eebmore at yahoo dot com

[totally stolen from Lindsayism]

Update: Double bleh. Broken. Screw it. Nevermind.

Oh lordy, such a huge mistake.

Fear not, I have no intention of angling for a cheap laugh by going into excruciating detail describing what turned out to be the worst abdominal nightmare of my 34 years on this earth. But I can’t help but wonder what it is about extreme gastric distress, the sort that causes you to scream at the top of your lungs (thankfully, no neighbors called the police), sweat to a degree that you feel like you’re standing in the middle of a typhoon, and prey for your own death while sitting on the can, that compels you - forces you, even - to strip off all of your clothes? Is it because you subconsiously think you are about to meet your maker and feel like you should go out the same way you came into this world?

Or is that just me and 3 year olds?

Seriously, I’m a Dem and pretty much couldn’t stand anything that Steele stood for; but that is some seriously inexcusable bullshit.

God, I hate that paper.

“Yes,” they said, “we have a male six (or eight? I can’t remember) week old kitten. Would you like to see him?”

“Sure,” I said. They brought out a kitten and I told them to wrap it up and that I would take him, because the only thing gayer than a man owning a cat is going to the trouble of picking out the perfect cat. They said they needed to give him a few shots and that I could pick him up the next day. Whatever, anyway, fast forward to two days ago...

Being lazy and not too terribly concerned about his gonads, the cat - which I never properly named because naming a cat is gayer than owning a cat - went all puberty on my ass. Poor little fella, I thought. Puberty sucks, from what I remember. He was climbing walls, making funny noises, cocking his tail to the side, which I thought was kind of gay of him, but I don’t judge gay cats and just accepted his bottom faggy ways. I made an appointment at the vet to have his testes removed this morning. At 8 this morning, I dropped the little fella off.

At 9:30, I received a call from the vet, which worried me, as I wasn’t supposed to receive a call until 3 or so.

“Hello”
“Hello, is this Adam?”
“Yes.”
“Did you drop off Noname for a neuter this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Noname is a female?”
“?”
“Hello?”
“A female?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well I guess that would explain why he went into heat the other day... I just thought he was really gay or something.”

[I totally said that, and the female vet totally didn’t laugh. I think I offended a lesbian vet. Whatever.]

So I’m a big dumbass who never bothered to properly examine my cat’s genitalia. Reason number one thousand and twenty why I would make the worst parent to a human child, ever.

No biggie. After the vet explained to me the medical reasons the previous tard hack vet got the cat’s gender wrong when he gave the cat to me, we agreed that tomorrow morning, I’m going to pick up my newly sterile girl cat that I’ve been calling “Little buddy” and “Little fella” for the past six months. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to thinking of her as a her when I’ve been thinking of her as a him for all this time, but in the long run, him/her, being a dumb cat, will be blithely indifferent to the gender role that I’ve been assigning to him/her for all this time. I’m glad I fixed... um, her when I did, but it would have been sooo hil-AR-ious if he had had kittens on me. Now, THAT would have totally freaked me out.

So right:

So wrong:

Yeesh.

[via the Baltimore Sun]

Okay, so here is my take:

I did not see The Passion of the Christ, nor will I ever bother to see it. Why? Because, prior to production of the Passion, due to a general universal knowledge that Mel Gibson was a jew hater, the son of an even bigger jew hater, and a devote follower of a religious fringe group within the Catholic church that refuses to acknowledge the Pope because the post Vatican II Catholic Church is too liberal (a.k.a. - the Church doesn’t blame the jews enough for the death of Christ), I opted not to bother with that movie - regardless of either negative or positive reviews. Frankly, I had no interest in an interpretation of the events leading up to the crucifixion by a jew hating freakazoid; not because I was personally offended by his crazy jew hating ways, but because I cannot understand the desire of anyone to bother subjecting themselves to the subjective, angry, hating muck that is at the center of someone else’s core belief system. I never bothered to see Birth of a Nation for much the same reason. I don’t have the emotional stamina to bother being offended that D.W. Griffith was a pre-integration black hating white american southerner. That isn’t to say the Griffith was not a cinematic genius, an innovative filmmaker or anything else; but I do know that he was a black hater and believed some seriously ridiculous propagandic bullshit about Reconstruction and the Klu Klux Klan, and I have no interest in watching his works that were influenced by all that nonsense. If silent movies didn’t boor the hell out of me, I would be more than willing to watch his other stuff - as opposed to having Martin Scorsese walk me through Griffith’s innovations in a documentary about boring silent movies.

