Hello Crasstalk. Hope you have had a wonderful day. Here is your nightly sports report courtesy of Monty Python.
Have a wonderful evening.
Hello Crasstalk. Hope you have had a wonderful day. Here is your nightly sports report courtesy of Monty Python.
Have a wonderful evening.
Hi gang. Hope you are having a great week, and maybe even have a shot at getting laid. Here is your Hump Day thread to get you going. As always no Penii, vag, or lady nips. I am sure your filthy little imagination will take care of that anyway.
And for the lady lovers.
Have a great day.
Hi all. Your neighborly cinephile dragon Vermithrax here. So I was thinking today and had an idea. What if I reviewed forth coming movies before they are released based solely on their movie posters? Sure it may have nothing to do with the actual movie themselves. But who cares! And then I’ll most likely see one of said movies the following weekend and report whether or not my foresight and insights proved to be accurate. Sound good? Oh, and I’m going to try to limit it to mostly major wide releases unless there is a particularly interesting looking poster I can’t resist commenting on.
So this upcoming weekend there are two major releases. They are Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrik Rules and Sucker Punch. Let’s start with the wimp shall we?
Judging by the title I’m going to assume this film is about a kid that is a wimp. Brilliant deduction I know. And I think it’s also safe to assume that the poor child has a diary where he sobbingly records the accounts of the bullying he faces at school. Heartbreaking. Now both of the kids on this poster have cartoon stick figure drawings growing out of there shadow. I think by this being present the only safe and logical assumption is that there is some point where the two kids get sucked into the pages of a comic book. Whilst there they are chased by strange men in helmets wielding wrenches and rescued by a European in a striped shirt. Much like the Aha video for “Take On Me”. What other possible reason could there be for the cartoon images?
I also see that the taller one is wearing a shirt that appears to say loded diper. I’m not sure what exactly that means. Maybe however it is implying that the poor lad in fact is wearing a loaded diaper and the shirt is his cry for help. As if being beaten by his peers at school isn’t bad enough no one will change his diaper. No sign as to who the devil this Rodrik fellow is though. Probably not important anyway. Now onto Suckerpunch.
Well there is certainly a lot going on here. Wait a second. There’s a dragon chasing a plane. Hold on a tick. There is dragon I see on there?!?! THERE IS! I don’t know who that is but I may have to seriously consider killing him… But I digress. Apparently Suckerpunch is a porn. Scratch that, I’m being told it is in fact a comic book movie and one may merely surmise that it is a porn. My mistake. One would think they intentional are using sex appeal to sell this movie to teenage boys and… Oh… Gotcha. However this film clearly has something to do with 5 attractive young women whom are mostly blonde and white. Some like dressing in sexy pseudo military garb, some in a “sexy school girl” outfit and some in well I don’t know what the hell they’re wearing but clearly it is the “sexy” version. One of them has a delightful little hat on too! There are also toting a variety of very dangerous weapons. As such I think it is safe to assume that this is not a movie about 5 female friends spending the day shopping at the mall. There goes my dream of a more updated version of Clueless…
There are a large number of people in the background rushing in their general direction. Given that the 5 women do seem attractive perhaps they have all those weapons to keep away their hordes of admirers? But why would they have the horde? Perhaps they are in fact a 5 piece pop band with a really clever getup arranged by a marketing team with the end goal of selling action figures to children? That seems the most probable. Now finally what exactly is that giant robot thing? And is that a bunny painted on it??? A very angry looking bunny too might I add. What exactly a pissed off bunny has to do with a giant metal machine is completely beyond me. One thing is certain though. The poster tells me I will be unprepared. Given how confused I am right now I think they hit that nail right on the head.
Well that’s it for now. Based on the options presented I can in good conscious only elect to see Suckerpunch. Sorry wimpy kid. Oh well at least the film isn’t called Donkeypunch. Now that would have been awkward… So look for my review of Suckerpunch sometime soon!
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Welcome to CrassGossip for our first Holy Day of Obligation.
Before we get to the comings, goings of mere mortals, we must stop and pay tribute
to one of the OG HBICs:
Elizabeth Taylor
For this tribute you will need:
Black eyeliner, a trophy, your trusty AIDS awareness ribbon and a bottle of the best champagne you can afford.
white diamonds/White Diamonds are optional.
First, apply your eyeliner, Cleopatra-style:
Next, grab your trophy and savor a moment of personal triumph in the nearest mirror.
