Guess R2 will go eat some worms.
Nobody likes me /everybody hates me /guess I’ll eat some worms…
Other people know that song, right?
“I am your father.”
“My parents are deaaaaaad!”
Origin of the “My parents are deeaaaaaaad!” joke.
Did You Know? Darth Vader, the only man I’ve ever loved, was rated by the A.F.I. as the #3 Greatest Villain of All Time. That is very significant to me because of the high regard in which I hold the A.F.I.’s vital, meticulously reasoned “top” lists. I give them nearly the weight of the breathtakingly judicious Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences.
In case your sarcasm early-warning systems are offline for routine maintenance today, I’m being a brat because I think #3 is weaksauce. When was the last time you saw a little kid dressing up as Hannibal Lecter for Halloween? Or Norman Bates? When was the last time everyone, everywhere, age 4 to 70, understood exactly who you meant when you made a breathing sound into your hands for Hannibal and Norman the way they do for Vader? Never is the answer. Never.
All my love to the #1 and #2 villains, but … I just don’t know. Maybe I should do a villain series … something like “Baby, You’re No Good” — oh, this idea has legs. Catch you on the flip, I got thoughts to jot!
By Lucas Lago, via. Click to enlarge.
Normally I’d say that Bat-Boba was my favorite, but there’s something about the idea of (b)AT-(b)AT that melts my heart. As I mentioned not long ago, I’m slowly developing a serious “awwww” crush on AT-ATs. They’re just so cute and clunky. They beg for anthropomorphization. I’ll prove my point later today.
Stumbled over this picture and it really tickled me. “I don’t care what you say, Daddy! I love my Tusken Raider!” [Cue: “He’s A Rebel (And he’ll never, ever be any good)”.] It inspired me to share a little sad personal Funny Business.
I have a lengthy sketch I’ve written about a woman who’s dating a Tusken Raider. She’s not dating him because she’s a sand-person-perv or because she’s particularly desperate, per se. She just is. Everyone with whom she interacts stands in as the audience’s interlocutor, recognizing the bizarre fruitlessness of what she’s doing in various situations involving her dating a Tusken Raider, but to her this is all perfectly normal.
In developing this idea, I had to ask myself some questions along the way, which is the way I prefer to work — I think of something I think is funny and then ask myself questions that will help me expand on the kernel of (usually weird) humor. In this case the one question that truly lit the lamp which shed light over the whole bit was, “Can they talk to each other?” It shed light because of this:
First, I tried to picture them sitting in the Olive Garden and her saying, “This is nice. I’m glad we came, I haven’t been here for awhile.” And him hooting and waving his walking/beatdown staff around (yes, he always has the gaderffii, including at his job as an accounts payable clerk for a cafeteria supplies vendor), his bellows unintelligible.
Would she then nod and say, “Of course, they’ve changed the decor. New sconces! You’re right”? Mm. No. Not funny enough. Not right.
How about he hoots and waves the gaderffii and she pretends to understand him? “Wawawarr! Baahh! Garghh!” “My day? How sweet of you to ask. Pretty good. How about yours?” Deluded and a little funnier, but no. Still not right.
Finally, I made a writing choice: No, they absolutely cannot talk to each other. At all. Their words are totally meaningless to one another’s ears. Everything they do together is a case of tandem solitude, parallel behavior uncouched in any deeper meaning, more like comfortable coincidence than love.
“This is nice. I’m glad we came, I haven’t been to the Olive Garden for awhile.” “Bluloodoomarr! Grah! Waahh!” “Do you want to split an appetizer?” “Barrgh. [stamps gaderffii] Aroo!”
You know why that was just right on my funny meter? Because it demonstrates the frustrating absurdity of attempts at human connection. In the same place at the same time and full of totally different thoughts, dreams, and ideas of what it means? Just noising at each other in context but taking no notice of the content? That’s dating.*
You and me and everyone we’ve ever fucked is a Tusken Raider.
Unpleasant truths: now that’s Funny Business. Barrgh. Aroo.
