Went to New York to see Teh Kid.
Pre-booked, pre-paid, shuttle.
Arriving at dawn, I grabbed a latte, and got onto the shuttle at 7:30 am at JFK.
Should have known it was a bad idea when we sat for twenty minutes and my fellow sufferers started counting the air fresheners.
Like the young forest of them (15!!) on the rear view mirror.
And a couple hanging on every seatbelt holder.
And another forest in the back with the luggage.
And little clusters under the seats.
We had plenty of time, and kept finding them.
I had the only passenger seat with a window that would open, which may explain why the ensuing migraine was not fatal.
The driver then proceeded to circle airport to try to fill his van, returning to Terminal 5 THREE times.
Because when you are in a stuffy, chemical-filled, crowded van driving fast in circles improves everything.
He then left the airport, running two stop signs and one red light before I stopped keeping track.
He managed to drop off two different sets of people more than a block from their addresses ("Because the street is one-way.")
I got to my hotel at 10:30.
That's three hours later.
The hotel (HOTEL AZURE, folks), bless them, put me in a room right away.
Probably they were afraid I'd pass out or puke in the lobby, both possibilities.
But that is only the trip in.
Coming home, to get on my 9am flight they gave me a 5:45am pick-up.
Kay.
So I got up at 5am, in the dark, had coffee, hugged kid who also got up and came down in the elevator with me.
So I was standing on sidewalk outside of dorm at 5:40.
You know, early, in the dark.
Because I am just that anal about being on time.
I got to watch the men's shelter up the block open its doors.
And see the bagels arrive for the shop next door.
And watch the film crews fiddle with their trailers ("Another Guy" with Mia Farrow, according to my new BEST FRIEND, the security desk guy.)
No shuttle.
So at 6am, I call them.
It's a mile away, they tell me.
Kay.
The sun is coming up, that's nice.
The security guy checks that I am okay for the second time.
This is nice, since this is daughter's dorm.
He has a cigarette outside and we bond.
At 6:20 I call again.
The van is four miles away, I am told.
Then I am put on hold.
They play juggle the call for a while, and I get another guy.
And again am put on hold.
He then tells me THE VAN IS ON ITS WAY TO THE AIRPORT.
They have no other van.
Sucks to be me.
Shuttle person on phone claims they came by and I wasn't there.
Security guy, my new best chum, points out that when that really happens, the van drivers come and talk to him.
Shuttle guy also says van driver called me repeatedly.
Well, the cell number they have is Teh Kid's number and is up in her room with her.
Well, she was just awake, and it is a small room.
We both woke up when Tom called.
I can haz skeptical about call, considering the previous Driver Fib concerning my absence.
Hmmmm.
Shuttle guy has nothing to suggest.
I do not write down call information number he offers, since I have a phone in one hand, no pen out, and am digging for my card to get cab fare from the lobby ATM.
He says I will get an email in a couple of days.
I have emailed them
I have heard nothing.
It has been a couple of days.
Hmmmmmm
Am now trying to figure out how to pry my pre-payment out of them.
I am suspecting Firengi First Law of Acquisition applies here.
I did get a swell New York taxi driver, and made my flight, though not by a whole lot.
The taxi ride involved no suspense, no waiting around on the curb, and no scenic tour of city.
Just zip off to the airport.
I could have slept another hour and caught a cab.
I know what I am doing next time.
By teh forces of EBIL!!
Seriously.
Is MacBook Pro, and it has gone nutso.
Suddenly it is randomly transposing letters as I type, or moving up and down lines, or just eating typing.
And it is being weird about clicking.
As in not letting me.
And then being okay.
And then not.
I haven't done anything!!!
Am frustrated.
Have shut down and restarted.
Actually a couple of times, since when it completely refuses to click on anything, there doesn't seem to be any other option.
All software is updated.
Touchpad is clean.
Ummm....
It doesn't seem to like it if I rest wrists on laptop, though not entirely okay when I don't?
Sometimes clicks fine, sometimes won't click no matter what.
Is it fixing to die?
Is it going to cost a bazzillion bucks to repair?
Is there a way to sprinkle it with holy water that won't screw up the electronic innards?
HELPS??
I had the misfortune to watch this movie last night. I was so looking forward to it. Apparently I like torturing myself.
