (I tried to get a nice youtube vid of a quick spit-take, but the best I could do was this low quality Golden Girls' clip. Sophia's reaction at 17 seconds is how I reacted to this, and to a lot of things. Internally.)<br />
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Point of clarification - Now, I wasn't actually watching Fox. The last time I watched Fox was on election night with Kris and Dan and we would flip over for a chuckle, linger a bit too long, start to rock back and forth like rhesus monkeys, and then run back to the soothing voice of Rachel Maddow. Checking in on Fox those few times was like immersion therapy when the returns weren't looking so good for Obama, and then schadenfreude when they were. So I wasn't watching Fox in this particular instance, I just needed a nice little segue, and I'm pissed off at cablevision all the time, so that's why the intro paragraph above is what it is. </div>
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I actually came across the link to the War on Men (god, so stupid) on several of the feminist-pinko-man-hating-ladyblogs I've got bookmarked on Google Reader. So I clicked on it, and it was so hilarious, I had to screencap it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cold shoulder. Good strategy, there, soldier. Sun Tzu got nothin' on you. </td></tr>
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I mean, I could be forgiven for thinking the whole thing is some colossal joke, right? Look at this page. I mean, really LOOK AT IT. First off, the graphic is priceless. Huffy woman (clearly a huff-po reader) shuns everyman-in-button-down, and he is forced to break through the fourth wall for some hint of human connection, such is his abandonment. The audience will clearly connect with him and relate to his hitchhiker pose, suggesting, "Women, AMIRITE?" Where are the UN sanctions? Clearly this woman is waging a war.</div>
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Forget about the main graphic for a second. Take a break from buying Cyber Monday half-price War Bonds (do your part for the war effort later. I'm planting a Victory Garden!). Thanksgiving has taught us that the main course isn't all there is to feast on, because side dishes are decidedly satisfying. So check out the side dish stories. Go on...</div>
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Yes, that says "Nude Man evades police atop horse statue." With a picture! Underneath an ad for Moby Dick. Above a video of war hero John McCain. This layout is so male-themed, it's about to kill a stag with its bare hands, cook it over an outdoor fire it built, and piss out the flames. It's so manly, I want to wage war on it. </div>
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Women, amirite? All wanting equal pay and shit. Expecting bodily sovereignty. Getting annoyed when you treat them like a monolithic hive of man-hating ladybees that all think the same way. (Must...not..make..pun...about drones...and warfare...and bees...)</div>
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This has to be a joke, right? This is practically ripped from the Onion. </div>
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These are actual sentences in the article. Actual sentences by author Suzanne Venker. Who is not an <a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/women-now-empowered-by-everything-a-woman-does,1398/" target="_blank">onion columnist.</a></div>
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"In a nutshell, women are angry."</div>
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Yeah, I think men would also be angry if forced into a nutshell. I freak the fuck out when I'm in a nutshell. In a nutshell, Rosie is a nutjob.</div>
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"Women aren't women anymore."</div>
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Like we ever were? As Bridget Jones says, "Underneath our clothes, our bodies are completely covered in scales," so this hasn't exactly been a secret for quite sometime now. </div>
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"Now the men have nowhere to go."</div>
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Because we've burnt their castles and taken their goats! Because this is WAR! Pillage, pillage, pillage! (Can you tell I've been mainlining Game of Thrones?)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angry, covered in scales, and burning shit down. <br />Forget Rosie the Riveter, this war has Daenerys the Dragon Mama.</td></tr>
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Sigh. Joke's over. People actually think like this, and that's ... not funny. Enough so that this women has an audience for her rhetoric in which she constantly throws other women under the bus. Irony alert - would she have so much success as an author without the gains of feminism? And way to get the definition and aim of the movement wrong. Striving for equality doesn't mean taking things away from men, but that's exactly what Venker wants men (and everyone) to think in her effort to kill feminism dead. And who are these scaredy cat men she's talking to? None of the dudes I know think like this. They aren't threatened by the idea of women doing the same crap they don't think twice about. </div>
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I don't really see what's in it for her, though. Perhaps she thinks if she makes herself out to be on their side, she'll be spared when all the threatened men inevitably revolt and take back...the gains we haven't made yet? Sounds like she's the one pitting women against men in this fake game where only one gender can have...stuff.</div>
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Oh no, my cover's been blown. I'd better report back to Feminist HQ and reveal this information leak. I wanna know who's been talking to Venker. </div>
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Someone's going in a nutshell for this.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-24326270221236419012012-11-02T11:35:00.000-04:002012-11-02T12:14:01.455-04:00Friday filteringNot officially back to work until Monday. I did work a teensy bit from home yesterday while inculcating my parents into the cult of 30 Rock, but I'm itchy to do more (but not so itchy that I'll give this apartment the cleaning it so desperately needs). <br />
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While charging their various communication devices, my parents discovered the myriad perks of 30 Rock including "Blerg" and the miracle that is Kenneth Ellen Parcell. My favorite? Any time Kenneth mentions "The Hill People." My dad, on the other hand, thought that M.I.L.F. Island was pretty great, although he referred to it as "M.I.L.F. Camp" on the phone later that evening, which might actually be funnier.<br />
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So, while awaiting communication from coworkers, I've been spiraling into an internet rabbit hole (that's not a euphemism for drug use). Here are some of the greatest hits of the morning (still not 11 a.m. as I type this)!</div>
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Here's this great article on Wired that sums up some of my own reservations about modern technology, and maybe makes me question said reservations just a little bit. </div>
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<a href="http://www.wired.com/opinion/2012/11/st_opinion/" target="_blank">Still not joining facebook.</a></div>
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Here's a picture of the President, proving that he should not only remain President, but he should also be my BFF. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpc-ke86gV389CF9OM-Drmk4UYbj9R6Hb6JtFQugZPabKkF6Zf2Ft5HNAh7mgXljTlMM8KdxNeawmI8qpjzJ0bm_6cPwR0FzqP38MeYq_rlZYut9auwgQ7eIsv0rvcUjXnmx_FwLwD50/s1600/ObamaforBFF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpc-ke86gV389CF9OM-Drmk4UYbj9R6Hb6JtFQugZPabKkF6Zf2Ft5HNAh7mgXljTlMM8KdxNeawmI8qpjzJ0bm_6cPwR0FzqP38MeYq_rlZYut9auwgQ7eIsv0rvcUjXnmx_FwLwD50/s320/ObamaforBFF.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I saw that on the new Jezebel tumblr that went up while the old site is down. I like the tumblr better because the comments on the original site had become troll central. HATE.</div>
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Here's a picture of my brother and me hanging out yesterday, I mean, 28 years ago.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPo9OoBFoRYR_L4nRiGSSMn5KUgpeaBN__Nt2us_Yxj6GWgZAJHnLTnelnpBFPGblD7nVSPwBHO_EUfGd5p3t5hvwLqeYiHrP1_lr2qbSCJykzIoSHAnetnHYb1Ro_GHXj3YvZVdGcYe4/s1600/TomAndRosie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPo9OoBFoRYR_L4nRiGSSMn5KUgpeaBN__Nt2us_Yxj6GWgZAJHnLTnelnpBFPGblD7nVSPwBHO_EUfGd5p3t5hvwLqeYiHrP1_lr2qbSCJykzIoSHAnetnHYb1Ro_GHXj3YvZVdGcYe4/s320/TomAndRosie.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And yes, he is the cutest wubby that ever lived. And no, my feet aren't that big, I was clearly wearing Charlie V's socks resulting in an optical illusion. And speaking of optical illusions: THOSE PANTS.</div>
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XKCD continues to inspire me to be a better and funnier nerd. </div>
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<a href="http://xkcd.com/1125/" target="_blank">OBJECTS IN MIRROR</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqO0QdDAXpFZMA-7pJor4YYytIgfJ0ATV5GCCB3ke7MN1bQLS5YS7FdXeKIk4mjhlkPXeXiv9ImPj3_LhNW7ZzLGemkXzTqYS9H7KKBbQpQOLqklU8qbR0KMQn20gqgwfaFCghbSL46ok/s1600/objects_in_mirror.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqO0QdDAXpFZMA-7pJor4YYytIgfJ0ATV5GCCB3ke7MN1bQLS5YS7FdXeKIk4mjhlkPXeXiv9ImPj3_LhNW7ZzLGemkXzTqYS9H7KKBbQpQOLqklU8qbR0KMQn20gqgwfaFCghbSL46ok/s1600/objects_in_mirror.png" /></a></div>
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And speaking of mirrors, I always forget that when you take a picture of a reflective surface, you end up in the picture. I took a picture last week of this bus stop ad near my job. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKI8tCbywazKkI4OMHRCFzWtWqBfNtnIjNfcpvVQoTPxpUIGgpCipYSflPLlVxZVhZ9f0ZtNCw6eDS3fZ_80sftvfv9dRoWnr5ZSi0ZpoWL5oN9Y-mMQa_6lY8LO7o7n0pk_rzFP3hIg/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKI8tCbywazKkI4OMHRCFzWtWqBfNtnIjNfcpvVQoTPxpUIGgpCipYSflPLlVxZVhZ9f0ZtNCw6eDS3fZ_80sftvfv9dRoWnr5ZSi0ZpoWL5oN9Y-mMQa_6lY8LO7o7n0pk_rzFP3hIg/s320/023.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I'm appalled that people don't understand how to use a Venn Diagram. It's not just me, right? There's no possible way those circles can intersect, right? It's maddening. </div>
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DRUNK HISTORY!!!!!
