Frankly, I think the troops would be cheered by a visit from Barney, moreso than one by his master. He's much cuter and probably more intelligent. (I know, a blogger making fun of Bush! How unique. Aren't I just the transgressive one?)
You know Anne Geddes, that photographer who seems to have based her career on taking pictures of babies? Well, for some insane reason, in our powder room my mother has these three pictures of "adorable" babies in "adorable" olde-tymie bathing caps "adorably" sitting in sinks metal tubs filled with flowers. This has never been a problem (besides an aesthetic one) before, but I've just realized that the babies are watching whenever I pee! Yeah, they're just pictures, but still! It's really freaky-feeling.
Bill and Scott have moved out of Blogger to their own site here, complete with redesign. Tweak your links and bookmarks accordingly. It will be the same high-quality smut we all love, but please give forgive any "wonkiness" there may be for a while; Scott needs some time to get used to WordPress. You know how it is with old people and technology. The poor dears just can't learn as fast as us whippersnappers.
Meanwhile, Vince is sporting a nice, shiny new template. It's terribly pretty, and the writing's as good as ever, so do make sure you check it out.
Now, as hard as it is to believe, I'm not personally well-acquainted with vaginas and spend very little time contemplating them. However, I keep seeing this commercial for Nuvaring, forcing me to think about those yeasty caverns from which we all spring. From what I can gather, this Nuvaring thing, which looks an awful lot like those plastic bracelet things I remember girls wearing by the dozen in my childhood, goes up the vagina and, presumably, releases birth-controlling hormones into the porous lining.
But what happens when you're on your period? Do you take it out or do you just insert a tampon to keep it company? And what of sex? It would be a very effective birth control method indeed if you had to keep it on for that. But the real question for any visiting lady is this: would you want to carrying around a plastic bracelet in your hoo-ha all day?
Are books sacred objects or easily disposed of commodities? Obviously, I tend towards the former position; I have a terrible time giving up books, even books I know I'm not going to read again or just don't like. I'm half afraid that I'll need it again and half afraid that I'll throw away a book that, in twenty years time, will be a collectible and worth all kinds of money, but of course I'll have thrown it away and live in abject poverty because of it. I love my irrational fears; they're so bizarrely fun!
I bought a King James Bible a few months ago intending to read it, not as a religious text, but as a literary work of great power which has influenced English literature for centuries. I started Genesis and just couldn't get into it. It just didn't speak to me in any way; it felt like a chore, not a pleasure, and there's really no point in reading something in that case. And, of course, I just have such a violent antipathy to the theology.
But Daniel Plotz, "a proud... but never a terribly observant Jew," has decided to read the Bible and blog about the experience. His manifesto: "My goal is pretty simple. I want to find out what happens when an ignorant person actually reads the book on which his religion is based. I think I'm in the same position as many other lazy but faithful people (Christians, Jews, Moslems, Hindus). I love Judaism; I love (most of) the lessons it has taught me about how to live in the world; and yet I realized I am fundamentally ignorant about its foundation, its essential document. So, what will happen if I approach my Bible empty, unmediated by teachers or rabbis or parents? What will delight and horrify me? How will the Bible relate to the religion I practice, and the lessons I thought I learned in synagogue and Hebrew School?" What results is an ongoing and fascinating journal. Highly recommended!
I have hardly any money. We're talking pauper-level, here. It's going to be tough getting Christmas presents for my family, let alone friends. My mother tells me not to get anything because I don't have anything, but I can't just not get anyone anything! That'd just be wrong. The truth is, though, that I may have no choice. So what should I tell my friends? "Hey, you're not getting anything this year! You can still get me something, though!"? That just sounds tacky.
I feel like such a slacker as a blogger. Everyone else seems to be able to come up with thoughtful, relevant, and entertaining original content about life, politics, movies, etc., while I bang out sentence-long link posts accompanied by "witty" remarks. *sigh* I feel such a failure at the moment; I'm sorry to be such a bad blogger.
Yeah, yeah, George is the Sexiest Man Alive again, but who cares, because Apollo was on the list, too! Disagree? Didn't think so. Really, though, Battlestar Galactica's got lots of nice manflesh on display; I'm partial to Chief, just because I like big tortured teddy bears.