Likewise, I fail to see the relevance of Gibson’s jew hating ways in a film about pre-Columbian Aztecs Mayans (same-diff), unless he somehow makes the argument that the jews were ultimately responsible for their downfall. The historical record makes this highly unlikely, and if he did, I am sure that some critic would give me a head’s up.

So, what I am left with are my own impressions of what Apocalypto could be, and based on many positive reviews and the previews that I have seen, that movie looks COOL AS SHIT. Of course, there are also many negative reviews, but in light of resent events, I really don’t even know if I can trust any of them, as there are so many subjective variables influencing film criticism, I have no way of knowing if these critics actually were not impressed with the movie, or if Gibson-hatred has sunken into the core of the subjective, angry, hating muck that is at the center of their own core belief systems... and frankly, neither do they. By and large, criticism is utter and complete nonsense. Take, for instance, critical view on an actor like Tom Hanks. For a decade, critics all thought he sucked, then all of a sudden he thought he was a god. Nowadays, everyone thinks he is fairly capable, unless you are an alterna/indie/asswipe, then you hate him for representing the mainstream. The very last variable that comes into play when criticizing Tom Hanks acting work is his acting ability. It is ALWAYS about general public perceptions and what an acting critic wants to think of himself. It’s the same thing with Ed Norton. Sure, I guess he’s good at what he does; but if he recorded himself taking a crap and uploaded onto Youtube, he would probably receive an Academy Award nomination. Does anyone remember his glowing critical accolades for his three or four scenes wearing a mask in Kingdom of Heaven? What the hell was that all about?! They could have put Corky from Life Goes On in that mask, had Ed Norton record voiceovers, and he would have received the same ridiculous praise. Something tells me that either of these two “geniuses” was exposed to be a racist, or a pederast, or a sexist, the critical analysis of their work would somehow change, regardless of whether or not their work was affected at all.

Anyway, obviously I’m just rambling here, but I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that if ANY critics are willing to stand up for Apocalypto, it is potentially three times better than what the overall critical assessment seems to say it is, seeing how he is the devil reincarnate and all. Is Mel Gibson a jew hating freak? Yes. Does Apocalypto look cool as hell? Yes. Do I trust anyone’s critical assessment of the film in light of recent events? No. Am I going to spend money to see it? Yes.

Will I ultimately be disappointed? Probably.

Here is an excerpt from my response:

Books:

Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets. by David Simon.

The Corner. By David Simon and Ed Burns

Baltimore Noir. Edited by Laura Lippman. 2006. Akashic Books.

blahblahblah some other stuff

Actually, any novels written by anybody that writes for The Wire. Price, Lehane, Pelecanos. (you can send this one to sister)

DVDs:

The Corner. HBO series (see a pattern here?)

I need some other interests. Duckpins? Screen painting? Ratting? In my defense, I’m currently going through the very first stages of withdrawal.

It's going to be a long year.

Now, I typically set my alarm for 7:30. This morning, I woke when the clock said 6:40. 6:40 is a little early for me, but not unprecedented, so I decided jump out of bed and do the slightly earlier thing for a change.

Now, I know that some persons reading this might be feeling the urge to comment about how you have to get up a 5:30 or something to go to the gym, get to work, dress your children or otherwise share with the word your martyr’s tale of early morning woe; but I assure you I couldn’t care less and nobody is impressed with your daily feat other than yourself. You have a daily schedule? Wow. Too bad life doesn’t hand out participation ribbons.

Anyway, like I was saying, my clock struck 6:40. It was dark out. I guess that’s normal for this time of year. I really don’t know. I hopped out of bed, the cat seemed pretty excited that I was up early, took a piss, and headed to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee.