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I read this thing about <a href="http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/6474/" target="_blank">octopodes</a> yesterday - linked to in this <a href="http://www.theawl.com/2012/10/a-spooky-scary-secret-monster-in-every-state" target="_blank">post</a> - and almost cried.</div>
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My niece turns 16 tomorrow. Gotta work on her present and check back in with my work friends. I feel kind of impotent to do anything helpful to the Sandy effort, but I'm awaiting notification from New York Cares about stuff that's within walking or bus distance that I can volunteer with, so that may change within a few hours. So maybe the above diversions are stupid and vapid in light of all that's happened, but it's kept me from going completely stir-crazy.</div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-21729733469195019322012-10-31T18:17:00.001-04:002012-10-31T18:17:54.768-04:00It's still sort of Halloween...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzdiE82SAxRiM7urtuZjZtD8qYytWPJGJS3HuGejiCVh6VrCttIMJmepNxcs2Jm8RbkO8iWbOU2tvOh4vjrMuzULyiyjeDuoK1foLdqqBzmHKl4Qpmvv8xhZ_M2hAA92UVX-kcwawOqY/s1600/022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzdiE82SAxRiM7urtuZjZtD8qYytWPJGJS3HuGejiCVh6VrCttIMJmepNxcs2Jm8RbkO8iWbOU2tvOh4vjrMuzULyiyjeDuoK1foLdqqBzmHKl4Qpmvv8xhZ_M2hAA92UVX-kcwawOqY/s320/022.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My momma's house...when they had power.</td></tr>
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Happy Halloween - hope that there are some treats to be found, given the week we've had.<br />
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In the meantime, I have a riddle for you. What has two thumbs and would have been burned at the stake? This girl.<br />
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Take the <a href="http://www.historyextra.com/witchtest" target="_blank">quiz</a>, see if you'd join me in the extra-crispy club. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFNtWrqyT-shwGj9vxjdCW6cAQeyPykFtFYUynAtCXNsTU6tuxHN7txVIdRA6AKPvaXFg0sImZYH8gtyRN5eFnFijzb00KuYC1VJVs3zDr6p0_WmdWfnZyeEMstID77x1H5QiAithldA/s1600/BURN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFNtWrqyT-shwGj9vxjdCW6cAQeyPykFtFYUynAtCXNsTU6tuxHN7txVIdRA6AKPvaXFg0sImZYH8gtyRN5eFnFijzb00KuYC1VJVs3zDr6p0_WmdWfnZyeEMstID77x1H5QiAithldA/s1600/BURN.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-77960028757764867102012-10-29T22:35:00.002-04:002012-11-11T10:55:13.329-05:00Boo! Hurricanes, Halloween, and Haints<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQHEntOyNug3xxle_9iu9cxrX4rmY-7py-4GzvmoZDd9ZyxaF18BDcn9M-kW6gQ_m1X6rqxV_Lj1DNpawZlGWLKSEhCrtA-Id0ELl2LN3ZNNnLPUc2GTubFyca8arzRJUxRpfZJT5C84/s1600/Marble+Sandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQHEntOyNug3xxle_9iu9cxrX4rmY-7py-4GzvmoZDd9ZyxaF18BDcn9M-kW6gQ_m1X6rqxV_Lj1DNpawZlGWLKSEhCrtA-Id0ELl2LN3ZNNnLPUc2GTubFyca8arzRJUxRpfZJT5C84/s320/Marble+Sandy.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Screencapped from this link -<br />
<a href="http://goes.gsfc.nasa.gov/goescolor/goeseast/overview2/movie/latest_ref.mov">http://goes.gsfc.nasa.gov/goescolor/goeseast/overview2/movie/latest_ref.mov</a></td></tr>
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I've been stuck inside all day riding out the hurricane. I could have gone over to my momma's when I had the chance (and I think she'd have been happier had I done so) but I had some projects to work on and didn't want to come home tomorrow night to my apartment covered in cat vomit. What can I say, the felines get a bit spiteful if I'm gone for more than a day. Must be all that toilet water they drink.<br />
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So I (sort of) finished up a writing project (I'll post a link to it when it's finalized), washed a bunch of dishes that were starting to resemble archaeological ruins, and managed to watch like 12 episodes of 30 Rock on Netflix. Yay for productivity. As I type this, Sandy's about to make landfall and has already taken out a crane in midtown and the big lobster on the Lobster House on City Island, among other things. (I'm actually quite worried about my friends there and in other various Zones A.) So my power could go at any minute, in which case, boo. I'll have to crochet by candlelight. How very Little House in the Big Woods (no joke, I loved that book).<br />
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(And what did I learn about myself today? That half the stuff in my fridge needs to go even if I don't have a power outage, and that I have cans of soup that expired in 2009. Yes, 2009.)<br />
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Speaking of "boo," between sessions on the aforementioned writing project and before Frankenstorm's monster started creeping up the Eastern seaboard, I had been working on (read: procrastinating with) a post that was partly about the change of season, but particularly about Halloween and this strange house around the corner from my apartment that I had come to regard as the Bronx's answer to the Radley House when I moved here. I also wanted to talk about this badass Haunted House I visited with Jenn and Cheech the other day. So, in the spirit of Frankenstein/storm, this post is going to be cobbled together from bits of other ill-fated posts. I only hope that no actual lightning becomes a part of this experience, because my computer will probably get fried in the process and, well, to keep with the theme - boooooooooo.<br />
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/1163837">"Boo Radley's House" by Joseph Cooper</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/columbiacollege">WebAgent - Columbia College</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div>
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I have an interesting mix of spaces in my neighborhood. The area is sandwiched in between an enormous park, 2 major parkways, 1 major highway, some residential space, and industrial areas. You walk 10 minutes in one direction and you're within view of Long Island Sound, Orchard beach, and some serene park space and hiking trails.* You walk 10 minutes in another direction, you're on an industrial strip of Westchester Avenue with the Hutch south zooming beneath you and the 6 train screaming above you. I like this mix of spaces. It keeps things interesting.<br />
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My block is a little bit of a microcosm of this kind of mixture. On my street, it's all apartment buildings - 4 floor walkups on both sides of the street, some smaller apartment houses on the northeast corner. Around the block however, things are completely different. It's a tree-lined one-way street with single and two-family houses, some attached, some free-standing, several different styles from cottage to townhouse. People have stoops, porches, balconies and backyards. Some houses are modern brick structures, others are older with wooden siding.</div>
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And then there's the Radley house.</div>
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Nobody named Radley actually lives there. Well at least not that I know of. (Damn, it'd be weird if that were actually the case. I'd either brag about having psychic powers or immediately stop calling it the Radley house and try to find some other smartass nickname for the place.) It's just, well, if you've ever read Harper Lee's <u>To Kill a Mockingbird</u> ("as opposed to Bram Stoker's <u>To Kill a Mockingbird</u>?" is what you're supposed to be thinking right now) you'd see this house and admit that it could be the very home Lee described, where that famous ghostly recluse and Robert Duvall look-alike made his lonely existence.</div>
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The Radley house stands by itself behind a fence, and is adjoined by a yard that takes up what would otherwise yield two separate lots for two reasonably-sized homes. There are several towering trees on the property, mostly oak and one enormous conifer. And the whole structure must be extremely old, because the sidewalk on this street comes to a halt at the edge of its property line and gives way to a gravel path that resumes at the other end of the property line. So there must be some kind of grandfather clause that allows the house to have that. It has wooden clapboard siding that's aged and kind of dirty, but I'm sure it was beautiful at one point. There is some detritus on the property - tarp-covered appliances, black plastic bags - that could either be markers of poverty or the accumulated property of several generations living in the home over the last century. There's a long porch that runs the width of the house with some chairs on it. I have repressed the urge to run up to the screen door and smack it.</div>
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The house sticks out, and is pretty striking in its difference. And I love walking past it. There's an oak tree in front of it that has a perfect knot in the bark, just like in front of the real Radley house. I always look to see if there are two little soap dolls or an old pocket watch stashed there. I read <u>To Kill a Mockingbird </u>twice for school and countless times after for funsies, so the Radley house gives me kind of a dorky fangirl thrill when I walk by. And the fact that I can't remember ever seeing people going in and out really adds to the mystery of the place and just makes it all that much better. I can pretend I'm Scout when I walk in front and hold my breath until I get past it because, you know, <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/haint" target="_blank">haints</a>. ('Tis the season, after all.) On the other hand, holding your breath is a bad idea, because then you can't appreciate how it also <i>smells</i> different when you walk past the house, especially just after a rainstorm. For a few seconds, you really could be someplace entirely different and very far away from the Bronx. <br />
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I'm actually really worried about the Radley house right now and anyone who lives there, because I've seen some of those big tree-clearing trucks go down that block today and hope that it's nothing too devastating that's happened. <br />
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'Tis also the season for haunted houses. I went to one <a href="http://hauntedhousenyc.com/" target="_blank">this one</a> with my friends Jenn and Cheech (and a couple of their friends as well) this past weekend, and it did not disappoint. I had been to one a couple of years ago with Jenn that was focused on Vampires, but this year's production - Serial Killers - was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay better. (Plus, and I know this is weird, but I'm really feeling the sideburns on the guy in the ad poster. Yeah, yeah, I know he's supposed to be Jack the Ripper and I shouldn't admit things like this, but there you have it.) <br />