Well, around noon yesterday, while helping my father bring a box containing the components to a new TV stand (we just got a new plasma), my father tripped come through the door and the box dropped onto the tip of my left big toe. I'll let you imagine how painful that was. Nothing seems to be broken, but it's awful sore, I'm hobbling around, and that toe is going to look disgusting in the morning. Coos of sympathy greatly appreciated.
How should one sort one's books? Unfortunately, the space available to me being what it is, my books aren't really sorted as I would wish. I have to take advantage of whatever space I can find, with no possibility of any sort of order to it all. Someday, however... Yes, someday...
Writer/grumpypants Kathryn Hughes does not like "compulsive wits," such as Oscar Wilde. She bases this on a scribble in an autograph book that recently came on the market. When you reduce Wilde to a collection of disconnecting aphorisms and bon mots in Bartlett’s or whatever, I’m sure he IS rather tiring. I’m also sure that in real life he was somewhat more amusing. And a lot of the quotes you hear bandied about from him were from his writings, so of course he polished them up and "practised delivering them in the mirror before he went out"! It's called editing.
All in all, she seems to bear a grudge against one particular "wit" that's gotten on her bad side, not Oscar Wilde or anyone she mentions in the article. So remind me never to attend a party thrown by Ms. Hughes; it'd be dreadfully dull, by the sounds of it.
Intimacy. (Warning: link NSFW.) Nothing makes me sadder than the thought that there are people out there who don't have someone they love and who love them in return. I sometimes fear that's how I'll end up.
The feeble attempts at comedy of its "celebrities." Oy vey! I just watched some (I couldn't bear to watch the whole thing) of the Funniest Celebrity in Washington D.C. contest on C-SPAN. They say Washington can't laugh at itself; after watching that travesty, I'm inclined to think it's because no one there is funny. We're talking excruciatingly bad here, people! More bombs in that room than Iraq! *rim shot* Really, if you want laughs on C-SPAN, you'd have better luck watching House Transportation subcommittee hearings.
Are you as sick of the nasty political ads that seem to be on non-stop in the run-up to the election? You know, the ones that want you to think that whoever the opponent is eats children for breakfast while plotting with terrorists to blow up a candy factory full of bunnies and puppies? Depressingly, they're not really that new. At least the Romans could ignore the graffiti better than we can ignore ads. Lucky Romans.
Does it make you a narcissist if you find your own body odor (particularly that of your fingers after scratching your crotch) sexy? I mean, I know there are lots of people who like the smell of other people, and I'm sure it has to do with pheremones and stuff, but it is kinda icky to turn yourself on that way. And it's not all the time, either. Sometimes my body odor just stinks. Sometimes, though, it's really hot. Just throwing that out there. I know you were just dying to know! *LOL*
Before I get to the reason for this post, I have to ask: why are Australians all nuts? I mean, I know guys like the Crocodile Hunter (RIP) are considered kinda odd even in their homeland, but Australians in general just seem to be a bit... off. They all seem to delight in running, jumping, climbing, diving, surfing, sky-diving, and any other crazy pastime, the more dangerous the better. I have a theory that it has to do with having such a small population on such a vast continent filled with some of the most venomous animals in the world. Something along the lines of, "Hey, let's get out there and jump off Ayers Rock with no parachute today, for tomorrow we may die from the bite of a ten centimeter snake with venom that boils away all your internal organs!"
Anyway, that opening tangent involving gross generalizations of a nation's people aside, I'll get to the "point": Not only has Australia given the world hot, rugged mens with a hot accent, they've now given us hot rugged mens with a hot accent and the perfect basket. Thanks, Australia!
Does it make me a terrible person/English major if I admit I never "got" the fuss about old Sylvie and really don't care about her crappy life? I mean, it's tragic when anyone feels so hopeless about life that they stick they're head in the oven, but does that automatically make one a literary genius? Perhaps I'm too hard on her, though. It's not her fault she was portrayed by Gwenyth Paltrow, my antipathy to which is big enough that I'd cheer if she stuck her head in an oven. Fake British cow...
ANYway, if you like Sylvia more than I do, go read "Ennui" (that's the poem).