*Unless you find that special someone, blah blah blah. Not knocking those who’ve made, or think they’ve made, it work. Just observing.
Favorite part is WD-40 in the champagne bucket. Baby, you look tense. Let me grease up your ball bearings. Ow!
Come on, Batman, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s kick back and get into the spirit.
The Joker’s escaped from Arkham Asylum, Robin.
And you really think he’s going to make a move on Christmas Eve? Even scum spend the holidays with their families.
He has no family.
Okay — I’ll make a deal with you. If we go out on patrol and Gotham is quiet, with no sign of the Joker, then we come back here and have Christmas dinner and watch It’s A Wonderful Life.
You know? I’ve never seen that. I could never get past the title.
(Batman: The Animated Series. Season 1, Episode 38. “Christmas With the Joker.” Original airdate November 13, 1992.)
Mark Hamill says he will no longer be reprising the voice role of Joker in Batman material (for now). Sad face. It was such a beautiful intersection of my dorky needs.
via hhhelloalex on the tumblr.
If he is only in it for the pussy … it’s working. I am not deterred by today’s Hot Man’s facelessness nor non-existence. I can break down exactly why this sketch of a gentleman melts my cold, cold heart.
a) Girls Like A Boy Who Plays Music.
b) Dressed like Han Solo.
c) Dressed like Han Solo (counts at least twice).
d) Looks like he could not borrow my jeans.
Emo boys, I have given you warnings in the past, but I’m still seeing these skinny jeans and “jeggings” hanging off your narrow heinies all around the town. Let me phrase it to you less delicately than in the past.
/End PSA. Now please refer to the handsome faceless internet drawing of what a real man looks like, and eat some spaghetti, Slappy.
edit: The lyrics are from “Awake My Soul” by Mumford and Sons. Here is what I assume to be the inspiration for the drawing:
Nothing to complain about, but is it weird that I like the drawing better? It isn’t anything so explicable and logically psychological like that the facelessness implies more tantalizing possibility: I genuinely just prefer the drawing to the dude. Could be the camera angle making him look shorter and thinner. Don’t worry, guy, you are still okay. Maybe give the other one a Twinkie, though.
This entry was originally posted on December 5, 2009 at 2:42 pm. Captions have been added to some of the photos.
There are many recommendable qualities about what is, to me, the title holder of all-time greatest cheeseball popcorn-flick, writer-director Jack Hill’s masterpiece of the exploitation genre, Switchblade Sisters (1975).
For one thing, the four taglines are as follows:
Dig the poster art (click any of them to blow it up).
The film, which do not think this is the last entry in which I will talk about it, centers on girl gang The Dagger Debs — a sort of ladies auxiliary of their boyfriends’ gang, the Silver Daggers — who later change their name to The Jezebels (some bootlegs of the film still have this as the title) under the advice of their new co-leader.
Name changes and the new co-leader do not sit well with what is for my money the number one reason with a bullet (or switchblade, if you prefer) to watch this movie:
This flyass bitch right here.
Her name is Patch. Former first lieutenant of the Dagger Debs, Patch came to kick ass and look hot as hell — and she’s all outta blue eyeliner.
You will want to marry her when you watch her snarl and flip and hiss across the screen. It’s wonderful.
Look at that willowy neck and perfectly snide expression. I cannot believe that Monica Gayle did not go on to ridiculous heights of stardom and fame, but at least it ups my chances of running in to her at the grocery.
Quentin Tarantino put up the money through his Rolling Thunder productions company to oversee the recent remaster and distribution of this film in dvd format. He claims it is among his favorite 70’s movies, and QT devotees insist that shades of the plotline, composition, and even characters from Switchblade Sisters can be seen in some of Tarantino’s films.