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First of all, it's a walk-through experience where you go through a series of rooms and scenarios recalling famous serial murderers including H.H. Holmes, John Wayne Gacy (clowns, why does it always have to be clowns?) and Elizabeth Bathory to name a few. As disturbing as that is by itself, you could also let the actors know that they could interact with you, i.e. grab you to scare you, pull you into the scene etc. by letting the staff paint a bloody "X" on your forehead before going in. So our little group was down for this, and let one of the staff members brand us. But this guy was very method about it, and made you say "I would like to be touched," before he painted your forehead. So, yeah, I told some strange man that I'd like to be touched and he painted an X in stage blood on my head and that was a huge part of my Saturday. Mine was extra-drippy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfHE-XVK6vYAyEjZShsE7feTWE4zeK-0YZEDhXaz7FiBSaNy6sq7aJesOpU3eS9Ob8zCSVQ3TM3WILgyVcwD-U0jed0Bl21V9osUUL2mRKff9Q1XBYdu8mZd87K8He0fspZ8VX_spvpA/s1600/bloodyforehead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfHE-XVK6vYAyEjZShsE7feTWE4zeK-0YZEDhXaz7FiBSaNy6sq7aJesOpU3eS9Ob8zCSVQ3TM3WILgyVcwD-U0jed0Bl21V9osUUL2mRKff9Q1XBYdu8mZd87K8He0fspZ8VX_spvpA/s200/bloodyforehead.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, that stayed on for the rest of the night. <br />
Even when we went for drinks and Mexican food later.</td></tr>
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It was awesome. I was damn near terrified because I startle VERY easily, and believe me, this has a whole lot of people jumping out at you, grabbing your ankles as you walk by, and suddenly getting up and coming at you when you thought they were a dead dummy. But the best, most terrifying part was in the Jack the Ripper room (disappointingly not Mr. Mutton Chops from the poster). So Jack is walking down the line of people in the group, stops in front of me, gets all up in my grill and says, "Can I have a moment of y'time, luv?" and drags me over to the dummy dead prostitute corpse. In front of all my friends and the rest of the group, homeboy starts whispering to me and stroking my neck like he's fake-slitting it (cuz y'know, bloody X) all like, "Do you know who I am? I'll be seeing you later..." And as I'm leaving the room with my arm entwined with Jenn's and gripping her hand, he's all, "Good evening, luv...Rosie..." <br />
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GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!<br />
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Also - awesome. And his breath was minty. Yeah, he was that close.<br />
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Anyway, screamed a lot that night, had no voice to speak of (ha! sorry!) the next day, but I'm glad I got my Halloween on early because it looks like the actual holiday is going to be buried under fallen trees or partially underwater. Glad I got upstate to go pumpkin picking with Charlie, Nin and Lizz earlier this month, so I don't feel like I missed out on too much of the season.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pumpkins don't sleep.<br />
They wait.</td></tr>
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And now that I'm getting tired and winding this post down, it seems like this has been a hell of a storm and isn't getting any better. (By the way, the woman doing the sign language translation of all of the mayor's speeches - LOVE HER.) The news reports all day have been quite a sight. Bronx 12 managed to find the douchiest guys in Throggs Neck who bragged that they were gonna spend the whole day getting drunk (for some Throggs Neck guys, let's face it, that's every day) and they interviewed a guy by the Vincent Avenue sea wall and identified him as "Sal - concerned Bronxite" which is hilarious on its own, but I originally read it as "Sal - cornered Bronxite" and I was like, what, he's still got time to get out, doesn't he?<br />
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The best has been the crawl of info along the bottom of the screen, because it produced this: "Bronx Zoo taking extra measures to protect animals from Sandy." And I just pictured my friend Sandy chasing the polar bears with a murderous glint in her eye. <br />
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But in all seriousness, I hope whoever reads this is safely riding it out, or if you read it later, have come through it ok. If you and your loved ones are from some of the places getting hit badly, this cornered/concerned Bronxite and her cats on the mainland are thinking of you.<br />
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And happy early Halloween.<br />
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I posted this video at the beginning of hurricane season, so I hope we can say that even though the season has got a month to go, this storm marks its unofficial close.<br />
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*Also a great place to dump a body. So I've heard.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-18230977823324396162012-09-29T21:04:00.000-04:002012-09-29T21:04:42.105-04:00The Junk Drawer Within a Junk DrawerIt's ... Junk Drawer-ception<br />
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Warning: intentional use of necessary quotes ahead: The "theme" of this blog is "junk drawer," so here's a similarly random post about the flotsam and jetsam bobbing around on my brain waves.<br />
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This song:<br />
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This <a href="http://nypl.bibliocommons.com/item/show/18976896052_new_york" target="_blank">book</a>:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSU0keI-XlrqDU5IDI0c3ULKKuG57Crh4zsn77z2wyutlYuXl10go2hbDjFbAxtDkZ7RWLjnDMhul0lY2CRhJeWtEcvPc1DTypUF9r311uLTapWznmQaWrCbLLjw_j_1ZuCHCRUyo1pUI/s1600/awesomenewyorkbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSU0keI-XlrqDU5IDI0c3ULKKuG57Crh4zsn77z2wyutlYuXl10go2hbDjFbAxtDkZ7RWLjnDMhul0lY2CRhJeWtEcvPc1DTypUF9r311uLTapWznmQaWrCbLLjw_j_1ZuCHCRUyo1pUI/s320/awesomenewyorkbook.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
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This <a href="http://www.downanddirtymudrun.com/" target="_blank">thing</a> I hope I'm doing tomorrow, if my incipient head cold doesn't, er, come to a head...</div>
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This driftwood:</div>
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This place where I found it.</div>
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This amazing blog: <a href="http://jenniferarmintrout.blogspot.com/p/jen-reads-50-shades-of-grey.html?zx=58139e2ff4837776" target="_blank">Sweaters for Days and Moves Like Jagger</a></div>
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This TV Show: <a href="http://www.nbc.com/parks-and-recreation/" target="_blank">Parks and Recreation</a></div>
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This <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sanctuary/" target="_blank">Poem</a></div>
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This <a href="http://www.wired.com/rawfile/2012/09/reliving-the-moment-by-tracking-down-old-scenes-from-movies/" target="_blank">article</a>.</div>
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That dream I keep having that's a lot like <u>Coraline.</u></div>
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This GIF, and how it took me way to long to make it:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"SWEETHEART?"</td></tr>
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This question: What's everybody from "Deadwood" doing these days?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clenching, that's what.</td></tr>
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This thought: "Dear god, I can't believe it's three more months until a new season of Downton Abbey."</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-55641007154773158582012-09-23T10:18:00.000-04:002012-11-11T10:56:04.069-05:00Unbalanced on the Equinox<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It didn't work. The first time I tried, I broke the egg.<br />
Guess I was...MYTH-TAKEN.</td></tr>
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<h3>
Equinox: </h3>
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from the Latin "nox" meaning "night" and "Equus" meaning "horsey." <br />
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Wait, scratch that. Let's begin again. <br />
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Equinox: </h3>
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from the Latin, meaning, "overpriced gym membership."</div>
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No good?</div>
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Ok, ok, ok.</div>
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Equinox, Autumnal: </h3>
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End of summer, beginning of autumn, delicious transition to bold, bright colors and cool weather, beginning of the bittersweet parting with all of it for the long, cold winter. <br />
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Oh yeah, and from the Latin "aequinoctium", from<br />
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Aequus, -a, -um: Equal<br />Nox, Noctis, <i>f</i>. : Night</h4>
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My high school Latin teacher would be so proud! (For a hot minute, and then he'd call me "dollface" - because he occasionally talked like a '30's gangster - and remind me of how I screwed up on the Latin Regents exam sophomore year by missing a question about Roman culture. He was suuuuuuuuuuper pissed about that. I still have no idea what the question was. Did I confuse my atria and cubicula? My lares and penates? I'll never know, but mea culpa, Pater. If it's any consolation, nowadays, thanks to you, I routinely lay waste to Jeopardy categories that involve all things Roman. Y'know, from my couch. While eating cereal for dinner. Stop judging me.)</div>
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There's all sorts of myth and superstition and misunderstanding about the Equinox, so let's get down to brass tacks and sort this out. (Brass tacks? Who talks like that?) First of all, astronomically speaking, the equinox marks one of two days a year when the sun makes a perfect 90 degree angle with the Equator. The Earth is tilted at an angle of 23.5 degrees off the perpendicular all throughout the year, and depending on its point in the revolution and the season, that tilt is either toward or away from the Sun. But not on the equinox! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight now, as I type this, neither hemisphere is tilted toward the sun, and neither hemisphere is tilted away. The sunrise is perfectly due East and sunset perfectly due West. Twice a year, half a year apart - symmetry, balance. Here's a really bad-ass video I found on YouTube to better illustrate this.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rkWW4mA8Xs0" width="560"></iframe>
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So naturally we get lots of superstitions and myths about being able to balance eggs, broomsticks, and other wobbly items on these significant days. <br />
