Archive for October, 2007
this week in… »
Wednesday, October 31st, 2007
ads that piss me off.
Well, sorta. It’s really just a couple of campaigns that I can’t get my head around. It happens a lot, maybe I’m slow on the uptake, but I’m just too heavily into self-worship to believe that. So, it has to be those that shill.
First up, the M.O.A. for those less minneapolis oriented, Mall of America; because m.a., though correctly acronized, doesn’t sound as classy. Have any of you seen these new billboards/bus panels? For those that haven’t, let me describe briefly.
They have an image of a model in various forms of odd see: fashionable dress. Then they add a quip of some sort before stamping M.O.A. across the bottom. Then they turn the whole ad ninety degrees counter-clockwise to apparently make the message completely unreadable. You’re left with a model floating horizontally and no reasoning behind it. Wicked helpful.
There’s only one quip that even vaguely associates with the setting. It reads something along the lines of “more ways to cause whiplash.” No kidding. I was walking past the bus with that ad along the side and almost separated a couple cervical vertebrae. Real effective.
Second, one of those ever-fucking-predictable-and-ridiculous diamond ads. I don’t remember which company as if that matters when the industry is run by maybe two distributors, but I’m referring to the night gifter ad. You may have seen it. It’s the one where the guy, to the tune of some nauseating, love-related song, gets up from bed where his wife/girlfriend/mistress/regular whore is still unconscious, reaches behind some pillows, and lays a diamond necklace down on her neck in some sort of euphemism for a pearl necklace not talking about the oyster spit variety, kids.
I’ve seen that fucking thing way too often recently. Is Halloween a diamond-giving holiday? Did I miss a memo from Cosmo magazine? Or does the holiday season now start at the first sign of sweater weather? And is anyone else curious as hell as to what this fuckwit did that sparked the sort of guilt necessary to give your wife a gift worth a few hundred dollars while she’s sleeping? He must have fucked up big.
I imagine a combination of large gambling debt accrued from being a Bears fan, a notice of lawsuit by a big-totted, former secretary who may or may not have originally received the same necklace, and a stubborn case of the Herp the gift that keeps on giving that has yet to come up in between-commercials-of-primetime-television discussion. Leave it on the night stand, or on the bathroom sink, or next to the vibrator she uses while thinking of your neighbor, or anywhere really. To wake her up in the middle of the night just to wear that smug smirk is inconsiderate.
Or maybe it’s just an ad meant to slowly infiltrate the fragile minds of consumption-hungry, middle-aged women, still on the pill, in order to unrealistically inflate their standards of gift receiving. It worked for sweetest day, valentine’s day, and [insert traditionally uncelebrated holiday, now marked jewelry occasions by a predatory and well-funded diamond industry]. Does anyone realize that Japan had the same diamond craze and saw how fucking stupid it was to the point the stone isn’t much regarded toward status?
I can’t wait for those fucking Lexus commercials with the fucking bow that lets men know they can’t get into the pants of their significant bitch without some major cash exchanges. The holidays bring me so much joy…
On the other hand, there’s an ad I can’t get enough of. The new Malibu a shitty brand that no one with a real job strives to buy anymore campaign is pretty solid. There’s one spot where a bank is robbed. The men come out to a squadron of police and the cops run past them because they can’t see the Malibu escape vehicle parked out front. But the one I really like has the female jogger.
She’s jogging toward us on a sidewalk, then veers to her right and crosses the street, only to run tots-first into the “invisible” Malibu. She falls back, props herself up on the pavement, and shakes her head in disbelief. The commercial cuts to the Malibu image and then another commercial runs. Then we come back to the scene with the lady jogger getting to her feet. She turns a bit to her left, starts running again, and slams down onto the hood of the car. I can’t get enough. It’s like the baseball/bat/dog/foot-to-the-sack video from every episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos now A.F.V. for those in the know, meaning anyone less than tween age or those with children as such. So good.
Fuck, that got long, eh?
porcelain »
Tuesday, October 30th, 2007
She’s attempting to explain something she doesn’t understand. Her rhetoric is redundant, filled with repeated key words, their meanings only partially recognized. The same points are explained more than once, a different technique each time to overcomplicate and confuse. She’s like a small child explaining politics. The simplest ideas are convoluted.
I try not to laugh. It would offend her, though she’d have only a small idea what caused the outburst. Her discussion is so easy to follow, and yet so off-base, that I grow intensely bored. I start to list off things I need to do around the house before the weekend, drift off to thoughts of the weekend, and generally stop listening.
