I returned to my apartment home roughly 4.5 hours ago following a car trip from Texas back to home sweet California. I’ve been up since 5 AM PST, and am too tired to think straight, let alone write a paper. So here are things you can do, should you ever find yourself in just this situation.
3. Have you ever heard of grooveshark? Well, now you have.
4. Do you know what StumbleUpon is? Well, now you do!
5. Did you know that it’s Cyber Monday, the online shopping companion to Black Friday? Well, now you do! So, go to Amazon and get some cheap(ish) DVDs.
6. Facebook stalk your cute TA from freshman year.
When I read that there was going to be a new Winnie The Pooh movie, I GOL’d. I actually Groaned Out Loud. Call me cynical, but for an industry that’s currently taking all the sacred memories of my childhood and butchering them (case in point: Smurfs!) I barely had any hope for this.
I began to watch the trailer and WHAT THE WUT? Is that frickin’ Copperplate Gothic Bold they’re using? I’m not an expert, but I like to think of myself as a font whore. I love fonts. But Copperplate Gothic Bold belongs in whatever circle of hell Times New Roman resides. So now the trailer looks cheap. Damn you Hollywood Bastards™!
But then…I saw the animation…I oooohed and aaaahed…simply exquisite. It’s as if E. H. Shepard came back from the grave to animate the backgrounds (I can stare at them for hours). Not that he would, were he to rise from the dead; apparently he came to resent Pooh Bear because it overshadowed his other work.
The voice acting sounds similar to previous incarnations, with one notable exception: Christopher Robin is British! Correct me if I’m wrong, but CR has never had a British accent in any of Disney’s Winnie the Pooh adaptations. Purists rejoice! Not that the real CR would care, were he to rise from the dead also. CR thought his father stole his childhood and made money off of it.
But back to the trailer, which isn’t as depressing as real life. Font bitching aside, I really liked this trailer. Some parts are whimsical, like Piglet knocking letters off a page, or goofy, like Eeyore getting a new tail. Did I mention the backgrounds? I wish I could snort it like cocaine. Most of all, I got a warm, fuzzy feeling in my jaded little heart. I got goosebumps. I got a longing to see this movie. And I got a craving to read the books all over again.
Despite what you may have heard, being a starving artist is less than glamorous. I actually like to be able to afford dinner on certain occasions, but I also need feed my half dozen cup a day coffee habit, which becomes very expensive when you’re buying multiple cups from your favorite coffee shop. Even if you don’t consume as much coffee as I do, brewing your own is still financially beneficial. The average American consumes 3.4 cups of coffee a day. Buying just one $3 cup every day adds up to around $1,1oo a year. Even more if you prefer the espresso drinks that places like Starbucks offer at around $5 a cup. With a few inexpensive and simple devices you’ll be able to brew your own coffee house coffee (or better) at a fraction of the price. And you can use that money you’ve saved on dinner… or booze….
What is it about marshmallows that immediately take me to some whimsical non-Disney fairytale state of mind a la Willy Wonka? Does this happen to anyone else? Through the years the candy has, for the most part, remained unchanged and is standard fare for feel good occassions such as campfires, hot chocolate, baskets of candy on various holidays. Perhaps it’s the social settings associated with them and the sheer simplicity of the candy itself.
Yesterday while making a sweet potato casserole topped with mini marshmallows I began to wonder about how the marshmallow came to be a beloved confection.
According to Wikipedia it is probable the marshmallow was born in Egypt where the mallow plant was used in a honey sweetened confection to soothe sore throats. At a later point in time the French further developed confection into something more closely resembling the marshmallow of modern times.
The most shocking revelation about marshmallows is that, on average, Americans eat about a pound of them per year. A whole pound?! That’s a lot of marshmallow to consume considering how light and fluffy each full size mass produced marshmallow is. I’m quite fond of the confection yet I don’t regularly or often eat them. Wikipedia notes a citation is need for the one pound average and I tend to agree.
For anyone feeling crafty, here are links on how to make the marshmallow bra above or the sweet potato casserole that got me thinking.
Peter Christopherson died today. He was a founding member of several seminal industrial / avant-garde groups of the 70’s and 80’s, including Throbbing Gristle, Psychic TV and Coil.
If I were to choose just one band that I would be forced to listen to for all eternity, to the exclusion of all else, I would choose Coil. They started out making very harsh industrial music in the mid-80’s, influenced as they were by the AIDS epidemic that was killing so many of the band’s friends. Into the 90’s and ’00s the band started experimenting with acid house and neo-folk, and were heavily invested in a stark sort of dark ambience by the time of Jhonn Balance’s death and the dissolution of the band. I keep my set of Ape of Naples vinyl away from everything else on my mantle because it is something approaching a sacred object to me.
Everything that Sleazy participated in, from TG all the way up to Threshold Houseboys Choir (his de facto solo project), was brilliant, and his music was changing and evolving throughout his career. I was looking forward to more decades of beautiful music from Sleazy, but sadly he has been taken from us too soon. I haven’t been this devastated over the death of an artist since Jhonn Balance, the other half of Coil, fell from his balcony to his death in 2004.
I was meaning to send Sleazy an email — he apparently would respond in full to every fan email he receieved and have extended conversations with writers – but somehow I slept on that and now I’m obviously kicking myself pretty hard. RIP.