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Now the egg thing is a total myth. You can balance an egg any old day in the year. Or if you're like me, and <b>can't</b> do it any old day of the year. (Know what else I can't do? Rubik's cube. Hence the picture above. And below!)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny fat Rosie wants to claw her own face off because she was given this THING.</td></tr>
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This theme of balance comes not only from the yearly cycles and symmetry, but from the daily ones as well. Theoretically, there are equal amounts of daylight and darkness on the equinox, hence the fancy Latin name. But because of the fuzzy light we see in those crepuscular moments, this isn't technically true. Sunrise and sunset aren't turned on and off like a switch, so you see the light creeping in before and lingering slightly after the sun is actually visible (but don't look directly at it!). You get the idea, though. It's the closest thing that we have to a perfect daily symmetry, happening twice a year.<br />
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Know what else happens twice a year? <a href="http://unsolicitedporkchop.blogspot.com/2012/07/science-on-34th-street.html" target="_blank">Manhattanhenge</a>! <br />
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Astronomy lends itself so nicely to poetic musings. Remember that scene in the movie Contact when Dr. Arroway is transported through time and space and she's trying to record her observations for the team back on Earth? She's blown away by how beautiful the experience is, and can't find the words to describe what she's seeing, so she just says "They should have sent a poet." THIS. <br />
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I love this: a science that could so easily be reduced to angles, chemicals, and mathematical equations has been the source of cultural origin myths and various pantheons for as long as written or oral tradition has been recorded around the planet. And it wasn't just the Romans. Mayans, Egyptians, and Druids (oh my!) have just as much myth as math when it comes to these special points in the year. Architecture plays off of these yearly cycles, so the space in which we live becomes linked to the larger movements of bodies in outer space. We use these cyclical movements, the interaction between spaces outer and personal, to mark the passage of time. Time, space, place and culture are all tangled up in this gorgeous cultural matrix. Man, I love this stuff.<br />
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It's tough to take off my science teacher hat. This was one of my favorite parts of the curriculum. And I so rarely get to wear it in conjunction with my anthropologist hat. How about I hold one hat in each hand to help with balance.<br />
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The equinox is also a nice time to think about Earth as being part of a much bigger picture, not just containing its own systems and cycles, but an important part of a larger process and structure. I was poking around on Wired.com the other day, and came across this:<br />
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<a href="http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2012/09/top-astronomy-photos-2012/" target="_blank">Royal Observatory Picks Best Astronomy Photos of the Year</a><br />
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To piggy-back on this post's theme of balance-or-lack-thereof, some of these pics knocked me right off of mine. Check out the link and you won't be disappointed. It's goes nicely with how Dr. Arroway feels in Contact, and for me, these photos are evidence that we cannot ever give up on the Space Program. The pictures are also a testament to how beautiful and strange Earth and space really are. Especially this one, by Masahiro Miyasaka, taken in Nagano, Japan.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2012/09/top-astronomy-photos-2012/?utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pulsenews&pid=4900" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
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RIGHT?!!?!?!</div>
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I'll be waiting here while regain your balance.</div>
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Let's end this post on suuuuuuuuuuuuper-twee note.</div>
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Haha! See what I did there? Happy Equinox.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-63489170200719724922012-09-09T12:20:00.001-04:002012-09-10T19:58:05.912-04:00Sunscreen, Dramamine, Various Clowns<h2>
Or "My Summer: An Epitaph"</h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">IPhones, bitches...</td></tr>
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Last Monday was Labor Day. Ugh. <br />
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A labor of what, pray tell. Nostalgia for a good summer? Regret for a misspent one? A mad dash to hit every barbecue and make that last weekend really count? Begrudged acceptance of the year's impending death? Whatever. Even speaking as someone who had the last seven summers off (sort of), I still feel like the season is as overrated as birthdays are. You find yourself psyched up by the potential, and are so worried about it being great that you fill the whole thing with expectation and anxiety and then once it's over - BAM - disappointment over what could have been. <br />
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Who the hell thought it was a good idea to call it "Labor Day" anyway? Nobody who'd expect to be surprised at a lack of enthusiasm for it, that's who. That'd be like plunking a holiday in the depths of the depressing winter months, calling it "Crapfest" and then acting shocked at the terrible greeting card sales numbers. "HEY! How come nobody is celebrating Crapfest?!? Where's your Crapfest spirit? I tell you, there's a war on Crapfest in this country."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I am shocked! Shocked to find that Crapfest isn't catching on in here!"</td></tr>
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(Huh. Now that I think about it, Valentine's day is like this fictional Crapfest. I guess by being an actual crapfest... eh, never mind.)<br />
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I prefer autumn and always have, so I'm sweetly anticipating a decline in temperature and an uptick in foliage color. </div>
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But my summer had some interesting moments. A few day trips to some new places, a week in Montauk, a whale-less whale watch, and some surprise clown sightings to name a few.<br />
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It took a few weeks to get to the beach, but in late July, Kris and Jenn and I made it out to Jones in spite of the threatening rain. We spent a few grey hours lounging on the beach when the sun finally came out and we popped up immediately to take advantage of the beach weather. So everyone got up ready to swim, and the ladies on the adjacent blanket started slathering on sunblock and struck up the standard small talk topic of "Hey, can you believe this weather?!" We all co-celebrated the emergence of the sun and they talked about finally having a reason to put on sunblock. I revealed that I had already coated myself that morning in spite of the cloud cover and was just reapplying, to which the ostensible matriarch replied, "Well, you have to when you look like you!"<br />
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I get it, world. I'm freaking pale, ok. I have two words that apply to my relationship with the sun: constant vigilance. I grew up with this skin, so I'm aware that it occasionally glows like the strips on a Tron uniform. The kicker is, everyone acts like it's a revelation when they remark on it (by the way, it's almost always other white people, but specifically the kind of white people who enjoy tanning who are clearly implying that I need to correct my unfortunate situation. Except Jenn's fiance. He just does it to get my goat because he cares and knows I'm jealous of his lovely Puerto Rican complexion.) I decided then and there that whenever someone remarked about my ability to stay pale past high summer, I'd tell them that I had secret method passed down by my fore-mothers. Then, after a beat, I'd look left, then right, then lean in conspiratorially and whisper, "Bleach."<br />
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To which they'd naturally ask why I'd rub bleach all over myself. And then I'd respond like my favorite (fictional) drummer.<br />
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Speaking of my skin, in spite of having gone through a metric ton of sunblock this season, I actually did approach something NOT in the living-dead-girl-palette by the end of August. But I also became horrified by how much more freckly I've suddenly become. My skin is a lot like my dad's so I asked him about it. And he nonchalantly dropped this on me.<br />
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"Maybe they're age spots. Y'know, liver spots?"<br />
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Cue the proverbial record scratch noise. Excuse me, what? Age spots? Liver spots? LIVER SPOTS!? That's even worse than "Labor Day" for crying out loud.<br />
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Anyway. Lots of sunscreen this summer. Even though a lot of my fun-in-the-sun-ventures were punctuated by rainstorms. Like my trip upstate with co-blogger KO and our homegirl Joan to Joan's family country house in the Hudson valley. On the way back, we stopped at the Delaware water gap overlook for a pic and had to bolt back into the car before we got drenched.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Searching for George Washington...</td></tr>
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The summer was not without its moments of complete disorientation, however. At one point I had a bout of insomnia that was probably the reason for a series of full-on-hallucinations I had one day. Tactile, auditory, and maybe visual. It was weird. Really freaking weird, but I guess not wholly unexpected after going for almost 3 days without any substantial sleep. And it's worth nothing that I began said hallucinations having dinner at Johnnie's Reef on City Island with Erika and my mom. Now if you've never eaten there, I must explain that Johnny's Reef has its own version of reality where seagulls will hold you up at knifepoint for your french fries and you'll hear bachata music and Nino Rota scores coming out of adjacent parked cars. So if you can tell hallucinations from reality-dressed-up-as hallucinations, you know it's bad. And later in the day I took this pic of the sky.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Nothing approaches.</td></tr>
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I've had better days, is all I'm saying.<br />
