Bang Bang
Watch an animated version of The Beatles' bizarrely jaunty little ditty about a serial killer here.
(via The Presurfer)
Sunday, July 31, 2005
David Shrigley List Of Photographs
Words and Pictures
David Shrigley does a rare thing: humorous art photography. Irony, yes, but no sledge hammers.
David Shrigley does a rare thing: humorous art photography. Irony, yes, but no sledge hammers.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Random Acts of Poetry
Random Acts of Poetry
Ticking
On a steeped night
that sticks to the skin,
he peels off seven layers
of wallpaper
as jingles and voices
waft by like smoke.
The poet scribbles and scribbles
about a ticking suitcase,
then shuts
the moon in a drawer,
bored as a caged monkey.
His thoughts rise
in word balloons
that appear to say:
You are a soft, pink dildo,
dishwasher safe.
You are a hard steel chisel.
But useless. No use.
The chakras won't open,
he's blind from the klieg lights.
Ticking
On a steeped night
that sticks to the skin,
he peels off seven layers
of wallpaper
as jingles and voices
waft by like smoke.
The poet scribbles and scribbles
about a ticking suitcase,
then shuts
the moon in a drawer,
bored as a caged monkey.
His thoughts rise
in word balloons
that appear to say:
You are a soft, pink dildo,
dishwasher safe.
You are a hard steel chisel.
But useless. No use.
The chakras won't open,
he's blind from the klieg lights.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Close Encounters
Close Encounters
Took a long walk today. Observed the following:
A young girl carrying pink flowers and singing "Happy Birthday."
An old man wearing a black baseball cap that said "USS Clifton Sprague."
A man loading a gold-painted statue of a naked woman in an obscene posture onto the back of a pick-up truck. Immediately followed by:
A white Virgin Mary statue in a blue "bath tub" style shrine.
A man wearing a gas mask, standing in the doorway of a dilapidated house.
I saw all of these things on the first half of the walk, but nothing notable on the way back. That may be because I was tired and no longer so perceptive. I seem to see more unusual things when I set my mind to it.
Took a long walk today. Observed the following:
A young girl carrying pink flowers and singing "Happy Birthday."
An old man wearing a black baseball cap that said "USS Clifton Sprague."
A man loading a gold-painted statue of a naked woman in an obscene posture onto the back of a pick-up truck. Immediately followed by:
A white Virgin Mary statue in a blue "bath tub" style shrine.
A man wearing a gas mask, standing in the doorway of a dilapidated house.
I saw all of these things on the first half of the walk, but nothing notable on the way back. That may be because I was tired and no longer so perceptive. I seem to see more unusual things when I set my mind to it.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Quote of the Day
Quote of the Day
"The thing that makes reading and writing suspect in the eyes of the market economy is that it's not corrupted. It's a threat to the GNP, to the gene engineer. It's an invisible, sedate, almost inert process. Reading is the last act of secular prayer. Even if you're reading in an airport, you're making a womb unto yourself--you're blocking the end results of information and communication long enough to be in a kind of stationary, meditative aspect. A book is a done deal and nothing you do is going to alter the content, and that's antithetical to the idea that drives our society right now, which is about changing the future, being an agent, getting and taking charge of your destiny and altering it. The destiny of a written narrative is outside the realm of the time. For so long as you are reading, you are also outside the realm of the time."
--Richard Powers
"The thing that makes reading and writing suspect in the eyes of the market economy is that it's not corrupted. It's a threat to the GNP, to the gene engineer. It's an invisible, sedate, almost inert process. Reading is the last act of secular prayer. Even if you're reading in an airport, you're making a womb unto yourself--you're blocking the end results of information and communication long enough to be in a kind of stationary, meditative aspect. A book is a done deal and nothing you do is going to alter the content, and that's antithetical to the idea that drives our society right now, which is about changing the future, being an agent, getting and taking charge of your destiny and altering it. The destiny of a written narrative is outside the realm of the time. For so long as you are reading, you are also outside the realm of the time."
--Richard Powers
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Virtual bubble paper!
Pop Culture
Toil and trouble? Burst a bubble.
More bubble fun. Kind of sick when you think about it, but technically impressive.
Toil and trouble? Burst a bubble.
More bubble fun. Kind of sick when you think about it, but technically impressive.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Do you have any grey poupon?
Do you have any grey poupon?