While I was waiting for the coffee, I looked out my window and noticed ALL of my next door’s neighbors lights were on, which struck me as odd, but I didn’t really give it much of a thought. I mean, I suppose she could have had a good reason to walk into every room and turn on every light at that time of morning. Maybe she got up to work on a project - or pulled an all nighter - or something else that really wasn’t any of my business that I didn’t really care about because all that was important to me at the time was why the hell coffee makers doesn’t work faster. That’s all I ever care about when I get up in the morning.

After waiting an eternity for enough of the pot to finish brewing, I inhaled a mug, farted around the apartment, played with the cat, probably scratched my ass, and then sucked down another mug of goo before jumping into the shower. After which, I made myself a little breakfast, drank another mug of coffee, probably scratched my ass some more and generally pleasantly squandered away my early extra hour of the morning. Today is my day off, so I wasn’t really in a rush to be anywhere special, so I was thumbing through my head thinking of the different whatevers I could take care of over the course of day.

After about an hour, I began to notice something wasn’t right. What was it, I thought to myself. What isn’t here that should be here? Finally it struck me. The Sun! It is still completely dark out at 7:30 in the morning.

Now, a person of average intelligence would probably seek out a clock, or look at their phone or their watch or turn on a television or get online to try to figure out why exactly it was that the sun decided to not get up that morning. But not me, because you see, I am a genius. Instead of doing all these thing that a person of average intelligence would do, I continued to scratch my ass and look out the window while trying to figure where the sun was hiding.

Eventually, I just sort of lost interest and poured myself another cup of coffee. While I was sipping my fourth cup of coffee, I looked out my kitchen window and noticed that now my next door neighbor had turned off all of her lights. Hmmm. She must have had to leave for class before dawn. She’s a hard worker, that neighbor girl whose name I can never remember. Too bad whenever I ask her how she’s doing in the hall, she always answers with a forlorn “Oh... I’m surviving,” in a measured gravitas. That’s annoying. I wish whatshername would stop saying that. But vegetarians are always lame that way. Meat and dairy must make people happy or something.

Nice butt for a chick Eeyor, though.

So, after milling over my neighbors vegetarian depressive hindquarters for a while, I went over to my computer to read the news, and that’s when I saw it:

Mon 2:05 AM!!!!!!!!

And there I was; fed, showered, with only an hour of sleep under my belt and most of a pot of coffee in my gut.

That was seven hours ago.

Today is going to suck.

This post isn't very entertaining.

I'm a little groggy.

Both via Baltimore Crime...

According to d’s c, supposedly:

a) The Wire is being renewed for a sixth season (? and !)*

b) Plans are in the works for a new John Waters movie, this time about Christmas Street on 34th Street.**

* I’ve got some seriously ambivalent feelings about this. I respect Simon’s insistence that the show is intended to have a five season story arc, but it isn’t like he hasn't lied before (like, oh, I dunno, him STILL insisting that Carcetti isn’t based on O’Malley. I was willing to roll my eyes and chuckle over this instance during the third season, but with the storylines of season four - Carcetti champing at the bit for the Governer's office before his mayoral chair is even warm, his brewing battle with the Dixon character who I suppose isn’t Dixon at all either, and especially him in episode 49 sitting on a certain wood bench in a certain building being humiliated while waiting for a meeting with a certain elected official over a certain fiscal issue - the denials are becoming a little bit insulting. Sorry for the vague mini-spoiler on episode 49, which technically hasn’t aired yet. I saw the episode On Demand at a friend's place last night.) I would hate to see the show unnecessarily live on past its mission and drift into irrelevancy and go Sopranos on our ass.

At the same time, MORE FUCKING WIRE!!! Woo-Hoo!

** This one sounds like it has promise. Let us pray for Christmas that it is better than A Dirty Shame and a thousand times better than Cecil B. Demented. I’m hoping for a level of quality somewhere in the neighborhood of Pecker. But, please, no more Hasselhoffs pooping out of airplanes! As a friend of mine said, “Wouldn’t it have been a better ending if the tripod just went limp, the camera pointing towards the pavement, with a voice over of Waters saying ‘Why the hell do I even bother anymore.’” See my conserns on point a.

I actually felt really bad for this littla fella from Whittier, California. Not so bad that I wouldn’t make fun of this, but still. And shockingly, my previous post was not the target of this query.