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Speaking of alternate realities, I also spent a lot of the summer catching up on the t.v. show Lost. I never watched the last 2 seasons because of grad school. (Grad school is the reason I missed out on pretty much everything for 3 years of my life. Oh but I've got this awesome student loan debt and a broken academic career to show for it now. Yay grad school.) So thanks to Netflix, I spent a couple of weeks on a Lost bender that culminated in my turning into the grandpa from Moonstruck. <br />
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I'm still confused. But it was so worth it. That was a damn fine show and I had many chances to play one of my favorite t.v. games "Spot the Deadwood player" (also great for Justified). And I never EVER got tired of watching Josh Holloway do pretty much anything. (Matthew Fox's alleged penchant for punching women soured me a little on him, though. Why so beautiful, yet so horrible, Fox? Why?)</div>
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Dramamine-based disorientation happened on a half-day whale watch cruise I took during my trip to Montauk. Fearing that a bout of seasickness would keep me from enjoying the elusive and beautiful spectacle of a breaching whale, I dosed myself with Dramamine beforehand and was a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiittle bit loopy for the subsequent 6 hours. Actually, it was a lot like being back at Johnny's Reef. There weren't any whales, sadly. There were however about a billion dolphins. <br />
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I was trying to stay awake and not fall into the water (who wants to be THAT girl? I'd cause trouble for Captain Carl. Yeah, that was our captain's name.) But I never threw up! Not once! I did have a conversation about my new camera and its myriad functions with a woman who was a seasoned photographer and very nice about giving me pointers. But I was so groggy I barely remember it and I'm pretty sure she thought I was drunk. Anyway. Dophins: pretty. So, so, so pretty. Also, it had been raining up until that point (sensing a theme here, summer) and the dolphins brought a lot of sunshine and entertainment. No whales there, though. More on whale sightings later.</div>
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On the way back to the harbor, it started raining yet again and we passed this awesome, awesome sign. Warning or Thrill-seeking-enthusiast-mantra? You decide.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lack of punctuation now necessitates clarification later.</td></tr>
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That same Montauk trip, I spent about 5 days with my parents just bumming around the East end and doing our usual thing. Earlier this year, however, the New York Times had the balls to publish a bunch of articles on Montauk in the Style, Arts, Metro, Whatever sections talking about hot spots to hit and coining the term "Hampsters," referring (obviously) to hipster types in the Hamptons. We definitely encountered a bunch of these new-money yuppy types. As annoying as their presence was - and they WERE present, and annoying it WAS - it was almost worth it to hear my parents - my awesome, intellectual, sexagenarian parents - sneering derisively and muttering "hampsters..." whenever we had to squeeze past them on the sidewalk, road, or beach. We still had fun, though, and managed to hit favorites old and new, including the <a href="http://sb.cc.stonybrook.edu/pkhouse/" target="_blank">Pollock-Krasner</a> house in Springs, which was a very pleasantly disorienting day trip. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DiuFwt6syAW40-5cF13Bx5uTlcNHWIuKHKnuP93RrS71Yp2bo6ku6Y_S0DIOOkTC-nJIQzFMfuf4boyY_bvCl-5Z_ZEmCTc4KiDUeRDObr1T7Zj2fZPpEinW3DMhJotV447PUP12XR8/s1600/582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DiuFwt6syAW40-5cF13Bx5uTlcNHWIuKHKnuP93RrS71Yp2bo6ku6Y_S0DIOOkTC-nJIQzFMfuf4boyY_bvCl-5Z_ZEmCTc4KiDUeRDObr1T7Zj2fZPpEinW3DMhJotV447PUP12XR8/s400/582.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The studio (converted barn) of Jackson Pollock and Judith Krasner</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzKc3IykZI7RkWgflP_Fv7y7p21XOZFCNSPEUayv63Eg89mb0cCyYJZ2kmCFBJI5YAlXysgZBxFzKCbHWeQNvqlVfW81xIX9EzERNWW-jhmGUe3WrC6OMtsvXuNdMwp69ECSd-bzv3Hg/s1600/584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzKc3IykZI7RkWgflP_Fv7y7p21XOZFCNSPEUayv63Eg89mb0cCyYJZ2kmCFBJI5YAlXysgZBxFzKCbHWeQNvqlVfW81xIX9EzERNWW-jhmGUe3WrC6OMtsvXuNdMwp69ECSd-bzv3Hg/s400/584.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad looking at art supplies in the studio</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6xUaa3iDzXaOlfEAgu1aJHGqB07L4KOXUIpBwzxS8XP1js0znn4ulidfherJYywDZKjP29H-F57wXsp5Nzv-nxJqofFUFGD0ilViXbmz6Zi-8Pqs8uNNqC7668UUyr4-ex2XH5xnYSC8/s1600/593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6xUaa3iDzXaOlfEAgu1aJHGqB07L4KOXUIpBwzxS8XP1js0znn4ulidfherJYywDZKjP29H-F57wXsp5Nzv-nxJqofFUFGD0ilViXbmz6Zi-8Pqs8uNNqC7668UUyr4-ex2XH5xnYSC8/s400/593.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNS-y1rAhmAoL6LkB6U76BvMMtMYA0lluute3FwDUJold_OrNQufZTHVPSnRxA-eaKlohSzuEBNFpvCPNFWrEgCfx9jyh5ji_bCq2j0r3x3hr6nmj_5Dq_ZyYqR4YOYR2dtZTydsTAPao/s1600/597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNS-y1rAhmAoL6LkB6U76BvMMtMYA0lluute3FwDUJold_OrNQufZTHVPSnRxA-eaKlohSzuEBNFpvCPNFWrEgCfx9jyh5ji_bCq2j0r3x3hr6nmj_5Dq_ZyYqR4YOYR2dtZTydsTAPao/s400/597.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous floor.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMh78G-e2QCD6FpL4vJ1eM17ipSCFpKRqKTr8T8iCup03ZiCn6GBzmw3bplC4an-RTobL_IcCdKnaAOQ4TcTGddiHBpjGpMObye5TqJpQu7tSTafORzMuX-yf2yLkVPtkvCsuzAFCx20/s1600/600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMh78G-e2QCD6FpL4vJ1eM17ipSCFpKRqKTr8T8iCup03ZiCn6GBzmw3bplC4an-RTobL_IcCdKnaAOQ4TcTGddiHBpjGpMObye5TqJpQu7tSTafORzMuX-yf2yLkVPtkvCsuzAFCx20/s400/600.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had to wear special slippers. Foamy and fashionable. Yes, my feet are that huge. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqOWHhFwwgaS2kG1NKNy7xR7csihMOC6yMB1rUspE0LxEzT7XqNkehxSrSXTNGi0uD7qma8rXFubWn4CHDpHRpnQEyMvK-yYmbUROqm7N3Prn_1TyOa1rO1yAY68oxYC6luN-Koo01Y0/s1600/615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqOWHhFwwgaS2kG1NKNy7xR7csihMOC6yMB1rUspE0LxEzT7XqNkehxSrSXTNGi0uD7qma8rXFubWn4CHDpHRpnQEyMvK-yYmbUROqm7N3Prn_1TyOa1rO1yAY68oxYC6luN-Koo01Y0/s400/615.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's a plastic guard covering Pollock's records, <br />
probably because of my dad, <br />
who flipped through them the last time he visited and got scolded. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAA3fBtLanKssp_33ZzNuV_awhnYHI97kXiPYb1NFIvN2fCNy3cBAJKeeWEzRDwh8Iin0e7UeIndM5gS_82TQvsMEVQCM4z_Ln2C6_2gCFMlL6xolrktHgHDq725_PpPyU6b2HcF262tM/s1600/621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAA3fBtLanKssp_33ZzNuV_awhnYHI97kXiPYb1NFIvN2fCNy3cBAJKeeWEzRDwh8Iin0e7UeIndM5gS_82TQvsMEVQCM4z_Ln2C6_2gCFMlL6xolrktHgHDq725_PpPyU6b2HcF262tM/s400/621.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom's reminding him of it here.</td></tr>
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It was a great outing. I have literally nothing snarky to say about it. It's a very special place and you can see how artists would want to be there to tune out the world and into their genius. The location is peaceful and beautiful, and you should visit if you can.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9gIGz-sN5VUsS7kZYR7snJC6DxiXbu0hTgLPhB-9xtDxU3PcWAn9AUPS1n6gBx7o7IsVMj4SUDG6gEVg-cwBHG50kPPQOqYuTNyOsiCBlIXPhWclnL9z2_UmL-hWAKxvSAwNgj0gb6s/s1600/635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9gIGz-sN5VUsS7kZYR7snJC6DxiXbu0hTgLPhB-9xtDxU3PcWAn9AUPS1n6gBx7o7IsVMj4SUDG6gEVg-cwBHG50kPPQOqYuTNyOsiCBlIXPhWclnL9z2_UmL-hWAKxvSAwNgj0gb6s/s400/635.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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KO and Sandy came out later in the week and I hung out on the beach with them for another couple of days while my parents came back to the Bronx. We were pretty sure we saw a fin or minke whale swimming off the coast a couple of days in a row. I tried to film it with my phone but that was a total waste of time because I pointed it in the wrong direction while I was scanning the horizon. (Duuuuuh...) Great shot of KO running in front of my phone and out of frame really fast though. But KO and I (Sandy is the type of person who actually tans, KO and I are not, and she was sunbathing and getting all bronze and fabulous) went for a walk in the direction it was swimming and bumped into a couple with binoculars and we were like "Whale?" and they were like "Totally." That was kinda awesome.<br />
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We had beautiful weather and I even got to hang out and play with my new camera in one of my favorite spots on planet Earth - Kirk Park off Fort Pond. (Below)<br />
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It wouldn't be summer without a street fair or a trip to an amusement park - I had three such occasions this year. I hit up the St. Teresa feast with Sandy, Charlie, and Nin and bumped into about half a dozen former students in the process. I visited Rye Playland with first-timers Hattie and Victoria and didn't even throw up ONCE. I also hit up Coney Island with Ali to go to the free Joan Jett concert (I can almost hear my dad right now: "Free Joan Jett? Why's she in prison?" ::rimshot::) I freaking love all these places, and had a great time for all three excursions. </div>
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The St. Teresa feast gets more and more crowded each year, and wading through the countless Bronx stereotypes takes a certain amount of dexterity. But it's worth it for zeppolis and fresh lemonade, and also, I freaking love it. (P.S. 2 cops were TOTALLY checking out Sandy while they stepped aside to let us get lemonade first.) The feast is an anthropologist's dream and I hope to someday write a series on street fairs. </div>
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And Rye Playland is always beautiful. Hattie and V had a good time as well, and I was relieved because it's been one of my favorite spots since childhood and I was glad to see that it wasn't just nostalgia sustaining that love. I didn't get any pics of the Joan Jett concert, but it was a gorgeous night at Coney Island when I met up with Ali there, and Joan Jett continues to be gorgeous and stunning and talented and lots of other very awesome adjectives. </div>