Finally, tie on your AIDS ribbon and remember the woman who publicly stood up for AIDS patients and raised a ton of cash for the cause, while most of the world was still treating victims like deviant lepers
Now, take your champagne and in classic gangsta fashion, take a drink and then pour one out for Elizabeth Taylor.
May we all be blessed enough to spit in the eye of convention and tha haterz and live and love in the manner of this fantastic woman.
Now, on to the lesser mortals.
Ugh.
In Fucking Awesome News:
In Woman Beater News:
Okay funsters, it’s snowing in Spring and the week is dragging on. It’s time to bring drag out the bored games. WHO AM I? Okay, now you go…and remember we are experts at this game, so do some brainstorming. And no cheating, cheaters!
*Top Photo- I enjoy bath houses, airports & wigs. Who am I?
My Grandmother and I took road trips together. Our first was when she took me to NYC in 1969 to see The Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall. I was four years old. This was the trip where we discovered that I couldn’t tolerate heights.
After the 11am show, we had several hours to kill before our bus back to Syracuse would leave. Nonnie had planned to take me to the Empire State Building, which was three years away from being eclipsed by Tower One of the World Trade Center as the tallest building in the world. I had never been higher than a hayloft. It was a relatively quiet day in NYC; there was no wait for the elevator to the observation deck on the 102nd floor. She picked me up and held me up to the window to see NY and beyond. Nonnie shortly found herself holding an unconscious four year old that had wet herself.
I’ve experienced a repeat of this several times since and can tell you exactly what happened even though I have no memory of that specific incident. My perception shifted, shooting out and increasing the distance between the ground and myself exponentially. (This phenomenon strikes me as unnecessary.) My head started spinning, my bones turned to water, and I passed out. Thankfully, the wetting myself part has never reoccurred in subsequent episodes of vertigo.
As Nonnie told it, there was an emergency phone next to the elevators and she called for help. I came to, still on the observation deck, while someone, (a medic? an elevator operator?) was explaining to my grandmother that it was probably a reaction to the height. I made a run for the elevator. It was apparently quite a race to see if they could beat me to the ground floor. After getting me cleaned up the remainder of the outing was uneventful.
I am actually writing about another trip. It seemed important that I remember that my trips with my Nonnie were rarely unmarked by bizarre occurrences.
In the late summer of 1979 my Grandmother and I took a road trip to Connecticut to visit her brother. I don’t recall what we spent most of the weekend doing, probably drinking coffee and playing pinochle. Uncle Fran and his family wanted to show the area off and on Sunday took us to Essex in the afternoon to have brunch at the Griswold Inn.
Essex is your typical coastal New England town; it looks rich in the summer and poor in the winter. There is also no place to park on a busy day. We found a spot or lot a few blocks from the inn. We walked along the waterfront shops, peeking through the storefront windows and catching an occasional glimpse of the sound and the shrimpers between buildings.
We passed a teahouse only a block or two from our destination. I looked past the lace curtains and saw her. I almost fell down. My legs refused to move and were undecided as to whether they would continue to bear my weight. Nonnie asked me what was wrong. I told her in a stage whisper, as I was ducking underneath the window, “It’s Katharine Hepburn!” She told me that it was not and to hurry, we were already late for our reservation and Uncle Fran was afraid we’d lose our table. I peeked over the edge of the window once more, expecting my eyes to tell me that it was not Katharine Hepburn that my imagination had run away with me. Well it was her. There was no mistaking that profile. I had seen every movie she had ever done many times over. She was (is) my hero and, damn it, it was her. I allowed myself to be pulled along to the Griswold. We were to wait a few minutes for our table. (‘Late’ to my uncle was fifteen minutes early. He was a quirky pessimist. I wish I had a written copy of his eulogy, written and delivered by his daughter, it would rival any comedic stand up routine in hilarity.) My mind was racing and the urge to run back to the teahouse was almost overwhelming.
We were seated and our bloody marys were ordered. Everyone stood to take their place in the extremely long buffet line. I excused myself saying that I needed to visit the ladies room and would then go through the buffet, meeting them back at the table. As soon as I was out of sight of the table, I ran out the door and up the street.
I peeked through the window to see if she was still there. She was. I took a deep breath and walked through the door into the teahouse. I was asked how I could be helped and managed to croak, “Tea, please.” My seat was two tables away and I was sitting roughly parallel and facing in the same direction as Miss Hepburn. It was not my intention to impose or presume. I simply wanted to be in her presence. I sat there facing resolutely forward while my eyes were shifted as far to the left as they would go, a posture that anyone who has shaved their armpits can attest to as being extremely uncomfortable. I’m sure I was visibly shaking, just as I’m sure the tea-lady knew what I was up to as she set a cup of tea in front of me that I didn’t seem to order.