I won’t miss anything. I’ve heard the conversation before. Her stories are ill-timed and irrelevant, but played up as hilarious. Courtesy laughs abound. Her laugh is fake, loud, and cackling, unless in response to a comment of her own. So much of her worth is wrapped in what she has or wears and how she looks that most comments are directed accordingly.
Her materialism pales in comparison to her passive aggressiveness. Her suggestions and comments are so saturated with it, that if it were tactile, she’d be wading in a puddle of it. I imagine it as a maroon-black goo, sticking to her bargain-shopper skirts and dripping down the heels of shoes she never needed. She bends only to equals or superiors in the office; even then, only after careful deliberation and compromises heavily in her favor.
When diverted, attention is directed back at her within moments. Her cheesy, false smile beams from ear to ear in response to suggestions that will eventually be ignored—if listened to at all. There is only a thin sheen of interest over vacuous, dead eyes. Earlier today, in an cube that was not her own, she yelled with glee upon finding treats that everyone else had already found. I can only imagine the reaction of the person on the other side of the line on the phone in the cube dweller’s hand.
Her lack of consideration will never be mentioned. If it is, it will be dismissed with a series of excuses and insincere apologies.
How has she avoided social norms for so long? What does she think about? She has to have some substance beyond appearances. Is it a series of defense mechanisms? Does she think this over-maintained, expensively-clothed, hollow-laughing persona is appealing? Are her relationships outside of work the same as within? Are they just a layer of filth caked to the sides of an empty fifty-five gallon drum? Would a blow to her aesthetic appeal shatter her?
She appears to have good intentions, but her control renders them insignificant. Her chosen path in life is one of communication, yet she lacks basic skills of interaction. To get to the point of near middle age, with social skills rivaling a senior in high school, is practically impossible. What’s beneath the detached grin and glass eyes? There must be more. No one can live as a porcelain doll.
photo friendly »
Monday, October 29th, 2007
I was looking at the book today. I don’t know why, because it’s not like i have a shitton of time on my hands. But i didn’t realize i had cracked the 100 mark on photos tagged. Congratulations to me right? That’s a pretty important milestone; if you ignore that most the photos are taken on about four cameras it proves I’m one popular bastard.
It was a long road to this point, but I thank the fans and, of course, Jesus most of all. If it weren’t for him, chilling all naked on those hunks of wood the ignorant masses wouldn’t have a place to go and I wouldn’t have the peace and quiet of Sunday mornings to recover from an ultra-social life of decadence. I thank the loan officials for opportunity to transition into higher learning and thus kill countless millions of sensitive neurons. There’s no better way to find, keep, torture, lose, and embrace friends than soaked in the warm bath of booze.
I found myself curious though. With a glance to the first set of photos, I realized I rarely look at the camera yes, many have told me, but I rarely hear them with the sound of my own greatness drumming in my ears like so many tribal percussionists at a fertility celebration. As I looked further there are three photos where I am definitively looking at the lens of whatever camera happened on taking the snap. In two of those I am so schwasted that it’s a heroic feat to be functioning. In one, I’m even holding a cake, with one hand and everyone says Hercules had it rough. In the other I’m bold enough as to rip a transit pass emphatically in two. The first I remember, the second… no so much.
That means there is only one photo on the book that I am coherent and looking directly at the automated optics of a lens. So which photo is it? One with Echo congratulations taken at New Year’s a couple years back. I don’t remember the photo being taken, but I remember the night relatively well. I believe certain pathways have shifted in relation to the survival instinct and some details were lost.
Why the neuronic adaptation? Because it was probably the most bored I’ve ever been at a celebratory event since my Baptism. The conversation was light and uninteresting. I wanted to make out with one of the other participants. It was the only thing keeping me in the cage of yawn while I itched to join a champagne train or chug-challenge in the other room. I received calls from the kids back in M.K.E. and wished I hadn’t chosen M.P.L.S.
My brain apparently a little-known chunk of the survival reflex numbed itself to the point I actually posed for a snap. Posed. Smiling. Disgusting.
Quickly, the top five reasons the book is better than the space.
1] privacy settings kick ridiculous amounts of ass. an example, if you aren’t a friend of one my friends and in my network, you can’t see me. Sweetness. But that also means not all of the threes of you will see the photo, spoken of above, [link disabled] here.
2] it’s not owned by Fox News Corp those fucking assholes
3] no ugly backgrounds and shitty songs playing automatically
4] better messaging platform and options for contact
5] photo functionality is solid.
plagues and pleasures »
Monday, October 29th, 2007
I was going to post on this one earlier, but didn’t really know what to say about it. Some discussions yesterday got me thinking of it again. So, by popular request, I give you the oddest and most fulfilling environmental documentary I’ve seen, or at least remember watching. And I can almost guarantee you’ve never heard of the film or the body of water that is its subject.