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A few pics from the St. Teresa feast.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMcrNTuZBi5rfsJn0DaGAxxqF-TIHss-E0rUc4e2u5pKm04M2LAJeZ-hzLIscvZ_8hGRzNepS6LMlUd-n3yv8qMMPrIDiOVbAAbmQwwFg5COyrJ3EAzj0XbXxte-WTe-JTAgNglCtnbw/s1600/080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMcrNTuZBi5rfsJn0DaGAxxqF-TIHss-E0rUc4e2u5pKm04M2LAJeZ-hzLIscvZ_8hGRzNepS6LMlUd-n3yv8qMMPrIDiOVbAAbmQwwFg5COyrJ3EAzj0XbXxte-WTe-JTAgNglCtnbw/s320/080.JPG" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUh2iTyAiO6OUoUHWgINoG5OJh1I6-3M-3estuX-LVu_PUBnMqu_pakqBq0Z2izmtpz09xBUW_2YvUs0bPGpzfYwKRtq0hV2bpmtpgMAH7G1REvIV4V1WJSjIN8OOxZ2cPpWt35MFDlc/s1600/069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUh2iTyAiO6OUoUHWgINoG5OJh1I6-3M-3estuX-LVu_PUBnMqu_pakqBq0Z2izmtpz09xBUW_2YvUs0bPGpzfYwKRtq0hV2bpmtpgMAH7G1REvIV4V1WJSjIN8OOxZ2cPpWt35MFDlc/s320/069.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmDhQV4A4VA3jx1usZI3r6UeM6da3fvPyDF5SBOKRakNJ6BwgNo8Px6ucAq423tdNPX4bucnbDhZcjkf3DD90pjuU0yOE5E_49FnGhW2Hal8_w4zQIaTkJvAZH-aze6a67mmCUHFi-Uk/s1600/076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmDhQV4A4VA3jx1usZI3r6UeM6da3fvPyDF5SBOKRakNJ6BwgNo8Px6ucAq423tdNPX4bucnbDhZcjkf3DD90pjuU0yOE5E_49FnGhW2Hal8_w4zQIaTkJvAZH-aze6a67mmCUHFi-Uk/s320/076.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the Bronx, you aren't legally married until your names are etched onto a colorful reflective keychain/ wall hanging/ frame. I'll know it's for-realsies-for-keeps-love when a guy gives me one of those. Like, "I understand that you come from a place that is at times ridiculous but you love it anyway and maybe because of that so here: street-fair-ware."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSWMno5rIh2LzQ-JEj1a24i4TZkQ5tlPYuzGNu1hXmcIoE_jQfwZzLm-pMdGj2eRAUKjVAfZwLwBvmoOg6KoIcYzMqK9aZcgWg30PR7MPLio3ThQKWTQc8P_In5pokwJLwQpF0LLI8yI/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSWMno5rIh2LzQ-JEj1a24i4TZkQ5tlPYuzGNu1hXmcIoE_jQfwZzLm-pMdGj2eRAUKjVAfZwLwBvmoOg6KoIcYzMqK9aZcgWg30PR7MPLio3ThQKWTQc8P_In5pokwJLwQpF0LLI8yI/s400/004.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Like Susan and Mike here. Love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1r8Jppq9BSW9WhHa-QoMnFgJKNzQAJxWB9MNMjSYF8zhTh6PvUu74oQPy8qr5QCTKBhO2tIRJb6kWnHw5uMX9VYEoSwQ9575OFt8DEhUo-Xgaoekk9Pd67RKDFmKj8ppKkn6WJYgx640/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1r8Jppq9BSW9WhHa-QoMnFgJKNzQAJxWB9MNMjSYF8zhTh6PvUu74oQPy8qr5QCTKBhO2tIRJb6kWnHw5uMX9VYEoSwQ9575OFt8DEhUo-Xgaoekk9Pd67RKDFmKj8ppKkn6WJYgx640/s320/011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What year was it, Susan and Mike? Huh?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcf19hN1hyphenhyphen9QU8HiY0tm8R-89ojhB1TF97imQnq0zxzKzIEImJgjmA253DFNzaSDxQOESeRYJw_CxhXIm6Cdw00TLdysOq7Jg5167TC3Q2qRN6CJ2CHGudFC1s6-KKtZm85se-gFNdaM/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcf19hN1hyphenhyphen9QU8HiY0tm8R-89ojhB1TF97imQnq0zxzKzIEImJgjmA253DFNzaSDxQOESeRYJw_CxhXIm6Cdw00TLdysOq7Jg5167TC3Q2qRN6CJ2CHGudFC1s6-KKtZm85se-gFNdaM/s320/005.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spelling is for chumps.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcydfF6VJpgrtjgNSxiP_FFNzawvOApnGGWbcADYt0Ee9qdOl0sVkWJT2T7t8ULaWIqwrJ2NZ9m9ngeLkuHoL3IGkstFSOKeeO09hXYTBvCdYMnvB3Asd_PDY9okTomCbjdkGmlMeTShU/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcydfF6VJpgrtjgNSxiP_FFNzawvOApnGGWbcADYt0Ee9qdOl0sVkWJT2T7t8ULaWIqwrJ2NZ9m9ngeLkuHoL3IGkstFSOKeeO09hXYTBvCdYMnvB3Asd_PDY9okTomCbjdkGmlMeTShU/s320/014.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fried everything!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRHHI-xrsTtoPpwAIr8gUwjRDF7Ttl9rQVhECKwihp8XUIWfjhNSmxYStrbZGHD7bXcAtWOBI_BfYpGlR9WgVCpKk2A8199nme7S3-xX05JeD-xg35lWCaEWGaaAcu6AOPGmwbpTCW9Qs/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRHHI-xrsTtoPpwAIr8gUwjRDF7Ttl9rQVhECKwihp8XUIWfjhNSmxYStrbZGHD7bXcAtWOBI_BfYpGlR9WgVCpKk2A8199nme7S3-xX05JeD-xg35lWCaEWGaaAcu6AOPGmwbpTCW9Qs/s320/007.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was so magic, the booth disappeared.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjLXVkFzM1oitzR6HmfYHhD5vD9e7aNkbRvc72PvvpTIQ9OOHHBv9TtOxtaapCq39pMjS8bwqZ-ICx0raRPj3H3oUF7xl1Dghsbp9u5iHK0-fP5sTRSkpiC6fMKdbz5ee6aMoP4DqLL0/s1600/009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjLXVkFzM1oitzR6HmfYHhD5vD9e7aNkbRvc72PvvpTIQ9OOHHBv9TtOxtaapCq39pMjS8bwqZ-ICx0raRPj3H3oUF7xl1Dghsbp9u5iHK0-fP5sTRSkpiC6fMKdbz5ee6aMoP4DqLL0/s320/009.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know why this prize was so popular...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZWpqASJWUS2y7PmU4cDtSkUA2mcbQkPBvAb1y6mk84wu7BQ4m_buCv63gY09IZV7ENXCqR_OBnyy_-Yl7X7yOkV8kJfo9rKySDBTFT0vNeRo5yxW7e08S95RYcqSJqgWCxxZeijbtdo/s1600/013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZWpqASJWUS2y7PmU4cDtSkUA2mcbQkPBvAb1y6mk84wu7BQ4m_buCv63gY09IZV7ENXCqR_OBnyy_-Yl7X7yOkV8kJfo9rKySDBTFT0vNeRo5yxW7e08S95RYcqSJqgWCxxZeijbtdo/s320/013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zeppolis pass the Dr. Nick test for acquiring obesity.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Some Rye Playland pics:</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWKI1F8DgR88D-0r3mqdsAbtI5wjZPdEZc4YpuevwQq87_SVcFA6jpEfcrTK7P3DtKGY7K9XlK0Nn2B6jUvhV0LB8QYZjA7DGZoW97xNvCXlo5lgeOKrWku9spQqX7wbvVlRy1vgfVvk/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWKI1F8DgR88D-0r3mqdsAbtI5wjZPdEZc4YpuevwQq87_SVcFA6jpEfcrTK7P3DtKGY7K9XlK0Nn2B6jUvhV0LB8QYZjA7DGZoW97xNvCXlo5lgeOKrWku9spQqX7wbvVlRy1vgfVvk/s320/011.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gross.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJZsrKaJbpHK49uVRPeJ9-vYrRwb_sEevoSsucwGRXufmWjbaDGb1PYznEnLAaz29Khfg4SCyR7HSF5r0evdsHCE5mp3brrPyRsLFphopqXeMJtMCoZVy6wCZyTnPgFRAX8Ryt8j4_hA/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJZsrKaJbpHK49uVRPeJ9-vYrRwb_sEevoSsucwGRXufmWjbaDGb1PYznEnLAaz29Khfg4SCyR7HSF5r0evdsHCE5mp3brrPyRsLFphopqXeMJtMCoZVy6wCZyTnPgFRAX8Ryt8j4_hA/s320/014.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ZOLTAR! Like from BIG!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5dSKrzNwsg69X4MxOe-QiSpeowKqo0iGUUhf06v8UCVbyTLvgKFtlJaxdb3tD1qIB8jmMaERdWOIHQQJ9XU36SprKAFeGhS6Jw_0dsyqDsWVpXp-e4UvWcEmERqg95IFcSZlg_GzD7gM/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5dSKrzNwsg69X4MxOe-QiSpeowKqo0iGUUhf06v8UCVbyTLvgKFtlJaxdb3tD1qIB8jmMaERdWOIHQQJ9XU36SprKAFeGhS6Jw_0dsyqDsWVpXp-e4UvWcEmERqg95IFcSZlg_GzD7gM/s320/023.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victoria and Hattie! (Hattie is imitating<br />
the carousel horse's face.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctiic_PJS_Ckkph1n1sxGB770fWU_BTsS5LVIlCqm4jeg0H4fZKy7hZogPrmMeSuVdasOSseviksNjbE5bIUKKW0LZwEPQffGj_ShKqCfo7SZXI7ws521jLj7dUI04DSyfVYZUvOlrr0/s1600/022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctiic_PJS_Ckkph1n1sxGB770fWU_BTsS5LVIlCqm4jeg0H4fZKy7hZogPrmMeSuVdasOSseviksNjbE5bIUKKW0LZwEPQffGj_ShKqCfo7SZXI7ws521jLj7dUI04DSyfVYZUvOlrr0/s320/022.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hattie sampling ginormous cotton candy.</td></tr>
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But unfortunately, you can't have theme park outings without CLOWNS.</div>
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Among the MANY inherent to all three locations, there was this one...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ulIASIP27qxgefiP5-ECnBPOyKdsNPI1ZJlJOEc1_sPAp5eU2MIbQL-THLwxgRzQXiOnhJ59dw9RL34b4ii_1MIbEolUxBaM2CyrE4PO2j54_kv-Af5U_LwCgV2nIwaNGbP09furfzU/s1600/101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ulIASIP27qxgefiP5-ECnBPOyKdsNPI1ZJlJOEc1_sPAp5eU2MIbQL-THLwxgRzQXiOnhJ59dw9RL34b4ii_1MIbEolUxBaM2CyrE4PO2j54_kv-Af5U_LwCgV2nIwaNGbP09furfzU/s320/101.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And this one... At the entrance to Kiddieland, what the hell?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgjUEb-eu1bsIRnCVQVYfssDYgyq7ayHlDYLfA_ARTKE5dWdnWjziKOedqHzPQtgMroKXa5JKzfjpZE9NARI4r10jFR_p3-vxZJx1EPnfJgeQ2rabugdXhxCI_wOXagTVnFOQjdBze60/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgjUEb-eu1bsIRnCVQVYfssDYgyq7ayHlDYLfA_ARTKE5dWdnWjziKOedqHzPQtgMroKXa5JKzfjpZE9NARI4r10jFR_p3-vxZJx1EPnfJgeQ2rabugdXhxCI_wOXagTVnFOQjdBze60/s320/021.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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And who can forget seeing that iconic and terrifying Steeplechase Park logo at the Coney Island train station? <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.flickriver.com/photos/23021987@N06/3904338834/%22%3EConey%20Island%20Face%20on%20Flickriver%3C/a%3E" target="_blank">Not me.</a></div>
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Perhaps the worse clown encounter (clowncounter?) was not at a carnival setting, but rather in a text my brother sent my while I was upstate with KO and Joan in the middle of the woods. Imagine being surrounded by dense foliage, away from most human contact when you're sharing a house with two friends (who happen to be smokin' hot babes, by the way) and you open a text message to be greeted by this:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTZ4fX_QtAeCkXS4RQveRIGcSTUTDDRyZ-LThs6tGm_Q6xOfHuJ0LtUYKWoS4QEY4xJKJsS7m2tFF4gfpYUVco9Guxr9l4E6cYIneIObO7xRn7aV_f6f5gIEP26UDqHsRYaa54-unAAE/s1600/soon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTZ4fX_QtAeCkXS4RQveRIGcSTUTDDRyZ-LThs6tGm_Q6xOfHuJ0LtUYKWoS4QEY4xJKJsS7m2tFF4gfpYUVco9Guxr9l4E6cYIneIObO7xRn7aV_f6f5gIEP26UDqHsRYaa54-unAAE/s320/soon.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goddammit Charlie V.!</td></tr>
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Yeah. (God bless my sister-in-law Nin, who followed that up with her own message: "I'm so sorry. I tried to stop him.") And I shouldn't have been surprised by his text, either, even though I reacted by tossing my phone into my bag and shrieking and then rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. After all, this is the same person who, a few years ago, spent a week texting me pictures of famous Stephen-King-creation, Pennywise. FROM OTHER PEOPLE'S PHONES. I'd get a random picture message from a random number and open it up to find a not-so-random Tim Curry's evil mug staring back at me. "Beep Beep, Rosie. Beep Beep..." My brother got coworkers and friends of his in on this, all in a glorious attempt to prank his little sister, which was in itself all part of a larger life-long plan to get back at me for being born in the first place. (The dent in my forehead and the scar over my left eye are earlier completed phases of this plan. I'm sure if I ever get married, there will be another phase on my wedding day and if I ever have babies of my own, he'll teach them lots of Italian curses to shout during christenings and funerals to complete the whole plan.)</div>
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So now we've reached that post-Labor-day liminal phase of summer where we've come to the end of it recreationally, but not astronomically (that's the 22nd of September this year, right Earth Science kids!?) So it's still hot enough for summer fun, but most people no longer have the time or wherewithal to indulge in such activities, what with school opening and beaches closing. Now, I love the idea of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liminal_stage" target="_blank">liminal states</a>. I have devoted most of my anthropological scholarship to it. I just don't particularly like this one. </div>
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But it's cooler today, and I'm about to indulge in a traditional season-closer with my folks and visit the art fair in Greenwich village. Every year I can remember, it signaled the end of summer for me and the beginning of the school year. When I was a little girl, when I was in high school, then college, then the ostensible grown up on the other side of the desk - the idea of summer was book-ended by the memorial day and labor day art fairs, and gave me a sense of completion and transition. Feels a little different this year, though. I wonder how not teaching anymore will make me feel about summer and the change of seasons from now on. Guess it's time to find out. </div>