Unfortunately, there is one design flaw, which I wouldn’t say is uncomfortable, exactly; but is certainly distracting. You see, all of me, much like my politics, prefers to lean slightly to the left. The new briefs, apparently, prefer that I lean significantly to my right. Consequently, that which I can typically forget and ignore while going about my everyday routine, is... well... something that I cannot ignore, and I’m constantly conscious of its... or their... presence. It feels as though I’m walking around with someone else’s hand down my pants. I can’t decide who it is, exactly, who it feels like is walking around with their hand down my pants. If it was Ann Coulter, I suspect it would feel more clawing. It isn’t her. John Gibson would feel more violent and offensive. Sean Hannity, I would suspect, wouldn’t know how to find the front of my pants, even if he was trying, unless the RNC called him ahead of time and told him where it was. I would say it was the ghost of Malcolm Forbes, which would certainly make more sense, but the truth of the matter is I don’t think I’m young or pretty enough to make it worth his ghost’s while.

I would just turn my underwear inside-out, but I fear that would cause a left leaning swing more pronounced than to what I’m accustomed. As distracting as the right leaning swing is to me, I don’t suspect it would feel any less unnatural to walk around feeling like Al Franken, George Clooney or Michael Moore were walking beside me with one of their hands down my pants; although if the Dixie Chicks or Janeane Garofalo were insistent enough, I might be willing to give it a try.

What’s a boy to do?

Update (2:53 pm): I just now noticed on the Hanes website marketing description for these briefs open: “Everyday basic for the not-so-average man.”

I’m not sure if Hanes intended that to be an insult or a compliment. Nor am I sure if that reflects upon me either negatively or positively. I’m probably going to obsess over this for the next four months.

The Charles Theatre

Showing November 17th - 21st ONLY!

THIS FILTHY WORLD

Showtimes: Daily: 2:15PM, 4:45PM, 7:30PM, 10:00PM (With an 11:50AM show added for Saturday and Sunday. There will be no 7:30 show on Sunday.)

2006 USA. Dir. Jeff Garlin. John Waters. 86m. Not Rated. Presented Digitally.

Philosopher of filth and reigning king of bad taste, John Waters presents an outstanding live one-man show that celebrates his origins of trash with his signature brand of irreverent humor. Filmed live in Philadelphia*, this devilishly delectable monologue focuses on Waters's early introductions to the grotesque that influenced the groundbreaking filmmaker and author, continually magnifying his twisted contributions of creativity.

Update: I’ve seen it and it is quite entertaining. Much better than his past two movies, actually. He even cited my workplace as an example of people in this city being definitively trashy and ridiculous. After Baltimore, the film will move on to New York and San Francisco... the old Waters’ circuit.

*A misprint, apparently. Actually filmed at the Harry De Jur Playhouse in New York.

Anyway, like I was saying, I went out and bought a GIANT family sized portion of Vindaloo. My eyes were way too big for my stomach and I ate the whole damn thing. I spent the rest of the night writhing in pain, begging for mercy from Lord Hanuman. Monkey deities are a bitch. Vanaras, apparently, like nothing more than jumping around and reeking havoc on your innards, doing Lord Rama’s dirty work, clawing and biting at your intestinal track.

Today, it seems, that my prayers have been answered, and the vanaras have left my intestines. This is a double edged sword, as to escape my innards, the little monkey men have to leave from somewhere, which has given me the worst case of flaming Indian Monkey-Ass I could ever imagine. Jesus, you make one joke about Indians lighting women on fire, and all their manifestations of the Vishnu come at you with a vengeance.

Uncle! Never again will I disparage your culture. I will be courteous and respectful to your doctors, cabbies and customer support staff. When I’m leering at your women’s sweet, Dravidian, brown subcontinental jiggle, I promise to be discreet about it and not creep them out too much.

But I won’t watch your crappy Bollywood movies, or listen to your pop music... unless some deejay has cut it into a dance track (that, I like for some reason). That would be too much to ask, and to be frank, there aren’t enough gods in your pantheon or devoted intestinal monkey warriors to make that happen.

*I’m part animal-like savage myself, both Injun and Irish, so if you’re offended by my words, bite me (Which kind of Injun savage? hint hint: I’m a drunk and I’m lazy.).

I am unworthy of your mom.

killer source