I knew nothing of the Salton Sea. It’s a man-made sea based on a series of engineering mistakes and natural disasters. It’s been around for a hundred years and was once a hot spot for day trips. The direction and interviews do a great job of painting a picture of what the Salton Sea was, is, and will likely become. John Waters as narrator just adds another layer of odd to this already strange work.
The interviews that drive the story are the best part. The subjects range from scientists, old men and women, and poor children to a guy painting an adobe mountain in the name of his creator. The science, history, and misconceptions of the sea are explained right alongside Hungarian fans of Milwaukee’s Best. The contrast is hilarious and the science is thoughtful and persuasive without dipping into Micheal Moore (Sicko) territory.
There’s a sense of defeatism in the tone of the interviews and the characters there. These people are on the outskirts of civilization, around a salty lake that never should have existed, with no political weight to speak of. They know the water they boat in and fish out of will be taken by the larger metropolitans of San Diego and Los Angeles, but some muster a thinly veiled optimism. Others are so matter-of-fact that you almost have to laugh—no matter how much it stings to do so.
The music is great and graphics help to explain the science or commentary that are being discussed. It’s a very simple movie, but that’s the beauty of it. The director (who was at the screening I attended—’cause I am that cool) started out by saying the film was not an environmental movie. What’s fantastic is, it’s not. It’s just a movie about a sea that never should have been and, through the voices of those living around it, the unfortunate possibilities that could shake down if it were to disappear.
It’s a smart movie. It’s funny. It’s poignant. Find a way to see it, because it will at least hold your interest.
****
random sunday »
Monday, October 29th, 2007
I don’t know exactly how to recount the events of sunday. My plan involved a mild vegetative state, coupled with two or three meals and a similar number of cinematic distractions. By all counts it was looking like a superb sunday with a dose of always sunny as an exclamation point ’cause I missed it Thursday.
But things took a turn toward unexpected when I heard, “lemon?” from the top of the stairs. Fish mentioned breakfast and then maybe a corn maze. He had me at “cor-.” I got dressed, and was upstairs before the headache hit… and then half-way to Blackbird when the sickness crept up, so it was a rough start. I didn’t know it at the time, but the day had three bars, some hiking/rock climbing, a sculpture park, about 125 miles of driving, and that corn maze he mentioned, waiting for me.
If you’re looking for a more visual rundown of events, there are snaps at the tail end of [link disabled] this album.
Blackbird had some stellar hashbrowns. Their eggs were ish, but overall the portions and grub were right on. The server even brought me over a pint glass for water after the third time she refilled my 6oz-er. Classy lady. There was discussion of a food/bar critic blog amongst the lakehouse residents. I think it would take away from my work ha, but it’s possible.
The corn maze was entertaining. We missed the first checkpoint and had to work through the maze three times. Ridiculous. The second maze had more decoration, but we were pretty much sick of corn stalks at that point. Then we crossed the street and hit the first bar there.
The Crosstown was lame, but the tots were good. It was spaced out and there were only about ten people there. It was a Sunday, so i don’t knock ’em for it. Not much going on. Their $2 Miller Lite deal was hard to pass up so we didn’t.
Franconia’s sculpture park was the sweetness. I especially liked an old shed suspended on wires. The graffiti around there was fun and some of the sculptures had a lot too them. I made it to the center of the saran wrap maze-type sculpture only to find an 18” diameter wooden peg. What the hell. But it was fun to walk around the place.
We took a look at the potholes at Taylors Falls and climbed above and around the river. We drove up the rode and had a pitcher at Romayne’s on Main. Dece pub. We didn’t make it to Smitty’s, but there was talk of having a Taylors Falls night. We’d drink ourselves back to third grade and stay at the Springs Country in just behind Romayne’s and Smitty’s. Seems like a fantastic idea.
Then it was down to Fish’s stomping grounds and the Brookside. Awesome bar. Laid back country with a pretty solid selection of brews. We had three pitchers, Paulaner, “smitticks” Smithwicks I think, and Summit seasonal. We also polished off three appetizers between the four of us. Good jerk wings, but spicy; awesome spinach & artichoke dip; and some chips and salsa that didn’t ring any flavor bells, but was a good wrap up to the meal.
We had a mishap as we were sorting to leave though. Because, though our combined age is almost a century, we have the pyrotechnic habits of nine-year-olds, we had to light stuff on fire. When it was blown out, wax sprayed and caught Hair in the face. I don’t know really what happened or how it turned out.
After getting back home, I watched the rerun of Always Sunny and tossed and turned ’til about one. At least my sleep schedule hasn’t changed in light of such absurd changes to my Sunday plans. State Park Sundays might catch on.