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Anyway. Sly - play us out.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3ahhmiuyko0" width="420"></iframe>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-51458812401155074672012-08-28T21:00:00.000-04:002012-08-28T21:00:40.954-04:00Yep, that's about right...<div style="text-align: center;">
How it works.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="How it Works" src="http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/how_it_works.png" />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://xkcd.com/385/" target="_blank">Permanent link to this comic: http://xkcd.com/385/</a><br />
<br />
Show xkcd some love. It gets about 35% of mine. For reasons like the comic above.<br />
And below.<br />
<br />
<br />
Useless<br />
<img alt="Useless" src="http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/useless.jpg" />
<br />
<a href="http://xkcd.com/55/" target="_blank">Permanent link to this comic: http://xkcd.com/55/</a><br />
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-57009030082959259492012-08-26T22:27:00.001-04:002012-08-26T22:27:17.208-04:00Baby CheetahSaw this on Jezebel. I want it.<br />
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<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SbJn4rP5z6s" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-88229580990443612322012-08-12T10:48:00.002-04:002012-08-12T10:50:11.601-04:00Weekly SwanspirationIn honor of my buddies who got married this week and celebrate today. I hope this is what we all look like in a couple of hours. Congrats, my dears. :) <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxUL2bZFdq6ZQQaWhJx3HPddl-4e0fAR3l9TtipNqm7iRVu5KZjMV6pGqUMbpgILCpPAUVb_hLe4OycMzj49-yCVt0gLXeLqvWfb6UYvJFlaxXZe-8_9_34_L1cLkqwto8SQu9kIhRNs/s1600/ronswanson-drunk.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxUL2bZFdq6ZQQaWhJx3HPddl-4e0fAR3l9TtipNqm7iRVu5KZjMV6pGqUMbpgILCpPAUVb_hLe4OycMzj49-yCVt0gLXeLqvWfb6UYvJFlaxXZe-8_9_34_L1cLkqwto8SQu9kIhRNs/s320/ronswanson-drunk.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-21146264335855700512012-08-11T17:17:00.003-04:002012-08-23T19:49:11.146-04:00Going the extra mole...Went upstate with some friends last weekend and spent a really relaxing time in the country which involved a lot of lounging, a little swimming in a local lake, and some light hiking. <br />
<a name='more'></a>Since we were traipsing through the brush for a little bit, my homegirl Joan reminded us to police ourselves for ticks when we got home. Some background info: I have freakishly translucent (read: Celtic) skin with a fair (heh) amount of freckles, so tick-checking was a little challenging. But since it was necessary, I proceeded optimistically. At first. <br />
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Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I made the following flowchart to illustrate the mental journey I undertook as I made my search.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwIl54WpNJrcIASwZTd2zngkajzgElJEG24VkFTwodfYSkFt6I4YcqaT0dfSHwdnJ4UqmKfpzjZ_OCcLiLZgD9SlfU-dd2XGRPjqSCB0goHK8wXCvrCd_o8z546dmGSEFe6bRWqSQWuJg/s1600/Tickflowchart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwIl54WpNJrcIASwZTd2zngkajzgElJEG24VkFTwodfYSkFt6I4YcqaT0dfSHwdnJ4UqmKfpzjZ_OCcLiLZgD9SlfU-dd2XGRPjqSCB0goHK8wXCvrCd_o8z546dmGSEFe6bRWqSQWuJg/s640/Tickflowchart.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I think I'll be making an appointment with the dermatologist.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-40686266380506237322012-08-07T23:31:00.000-04:002012-08-23T19:50:47.974-04:00Opting out<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4DIX0yF43r4QXIgmhXb3JlKFe62CfEQ0gK-MML0C3BeQDXu5eGGiu5cJVYprTSpcAY0Juw4a9ifb7G-2FFVyNuBYCL3oByiirOQ_ki1Tt9X1bGExPoysrj0OCQVOvONXACe9KOIKBxw/s1600/siskel-and-ebert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4DIX0yF43r4QXIgmhXb3JlKFe62CfEQ0gK-MML0C3BeQDXu5eGGiu5cJVYprTSpcAY0Juw4a9ifb7G-2FFVyNuBYCL3oByiirOQ_ki1Tt9X1bGExPoysrj0OCQVOvONXACe9KOIKBxw/s200/siskel-and-ebert.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>
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<br />
Originally titled "Facebook Can Blow Me" but that would have been fueling the "antisocial" take on the argument.<br />
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Important people in my life (read: people who know my first name, and possibly my age, phone number, and/or email) know that I am not down with the Facebook. I am wary of social networks in general for about a metric ton of reasons, but mostly because I'm kind of a private person. Ok, that's not entirely true. I divulge some information about myself voluntarily on this blog, and any of the aforementioned important people can call, see, or email me whenever they want if they want to know what's up with me or if they need me. Hell, even the casual reader of this blog (of which I think there are maaaaaybe 2) can comment or email me through blogger. The info is here for the asking. I'm not a hipster neo-Luddite that's too cool for school (I take a pretty hard stance that I am NOT cool, actually). I'm not hiding in a cave. I just don't have a Facebook profile.<br />
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I'm usually a fan of the articles on Jezebel, but this one about Facebook really got me heated.<br />
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<a href="http://jezebel.com/5932465/if-youre-not-on-facebook-youre-probably-a-sociopath" target="_blank">If You're Not on Facebook, You're Probably a Sociopath</a><br />
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And the tone of the article wasn't as snarky as Jez articles usually are. I often get a Daily Show, in-on-the-joke kind of vibe from them, but this one was flippant, pretty much like, "Ok, you're not necessarily a sociopath, but seriously, what's wrong with you and how come you're not on Facebook?"<br />
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Which is really annoying. Almost as annoying as when I tell someone face-to-face that I don't have a profile, and they say, "Oh man, how am I supposed to find you now?"<br />
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Seriously? I'm standing right *here.*<br />
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Or "How come you weren't at the party? Oh, right, you're not on Facebook."<br />
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Really? Was the party on Facebook? Is that where all the cool parties are now? Did I have to log in with a password and show a picture I took in the bathroom mirror with my phone to get past the bouncers for this totally bitchin' exclusive Facebook-members-only party?<br />
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A quote from the original article on mashable.com really made it worse.<br />
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"Psychologists see Facebook activity as a reflection of a healthy social life."<br />
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You say reflection, I say avoidance. Doesn't a healthy social life imply interaction? Because that's my main problem with Facebook. People can pretend to be connected without actually interacting.<br />
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If people are interested in talking to me, I'm down to talk. Wanna know what I'm up to? Reach out. Is it REALLY that much harder to send a 60 second email, or call, or even shoot a text? I'm not down with broadcasting details of my life to make it more convenient for people to find out how I am without having to actually expend the energy to straight up ask me. I'm not down with posting a bajillion photos of myself or my nonexistent babies that will clog everyone's feeds, or documenting my every thought like it's the most profound observation since "We have nothing to fear but fear itself" just so someone can click "like" and feel like he's met his quota for touching base.<br />
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If that makes me a sociopath, well then, lock up your small animals.<br />
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I know Facebook has perks; it wouldn't have survived without them. I just find it tiresome. <br />
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When people are annoyed with someone for not being on Facebook, they're annoyed that they can't simply observe that someone's life whenever they feel like it. They are inconvenienced by the fact that knowing what that someone is up to will require interaction beyond a non-committal glance at a page. They might *actually* have to engage with that someone in a conversation. They might have to actually care and admit to caring. Clearly too onerous a task. <br />
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And if a friendship only exists as long as everything is convenient, then it's not exactly a strong commitment, or something you can count on when you're down. So I opt out of all that.<br />
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Is it hypocritical that I'm ranting this on a blog, which is ostensibly as narcissistic as a facebook profile? Maybe. Maybe not. I only told people I know in real life that I write here, and I don't say anything here that I wouldn't say in front of them. <br />
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It does have the one-way mirror thing going on. But aside from the friends who've told me they hit up this blog from time to time (hi Kris and Mary!), my parents (hi Mom and Dad!), and whoever searches "die hard bad guy" and inadvertently ends up on my teen angst post (sorry about that, random google searchers!), I have no idea who's reading, but hopefully they're here willingly. I'm not here to shove words into people's brains.<br />
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Like a sociopath would. Just sayin'...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-82850908804319641062012-08-06T21:07:00.000-04:002012-08-06T21:07:21.472-04:00Cohesion on the Space StationInitially saw this on Jezebel and Buzzfeed. The narrator is really digging his experiment. REALLY digging it. The narration and the visuals... don't always correspond.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ntQ7qGilqZE" width="560"></iframe>
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"...so I'll end up drinking my experiment. You've gotta conserve your resources when you're in the frontier."
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A Philosophy shared by many...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ng0IUNquniRDrBfY3P0d2isg3SGOvUfeWvGtm1CcUi5FdI_L66JF2CgSCl64RPSCvR2wwJfHKrh1y4NjpD8jXAm9XLyOB6qOqhRAkPNgWN37BdepbSraDZK2HS7UN20ztyWTd1AymSQ/s1600/frontier.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ng0IUNquniRDrBfY3P0d2isg3SGOvUfeWvGtm1CcUi5FdI_L66JF2CgSCl64RPSCvR2wwJfHKrh1y4NjpD8jXAm9XLyOB6qOqhRAkPNgWN37BdepbSraDZK2HS7UN20ztyWTd1AymSQ/s200/frontier.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheers, hoopleheads and anachronistic swear words.</td></tr>
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Best line of the narrator: "I'm gonna give it another puff. Just because I'm in space and I CAN."