How do these movies get made? How do they persuade talent to do them? They're not even funny.
Here are my beefs.
1) It's always tight-ass, neurotic, cat-loving, super controlling women who are stunningly good looking but incapable of finding a man. Inevitably because their standards are 'just too high', [a] and they are just plain desperate because its been [insert time period] since they've had good sex. The woman, though intelligent and educated is always extremely naive when it comes to 'how to get a guy' and has to enlist the help of all kinds of jaded or sex deprived friends to help her land a good one.
This is just plain ridiculous. Don't knock standards, they can be very helpful and protective, and can often be a sign that someone knows themselves, and what works for them, well. Also, Sex isn't the be all or the end all, nor is it the most important thing in a relationship. The single woman/cat lover cliche is SO VERY OLD! In this movie the main female character was portrayed in being so wrapped up in her ideals of a man and so desperate to catch him that she allowed herself to do all kinds of hi-jinks that were so anti her thoughtful and controlled character. Granted we all do stupid things from time to time, but you can't sell me on the idea that a T.V. producer who can make split second decisions on which camera to go to, and the best thing to say in a situation would not find an excuse to visit the powder room and remove her climax inducing panties before a business dinner, or feel the need to Cyrano de Bergerac her way through a baseball game date with earpieces, sounding to all the world like someone suffering from acute Turrets Syndrome.
2) It's always guys [b] who are the lowest common denominators of maleness. Sex is the most important thing, and the more you get of it the better a "man" you are. Men only put up with relationships for the sake of getting sex. They think with their penis and as rude and crass as they want to be.
Seriously. Grow up! If this is all that you are going to be, we're well shot of you! Men take responsibility, Men give and receive, Guys take and callously use others. In this movie the main character not only disparages women who are lonely on a regular basis, but he repeatedly ignored his supervisors instructions on air, and basically only did what he wanted to do. Every once and a while you see a glimpse of a relationship with a young boy and his 'responsibility' to the kid, so you're led to believe that there is more to this man than you can see. COME ON! The Diamond-in-the-rough guy is all played out. There is something to be said for seeing the true person, but this is so far from that. The guy likes who he is. He hides the responsibility as if it is a weakness, or something of less value.
3) The Guy helps the Crazy lady catch a Man by playing all sorts of mind games.
This is the worst part of the romantic comedy for me.
Just so we're clear. I think relationships that come about by manipulation of the things you think will titillate your partner and obfuscation of who you really are, so that only the characteristics and traits he/she would like appear, for the sake of securing him/her are wasted time.
I will never play games with someones affection, and I would walk away from anyone who does. It isn't romantic to me. It isn't funny. It's cruel, and it will never build a relationship that lasts. It ends. Always. Either in an apology (if you have some character) or just walking away after you've taken what you wanted (as witnessed by the main guy's answering machine messages in this movie).
What makes it even more frustrating for me is that I frequently work with teen girls who have seen this over and over and think that this is the way they're supposed to behave, or the behavior they're supposed to put up with. They just get their hearts crushed in the process.
As you may have guessed I thought this movie was Drivel, plain and simple. I just want to be able to watch one romantic comedy that doesn't make me want to curse. They're just not funny. They're just cruel and callous. I think I need to watch Wall-e to cleanse my palate. At least robot's understand :)
Can I rate a movie with negative stars?
a) and sometimes they are just absolutely ridiculous ideals, I'll grant you that. They're so over the top. Tolstoy reading, Austen loving, long walks on the beach, love all animals but cats the best, etc.
b) guys are not men. Guys are men in age only. They live life as one big game, enjoying all they can get, never taking responsibility, expecting the world to revolve around them, consequences be dammed, etc.
Remembering Mary Kay Bergman, one of South Park's premier vocal talents, who died ten years ago today.
I enjoyed this book, but not as much as I did The Golden Compass. But it made me very eager to read The Amber Spyglass, and isn't that half the point?
If I'm going to hell,
I intend to know
I fucking deserve it
Thanks to Cams for posting this outstanding Roy Harper track about the Berlin Wall. It's roughly recorded, but Roy kept it when subsequent recordings didn't have the same feeling.
The growling electric guitars are by David Gilmour.
Not that my proclivity towards nigh-arrogant ranting and circuitous introspection demands any apologies*, but I realized this weekend there are some significant though well-concealed advantages to being a self-absorbed navel-gazer.