Asked for mustard today in my son's preferred fast-food restaurant and they had none. (The restaurant shall be nameless; let's just say it aspires to a "regal" reputation.) What is mustard, anyway? I thought as I ate my naked chicken sandwich. A plant, a weed. More specifically, the dictionary tells me it is "a pungent yellow powder of the seeds of any of several common mustards (Brassica hirta, B. nigra, or B. juncea) used as a condiment or in medicine as a stimulant and diuretic, an emetic, or a counterirritant." A stimulant and diuretic? Who knew? That's actually the last thing I need, drinking as much coffee as I do ... When I think of mustard, I think of the brown or yellow stuff that I spread on sandwiches, that I sometimes would eat by itself on a piece of bread as a kid. Or the sayings: If I had faith as big as a mustard seed (a very tiny seed), I could say to a mountain "move," and it would move. I'm not sure that would be a nice thing to do, actually ... "Mean Mister Mustard sleeps in the park/Shaves in the dark tryin' to save paper/Sleeps in a hole in the road/Saving up to buy him some clothes/Keeps a ten bob note up his nose/Such a mean old man." Mr. Mustard was the radio handle I used at one time. Not that I was mean. Just somebody who could "cut the mustard," or, at least, that's the image I wanted to project. But where does that phrase come from? No one seems to know for sure. ... And mustard gas? It is not made from mustard, I'm told, though it smells like it is ... As a condiment, mustard dates back thousands of years, apparently. According to the Mustard Museum, it is "America's favorite condiment." Hmm. A restaurant without mustard should be ashamed of itself. "Have it your way" indeed.
Asked for mustard today in my son's preferred fast-food restaurant and they had none. (The restaurant shall be nameless; let's just say it aspires to a "regal" reputation.) What is mustard, anyway? I thought as I ate my naked chicken sandwich. A plant, a weed. More specifically, the dictionary tells me it is "a pungent yellow powder of the seeds of any of several common mustards (Brassica hirta, B. nigra, or B. juncea) used as a condiment or in medicine as a stimulant and diuretic, an emetic, or a counterirritant." A stimulant and diuretic? Who knew? That's actually the last thing I need, drinking as much coffee as I do ... When I think of mustard, I think of the brown or yellow stuff that I spread on sandwiches, that I sometimes would eat by itself on a piece of bread as a kid. Or the sayings: If I had faith as big as a mustard seed (a very tiny seed), I could say to a mountain "move," and it would move. I'm not sure that would be a nice thing to do, actually ... "Mean Mister Mustard sleeps in the park/Shaves in the dark tryin' to save paper/Sleeps in a hole in the road/Saving up to buy him some clothes/Keeps a ten bob note up his nose/Such a mean old man." Mr. Mustard was the radio handle I used at one time. Not that I was mean. Just somebody who could "cut the mustard," or, at least, that's the image I wanted to project. But where does that phrase come from? No one seems to know for sure. ... And mustard gas? It is not made from mustard, I'm told, though it smells like it is ... As a condiment, mustard dates back thousands of years, apparently. According to the Mustard Museum, it is "America's favorite condiment." Hmm. A restaurant without mustard should be ashamed of itself. "Have it your way" indeed.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Word of the Day: labeorphily
Word of the Day
labeorphily (n)
Collection and study of beer-bottle labels
Confronted with the huge number of empties by the back door, Wilbert blamed his obsessive labeorphily.
labeorphily (n)
Collection and study of beer-bottle labels
Confronted with the huge number of empties by the back door, Wilbert blamed his obsessive labeorphily.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Random Acts of Poetry
Random Acts of Poetry
Behind Shut Lids
I see her old
low hills running,
snake river's
silvered pools,
deep maple shade
under blue blazes.
Then
Sunday in the car,
their plowed furrows
ratcheting,
patches of cows,
a stick barn's tilt.
Then that house,
charcoal mist
of booming clouds;
I can almost
hear the rain hiss,
eaves drip.
I'm safe, dry
among her heavy
glass globules,
tiny worlds,
memory's paperweights.
Then as now.
Behind Shut Lids
I see her old
low hills running,
snake river's
silvered pools,
deep maple shade
under blue blazes.
Then
Sunday in the car,
their plowed furrows
ratcheting,
patches of cows,
a stick barn's tilt.
Then that house,
charcoal mist
of booming clouds;
I can almost
hear the rain hiss,
eaves drip.
I'm safe, dry
among her heavy
glass globules,
tiny worlds,
memory's paperweights.
Then as now.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Spooky photos of children
Wise Beyond Their Years
Portrait photographer Loretta Lux creates spooky but beautiful photos of grave-looking children who seem to know or see something adults have forgotten about or don't perceive. That's my interpretation, anyway.
Portrait photographer Loretta Lux creates spooky but beautiful photos of grave-looking children who seem to know or see something adults have forgotten about or don't perceive. That's my interpretation, anyway.
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