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That guy is having the greatest time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-11366406737057841092012-08-03T11:28:00.000-04:002012-08-03T11:28:22.448-04:00Beginner's FilmA few weeks ago, I went to the Museum of the Moving Image with some of my former students. We made a bunch of stop motion animation videos. Here's mine.<br />
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It's about a girl's journey backwards in time, where she ultimately must confront the demons of childhood and come to terms with the darkness within her own mind. Narrated by Morgan Freeman.<br />
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Nah I'm kidding, it's a bunch of crap I had in my bag and some of the props from the museum that I futzed around with for 11 seconds worth of footage that took about 11 minutes to make. Narrated by Morgan Freeman.<br />
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Kidding again. It's narrated by Samuel L. Jackson.<br />
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Enjoy.<br />
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<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/0OUyh9u5hLM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7962724153018804722.post-17254346681520474872012-08-01T22:01:00.000-04:002013-09-03T19:44:41.783-04:00Geeking out on semiotics and graphs<h2>
Or How I Fell into an Internet Wormhole and Lost Several Hours of my Life</h2>
I'm not overly fond of the word "cute." In specific instances, yes, it is perfectly appropriate. Volkswagon bugs are kinda cute. Babies are cute. Baby shoes are <i>really</i> cute. Dogs are cute. Puppies are <i>paralyzingly</i> cute. Kittens are the embodiment of cuteness. Teenage objects of teenage crushes are cute. Plastic buckets and shovels for the beach are <a href="http://www.swimoutlet.com/ProductDetails.asp?ProductCode=39281" target="_blank">soooooooo cute</a>. This fan-freaking-tastic little Dark Knight is unbelievably, extraordinarily cute. It enthralls quickly with its cuteness. I am in its cute thrall.<br />
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But Bane is cuter. The cuteness of Bane is greater.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at the angry eyebrows...</td></tr>
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My mom's diminutive stature makes her appear cute, but don't you dare call her that to her face because she will show you just how cute a 5-foot woman on a kill-mission <u><strong>isn't</strong>.</u> And whether it's the effect nature or nurture, you'll inadvertently stumble into a bramble of bitchery not of your own making if you dare use that word on me. <br />
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(*Sorry for the syntax of the above paragraphs. I'm still in grammar teacher mode and it's hard to make the shift back to "normal," so I find that I'm writing sentences with a secondary purpose: to clearly illustrate the 8 parts of speech. In fact, in that liminal state between sleep and consciousness, my brain is still constructing sentences to illustrate the 3 functions of an adverb. Observe: "Your stupid boyfriend plays the piano. Your stupid boyfriend plays the piano <i>abysmally</i>. Your <i>frighteningly</i> stupid boyfriend plays the piano <i>abysmally</i>. Your <i>frighteningly</i> stupid boyfriend plays the piano <i>rather</i> <i>abysmally</i>." Adverbs: spicing up your syntax since who-knows-when. <br />
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Also, that particular adjective+noun pairing of "stupid" and "boyfriend" is, I find, a particularly effective tool for teaching grammar to a group of 14 year-old-girls. It also apparently led several of my summer school students a few years ago to think I had serious man-trouble. In my next life, I'll either use the adjective "hypothetical" instead of "stupid" or the noun "astronaut" instead of "boyfriend." Because we all know how abysmally those astronauts play the piano, especially the frighteningly stupid ones.)<br />
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<a href="http://thehairpin.com/2012/07/the-birth-of-cute" target="_blank">This article</a> on The Hairpin was pretty interesting, and I learned some fun facts about the word "cute" and maybe don't hate it quite as much now. The evolution of word meaning is really fascinating stuff, and the article made it clear that my problem with "cute" is more a product of my time and not the original meaning of the word. According to the author, it was initially an abbreviation of "acute" and had a meaning similar to that of "striking" or "impressive." So it makes sense that teenage me was all, "Holy Crap, Dweezil Zappa is so goddamn cute." (Hell, who am I kidding? I'm still saying that. Dweezil, call me.) That aspect of it seems to have clung to the word's current usage. <br />
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But for the most part, now it tends to be associated with young things, babyish things. Things lacking agency and unable to care for themselves. Weak things that need protecting. Things that are pretty or fun to look at, but do not think thoughts or speak words. So I guess that's why I don't like "cute" in its application to grown-up things, in its ability to infantilize by way of an ostensible compliment. Making a big deal out of a little word? Eh, maybe. Just peeves me.<br />
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The article, however, put me onto a Google function I had never seen before: Google's N-grams. It combines a lot of things that I love that more socially-savvy folks than I would not admit to loving: graphs, words, and piles of data. It's pretty awesome. The author of the article showed how the phrases "cute girl," "cute guy," and "cute baby" had increased or decreased in use over the last 200 years in literature (at least in the literature Google scanned, anyway) by using this function, so I decided to have a little fun with it myself and plug in some terms just for funsies.<br />
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For some other slang terms: I searched out "fly girl, fly guy" and just for the hell of it, threw in the term "fly zipper" and got this graph.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTl-_j19-GiufOjJ-GZm547Jeke9eIFNZwmd2hBymUy52IaoTSlRH8n8RvkSzg9XqPX1SbwYQ9i2RHBMK2PhucPNBwvlpLZVTYHXTUzqosETFOPbdUC2_1Wp9pfmqfGO314zIDGGvj8o/s1600/chart1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTl-_j19-GiufOjJ-GZm547Jeke9eIFNZwmd2hBymUy52IaoTSlRH8n8RvkSzg9XqPX1SbwYQ9i2RHBMK2PhucPNBwvlpLZVTYHXTUzqosETFOPbdUC2_1Wp9pfmqfGO314zIDGGvj8o/s640/chart1.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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N-grams also lets you peruse some of the scanned texts to see the context of the terms. Apparently, books in the early 20th century talked a lot about fly guys, but not like they were hot stuff, more liked they worked as part of a stage crew. Y'know with ropes (not in a Christian Grey way, though.) And all of the use of "fly girl" was mostly in Jennifer Lopez biographies and references to the unparalelled 90's sketch comedy show "In Living Color." <br />
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Then I thought I'd go with another often backhanded compliment: nice.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGXJfg1N872juxs6IsEjgoPVswdXJfMLx-Z6bMdccIUgDjFXiLpQbhKB_D2jpfxo-XbxD0LqceMJAmwpixxINm06Oatit75e4brbwp_HcSPu3cxjxpVROGB2vPj9OcNgHj1MaJe-04_U/s1600/chart2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGXJfg1N872juxs6IsEjgoPVswdXJfMLx-Z6bMdccIUgDjFXiLpQbhKB_D2jpfxo-XbxD0LqceMJAmwpixxINm06Oatit75e4brbwp_HcSPu3cxjxpVROGB2vPj9OcNgHj1MaJe-04_U/s640/chart2.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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The spike in "nice girl" usage was largely in books on manners and deportment and expectations for feminine behavior, so I'm giddy over its decline. The rapid increase in the term "nice guy" however seems to be largely facetious, arguably indicating a trivialization of the term "nice" that's more like its older meaning of "foolish" or "stupid" (dictionary.com) "Nice person" doesn't have a whole lot of use outside of some dialogue in fiction or self-help books. My guess is that it's not a very descriptive term, so could render your writing kind of lackluster. <br />
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For kicks, let's look at "death" as an adjective.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik13jlvAZ8GY8fLWbRNG0guSkdTwtKijai3oWg03m8Vtp7lDlBFW5BlU1LdinKST2or7WPavHi9UJZy0UNLo0hbU07JN68fL5oOBqIOoZMl3A3zBO3uPnXWLE616TX3ViZO8OwEIttaL0/s1600/chart5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik13jlvAZ8GY8fLWbRNG0guSkdTwtKijai3oWg03m8Vtp7lDlBFW5BlU1LdinKST2or7WPavHi9UJZy0UNLo0hbU07JN68fL5oOBqIOoZMl3A3zBO3uPnXWLE616TX3ViZO8OwEIttaL0/s640/chart5.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Weird little spike there in the late 30's in the use of the term "death mask." Not a big surprise in the use of the term "death metal." <br />
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Ooh! Ooh! How about "stupid?!" Haha - let's plug in some vulgar terms.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNi3_1SDVRwet5wKLC9ormXmefD9VvanHLqU4iCaSPs_EXZHky6eCiGAG766sBaL8FLLecppE61hr4ydD3hfm_ijhFwddjpDJsejZ5fxKjFP3xjI07wPbKaEmfKZkzZYNu8IYfZHcjfk/s1600/chart3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNi3_1SDVRwet5wKLC9ormXmefD9VvanHLqU4iCaSPs_EXZHky6eCiGAG766sBaL8FLLecppE61hr4ydD3hfm_ijhFwddjpDJsejZ5fxKjFP3xjI07wPbKaEmfKZkzZYNu8IYfZHcjfk/s640/chart3.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Whoa. "Stupid bitch" is on the rise. Not sure how to feel about that...<br />
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We could argue causation and correlation all day. But I think this is kind of a fun exploration of the dynamic of language and culture, the back-and-forth between the written and spoken word, the shifting attitudes that influence usage, and maybe the shifting usages that can influence attitudes. <br />
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And because I'm mean:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7lKURy45dV9d7ZsKxfHYmxpNGfuRDJtkCuUp0MRbr3GpMhGAvi2Ea7oDERXrJorKmE77frXPR8OhEbgM2sEtm2M8eU_LggBdW6Lr2tJduFwyLdgzPtR6h-ko_VOqT-zQSFsGjupkuKc/s1600/chart4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7lKURy45dV9d7ZsKxfHYmxpNGfuRDJtkCuUp0MRbr3GpMhGAvi2Ea7oDERXrJorKmE77frXPR8OhEbgM2sEtm2M8eU_LggBdW6Lr2tJduFwyLdgzPtR6h-ko_VOqT-zQSFsGjupkuKc/s640/chart4.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Holy crap. Batman really is all alone. <br />
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But not for long. Because...CUTE.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14950014570067737024noreply@blogger.com0