I listened to Miss Hepburn’s low rumble as she spoke to her tablemate, the individual words were lost, but I could hear that peculiar tremble in her voice. In casting my eyes her way, I was looking almost directly, if obliquely, at her companion. This did not go unnoticed and I can only assume it was brought to Miss Hepburn’s attention given that she abruptly turned her head and looked directly at me. I dropped my eyes to the cup of tea in front of me.
I looked up when the woman from her table touched my arm and said “Miss Hepburn and I can’t help but notice you looking at her.” I nodded, horrified that I had been discovered. “Would you care to join us?” She picked up my teacup and turned back to her table without waiting for my response. I sat between them, Miss Hepburn on my left and her secretary, (explained during the introduction), on my right. I shook Miss Hepburn’s hand. She asked me questions;
KH: “How old are you?”
Me: “14, ma’am”
KH: “What grade are you in?”
Me: “9th ma’am”
KH: “Do you get good grades?”
Me: “Yes ma’am”
I eventually regained some control over my brain and began answering in complete sentences. She asked how I came to be at the teahouse. I explained about the road trip and visiting family. I told her that they were all down the street at brunch. She gently advised me that perhaps I should get back to them before they missed me and began to worry. She shook my hand again, telling me that I had a good firm handshake, and that it was a pleasure to meet me.
I left and returned to The Griswold. I was very pleased with my conduct. I did not gush. I did not impose. I did not spill anything. Not that I ever touched my cup of tea, things just seemed to tip over in my presence. My grandmother had always felt that I was a precocious, (read mouthy), tomboy. She spent years and not a little money making sure that I had ‘manners’ and would not embarrass her in public. She would have been so proud.
I filled my plate in the buffet line and took my seat with my family. They did not question my absence. I estimate that the entire escapade was less than twenty minutes. The only remark made was on my uncharacteristic silence. I admit now that I was being selfish and spiteful. I was unwilling to share it with anyone. If I had opened my mouth to speak at all, I would not have been able to contain it.
Katharine Hepburn was, and remains, my idol. She was the epitome of self-sufficient womanhood, living life on her own terms. She could easily have ignored me at my table until my family came looking for me or I decided to feel foolish and leave. Miss Hepburn exhibited charm and grace far beyond the experience of my backwoods upbringing. She is the sole reason I gave in when my grandmother decided to send me to ‘finishing school’ later that year to grind off my rough edges. I wanted to learn how to be a ladylike tomboy who doesn’t compromise her principles. I’m still learning.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
This memoir was first publish in my mostly hidden, now defunct and inaccessible, Livejournal in 2002. I have made some minor edits. Full disclosure: I have no idea what show my grandmother took me to in 1969. My Nonnie is long gone and my Mother does not recall.
So you’ve decided to pursue a graduate degree. Maybe you want to expand your job skills, maybe you want to do research on an important topic, maybe you feel like paying $60, 000 to be humiliated by mediocre academics who would rather be doing field research in El Salvador, maybe you are just hoping to get laid. Whatever your motivations (and I don’t judge) you have paid the deposit, taken the worthless campus tour, and have made an account on the inevitably unworkable campus email system, so you are officially a grad student. Note: Even if you just got your acceptance letter today and don’t start classes until September, tell your friends and relatives you are now a grad student. It makes your unemployment seem acceptable.
Fortunately for you, The Grand Inquisitor was a grad school rock star and is here to help you make the most out of the very expensive next couple of years. The rules for graduate school are not in any way related to how undergraduate programs work. In fact, the rules of graduate school are not related to any other human institution. It is its own very special version of Hell. However, it’s too late for you. So here are a few pointers to get you started.
Do:
Don’t:
Welcome to The Academy my friends.
“In my series disassembly, I have used old items that are no longer by the masses and often found on the street curbs heading for disposal. All of the items in the photographs were in working order. The interesting part was the fact that they were all so well built, and the parts were most likely put together by hand. I envisioned all the enjoyment these pieces had given many people for many years, all to be replaced by new technology that will be rapidly replaced with half the use.”
All Images from http://www.toddmclellan.com
*click to enlarge
Facebook policy advisor Mozelle Thompson revealed that the website removes 20,000 user accounts per day that are created by users who are under 13 years of age. The number was revealed at a hearing of the Australian Parliament’s Cyber-Safety Committee. Facebook has faced growing scrutiny of its privacy policies and how they affect teenagers both in Australia and the US.