You’re going to need me to back that one up, aren’t you?
OK, let’s start with this brilliantly clever circle graph that received its fifteen minutes of fame when it landed on the front page of HuffPo last Friday.
To some, this may seem like an outright insult to Christians on a national level. To others, it comes off… well, it comes off exactly the same way; it’s just that this group of people delights in the insult instead of taking offense to it. It’s why we have wars, you know.
But what if the philosophical implications of this graphic are deeper than either of those cramped assumptions? Isn’t it possible the obvious joke is only there as an appetizer for your brain? Could there be something beyond the glib comparison of three movie monsters to the Messiah?
And if I can get you to see what I’m pointing at, can I then use the same similes and metaphors to confuse things and diminish the entire thing back down to a trite GraphJam entry?
Only one way to find out, I guess.
So anyway, being an artist by profession, I have an appreciation for color that perhaps my non-creative friends lack. Nevertheless, most people who see the above image would take note, albeit to varying degrees, of what could potentially be the most significant aspect of the illustration: that the hues change tint as they overlap. Oh sure, it’s done primarily to distinguish the individual circles while avoiding the clutter of each circle having a black stroke around it. But if we’re willing to assume a respectable level of intelligence for the graphic artist, we can very easily contrive some other, more important symbolism in this design.
For example, considering the person’s artistic nature, we can decide that the three circles are a subliminal color-mixing palette. Voila! Instant Philosophical Proposition! We are now conveniently positioned to make the symbol represent whatever we want simply by piously stating, “The final question is this: do you see God as additive or subtractive?”
The beautiful cleverness of this is that we’ve now opened up the argument for what defines something as additive and what makes something subtractive. Further applying these parameters to an omnipotent being keeps the idea immortal by giving rise to mutually exclusive factions, each with its own specialized and unequivocal interpretation of the image.
The Three-Circle Purists say the underlying message merely reinforces the graphic’s original idea that God is the culmination of all monstrosities to the point of becoming the blackest monster of them all. They refer to the very manner in which the tints darken as they progress towards Jesus Christ as their evidence. Declaring him to be a subtractive deity, they give God the name “Simmik” (spelled cmyk) and dub him the Bringer of Blackness.
The Paradoxicals, however, insist that the diagram represents Jesus’ tendency to spend the majority of his ministry in the presence of the most misguided, baleful sinners and that the choice of colors is intended as a subtle testament to that necessary irony. They claim repeatedly – almost to the point of recitation – that it is light from which God and all good things are born and thus, just like light, God must be additive. To them, the completeness of God results in a clean, perfect whiteness. He is given the title “Regrebloo the Pure”. Countless hymns are composed rejoicing in the promise of that glorious day when all colors will come together to form the most perfect White.
Of course, the cynical 3-CPs are all over that with shouts of racism and accusations of a religiously driven eugenic agenda. Science fiction novels begin to be regularly presented as oracular tomes. PK Dick and Isaac Asimov become revered as great prophets.
The Doxies then issue a collective sardonic snort by taking out full-page ads and erecting billboards likening fundamentalist 3-C doctrine to that of the Church of Scientology, citing as fact the very arguable notion that L. Ron Hubbard was also a science fiction author. This campaign fails miserably, however, as does their droll attempt to humiliate their adversaries by referring to them as “C-3POs”.
The battle rages for decades. Nonsensical self-help books emerge with titles like I, Robot. U Can’t Subtract! and Paradoxicals Do It With Guile. Passion becomes petulance and devotion turns into duress. A purist menacingly holds a 2x4 like a baseball bat and a doxie pulls his handgun…
Then, only after countless lives have been lost to the argument, does the illustration’s creator (by now aged 106) finally issue a public statement declaring that he is, in point of fact, completely colorblind.
And just like that, the sum of time and energy dedicated to either side of the debate is fully devalued. All the stock placed in both ideals is instantly obliterated. Every measure of strength and motivation imbued by the conflict is just as effectively depleted.
There was really never anything more to the illustration than an insensitive jape…
…right?
*In fact, some people actually like that sort of thing. I simply provide a service – an abrasive but oddly arousing service. So do hookers, but unlike a prostitute, I service you free of charge.