The Quietus has a brief remembrance from Chris Carter and Cosey Fanni Tutti here. No word as yet from Genesis P. Orridge, who left the reconstituted TG a few weeks ago.
In response to a post about Wikileaks causing a rift between the US and its allies, MsAndreaDworkinIsInThaHouse brings us another comment full of insight and nuance http://gawker.com/comment/33078113/
Her comments are like the call of the great wild Gawktard: shrill, stupid and without thought and they always bring the lulz. If Andrea Dworkin could see what her name hath wrought I suspect she’d be sad at the spectacle of the stupid.
I took my dog Casey to the vet today — nothing too serious, just a persistent infection. While I was there, I couldn’t help thinking about other dogs, other trips to the vet, other Thanksgivings.
Let me tell you about Kona the Wonder Dog, the dog who’s faster than a speeding squirrel, who can climb sheer hillsides with a single bound, the scourge of cats from coast to coast. The same Kona who steals my dinner off the grill as it cooks, then hops onto the sofa and naps at my feet. The same Kona who bares her belly shamelessly, begging for tummy rubs. And the same one who lets me wrap my arms around her and cry into her fur, who lets me know that she’ll always be there for me.
A chunky, 70-lb shepherd mix, black and tan, with a big smile and a floppy ear, Kona is nearly 14. She’s slowing down some, but she remains as wondrous as ever.
Remains.
Remains.
Remains.
They are on the dining room table in a tin canister. Her tags, collar and leash are in a bag.
The night before Thanksgiving Kona’s back legs gave out. She needed to get to a pet hospital but I couldn’t handle it. I want to say I held her through the night, that I kissed her and told her I loved her, but the truth is, I don’t remember.
I do remember spending Thanksgiving Day at the hospital. Pneumonia. Possibly cancer. Tests and more tests. I couldn’t breathe: Friday morning I was supposed to get on a plane to California to see my father, who recently told me has cancer, a type of melanoma that doesn’t respond well to treatment, that is said to act quickly.
Couldn’t I postpone my visit a couple of days? Some friends — who know more about parents? who know less about dogs? — ripped me apart. It got too late to change plans, I was too tired. So that night, Thanksgiving night, I stayed with Kona for hours, telling her her life’s story — how she came to live with me and my ex. How we got her a sister dog. How she, Astro and I left their dad and moved to Washington, D.C.
A few hours’ break, clothes in a suitcase, hugs and kisses for Astro. Back at the hospital, Kona was too weak to walk to a private room. So I lay down on my belly on the floor in front of her cage, rested my head on her rear and continued with her story. Ten minutes into it, she turned around so we could be face to face, eye to eye, nose to nose. She was so beautiful, but so tired, so pale, so old. I cried more as departure time approached. I hadn’t finished her story. I told her I was saving the rest for my return, so she would have to wait for me.
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
Four vets worked fiercely that weekend but cancer had spread through her body. The only question was which would kill her first — cancer or pneumonia.
Then Saturday they thought she’d stabilized! She might even be able to come home with me. But Sunday she was worse. They made a last attempt while my family took me out for dinner. It was my birthday.
The plasma transplant failed. Late that night I had to make the decision. It was easy, really: Everything we’d done so far had been to prolong her life; anything more would only prolong her death.
A sweet veterinarian cried on the telephone with me, then said something lovely: We don’t put her down, we don’t put her to sleep. We let her go.
I wasn’t there and when I got home Tuesday night, she wasn’t here. Only Astro, scared and skittish and lost. She needed me so I gave her enough love for two dogs.
Death is new to me. I’d expected a constant, crushing agony. Instead it is a numbness broken by brief but painful crying jags. It’s a feeling I’m afraid I’ll come to know very well: Dad is noticeably thinner and paler than he was six weeks ago.
Kona’s presence can be felt throughout the house, as can feel her absence. Both make me ache.
Astro and I are going to take a trip to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The three of us once spent a week there. Kona charmed all the beach boys into throwing tennis balls into the ocean for her to chase. I begged them not to throw so far. I was sure she would end up in England or France.
Who knows, when we scatter her ashes, maybe she will end up in France. Where she will eat baguette and pate while Astro and I grieve.
In memory of the Wonder Dog and Baby Astro, please hug your animals tonight.
Gawkward is Crasstalk’s compilation of truly ridiculous/idiotic Gawker comments.
Today’s Gawkward contribution comes from the commenter MsAndreaDworkinIsInThaHouse after a nice post by Ryan Tate making the case that News Corp.’s new iPad-only news app was doomed to fail:
at least he’s trying. entrepreneurs take risks. that’s why some people are entrepreneurs and some people criticize them.
Well played, Ms. Dworkin! It’s so obvious that this Tate fellow is just some jealous pussy who’s afraid to start his own mom-and-pop multinational right-wing media death cult. Good job. Now let’s go make sure Bristol Palin doesn’t get voted off DWTS!!!1!!!
Last night I was awake at 4:30 AM and with no real chance of sleeping so I decided to go out to the couch. On TV I found the 1991 gem Nothing But Trouble starring Chevy Chase, Dan Aykroyd, John Candy and Demi Moore. Plus a bonus cameo by Digital Underground. Since I wasn’t in my right mind, I decided to watch the entire movie. Continue reading →