While the company contends it is making a vigorous effort to weed out preteens, it is a difficult task given that the site has 600 million users worldwide. Last April several Senators, led by Al Franken (D-Mn.) sent a letter expressing concern about Facebook’s privacy controls. Franken stepped up pressure last week over the company’s plans to allow access to user names and addresses. Underage users are a special challenge for Facebook because of concerns over exploitation and exposure to online predators.
Hi, everybody, and here’s a little poetry for you today. HUGE TRIGGER ALERT: It is about animal euthanasia. It’s a very difficult topic to discuss with civilians, but thousands of animal welfare workers across the country have to perform this procedure every day. It literally never gets easier. The reasons vary from shelter to shelter, but the huge amount of scorn and anger heaped upon those who do it does not make it easier to live with. I’ve literally been called a “murderer” to my face, at least twice. I’m definitely willing to answer and and all questions and explain why, until there many fewer homeless pets, the dying will not stop.
The Doberman pictured is my Jack, who was up for adoption until he became temperamentally unsound after being kenneled for four months; I adopted him to avoid his being put down (photo via DMS Photography)
Thanks to Salome Valentine, as well, for being the unsuspecting and very brave first Crasstalk reader.
“Terrible Things”
You do want to save them all.
You know you can’t save them all. Being in charge of a death,
no matter how small, is like diving into a quarry over and over,
knowing there’s water there but never losing that feeling you’ll hit the bottom.
“It’s what we do, it’s herd management,” you say.
It never changes the fact that you got here because you wanted to help,
not because you wanted to see them die.
This life is only for tough girls. You know that now
because all the women you work with, at least the ones that are
good at what you do, have seen the kinds of things you have.
Not the little deaths of feral kittens,
and not the dogs you got to love ferociously for a short time
until you have to hold them, be soothing and strong
as you inject them with “the blue stuff.”
You wonder as you do it what it feels like, if it’s cold,
if it’s that dizzy buzzy feeling you got when they put the IV in you
and you said goodbye to that thing, 4 months strong, inside you.
These women are hard from a life that came from
feeling those little deaths all the time:
parents divorced, a dad who hit them, a spouse that was killed,
it all increasingly more hurtful,
a life that’s just been such a struggle, a life that just didn’t turn out
the way they would have planned it.
Those little things rub inside until there’s a callus.
There’s enough skin there that taking a life is just
another hard thing you do.
You want to be good at it.
The people who teach you how tell you
that skill and confidence are the best things you can bring to euthanasia.
“Good death,” they all tell you in the classes about the greek roots
of the word, and you do believe it. You are here because you have to do it,
and you want it to be that elusive “good death.”
But you worry sometimes it isn’t,
especially when you don’t have that collected calm,
that skill and confidence they told you to have.
You wonder if you’re like the nurse that couldn’t find your vein,
poking and digging in your arm, your hand, your wrist
with that cold, rigid needle and apologizing,
all the while you getting more and more nervous and hurt.
Saying nothing.
Saying it’s fine.
It’s the most macho thing you do,
to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
In this job you have to have an outlet, they say,
a release.
But all the gallows humor and unspoken guilt you have
in those brief moments after you do it doesn’t change the fact
that no one outside of there knows how it feels,
and when you have three beers or a bottle of wine
after work on those days you sometimes see
the lifeless thing YOU MADE THAT WAY.
Your boyfriend says he has bad days at work too,
and when he says that you are able to look at him with disdain,
and say his bad days never involve taking a life.
You coolly win the battle of who has a harder time,
but you know that winning the point doesn’t assuage
the thing still buried in you,
that thing you refuse to call pain.
They say it’s easy to hate people in this profession,
the ones that look at you with eyes as wide
as those on the living thing they dump into your hands
when they ask if they’ll find a home, as if
they hadn’t had one until fifteen minutes ago.
They want you to tell them what they want to hear,
that everyone goes to a huge house with a big yard
and everything a pet could ever want. Sometimes
you want to soothe them, make them feel better
about the choices you know are hard.
Other times you want to look them dead in the eye
and explain to them exactly what they’re doing,
leaving an animal to be confused and scared
like you were when you were a child,
wondering why you were wrong again, and
wondering what inexplicable thing would come next.
Not in my backyard, these people are saying.
I love animals but I don’t want this one.
I can’t keep it but I don’t want you to kill it.
Fine, you say.
You’ve had to suffer the consequences
all your life, anyway.
You resent the people who feel like they’ve
walked away absolved,
because you never are,
you’ve done terrible things
and you remember every one.