I cannot imagine where they are getting this. Even if he has seen Switchblade Sisters, I doubt it has in any way influenced his own work.*
*Obviously that’s in jest … but actually I love the fact that he based the “look” of Elle Driver on Patch. Love it. And then he put Daryl Hannah in the role on top of it?! Winner winner, chicken dinner! It’s like that loquacious elfin genius makes movies purely so I don’t have to. My hat is forever off to him.
addendum 7-2-10: It’s still true. I know it is becoming vogue for some reason to consider QT “tired” or “irrelevant” or “pretentious” or any one of a million labels that float about like baseless ice cubes in the tall glass of haterade Hollywood critics pass around, but I will love him, deeply and without measure or reservation, until the end of time. Call me.
l to r, top: Batman and Robin; Wonder Woman, Batgirl, and Supergirl; Logo and utility belt; “Femme Fatale” 70’s Catwoman tee; Batman. l to r, bottom: Logo on black, Robin (the back says “Boy Wonder”); Logo on heather grey.
Really busy day today, but I was doing the laundry and set out some of my Bat Couture. There was more in the dryer, so I’m at over a week’s worth of wear. (Still not enough.) Also, earlier in the day I took kidlet to pick up a bathing suit for the summer and snagged myself some sweet and cheap new Star Wars shirts from the little boys’ department at Target. What is the opposite of haute couture? Because I’m pretty sure whatever it’s called, I am its poster girl.
It was cool because I don’t think I’ve picked up any new stuff for myself like that since my Star Wars sweatshirt haul from a November trip to the mall with Miss D. She knows how to get me to spend money on much-neeed clothes and is happy to share her strategy: I have many times heard her tell our friendohs, “With E—, you just take her somewhere with beer first. Relax her.” Works for me.
It’s just very hard for me to buy clothing for myself, even basic stuff. I start feeling wormy and uneasy about it and hang stuff back up before I even get to the register. (You can forget the fitting room, those things are for chumps. I want in and out of the store with maximum efficacy. Only ballast, no drag.)
Doing laundry and cutting tags off of new garments, I feel practically like a self-respecting adult!
Well, except that I bought all children’s clothes …
“Truth is always the first casualty of war.” — Aeschylus.
“The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country.”
— Edward Bernays, Propaganda (1928).
“[In] Democratic societies … the state can’t control behavior by force. It can to some extent, but it’s much more limited in its capacity to control by force. Therefore, it has to control what you think.” — Noam Chomsky, Chronicles of Dissent, 1992.
“Through clever and constant application of propaganda, people can be made to see paradise as hell, and also the other way round, to consider the most wretched sort of life as paradise.” — Adolf Hitler.
“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. ” — Joseph Goebbels.
“Propaganda must confine itself to very few points, and repeat them endlessly.” — Adolf Hitler.
“See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda.” — George W. Bush.
“The truth is the greatest enemy of the State.” — Goebbels.
“Propaganda must never serve the truth, especially not insofar as it might bring out something favorable for the opponent.” — Hitler.
“One cannot wage war under present conditions without the support of public opinion, which is tremendously molded by the press and other forms of propaganda.” — Gen. Douglas MacArthur.
Is that so? I think I disagree, but I’ve debated this before, during Sam Haskins month, when I went off on Leni Riefenstahl. It is a damned tangled web, and the propaganda flows from all sides.
Some of those posters are by Cliff Chiang and some by Joe Carroney, and some by unknown others; see, the sources from which I gathered all these images were kind of slipshod in their own sourcing so if you know specifics please do shoot them my way because I am dissatisfied with the low-class credit attribution job I’m turning in on this one so far.
Portions of this entry have appeared before.
When I overhauled my life last year, I discovered that I am not a big guy for the television (except for 30 Rock, though even that I just periodically catch up on using the hulu), so I — without fanfare or officialdom but just mainly and casually — quit it nearly altogether in favor of holing up under the covers with a book or lurking in the batcave on the computer. However, the one show I stopped watching but have never stopped thinking about is Lost, the final episode of which airs tonight.
I’ve mainly kept up this year and now I find myself looking down the barrel of the final episode. The thing is, almost literally everything in my life has changed since I first heard about and, a few months later when it premiered, began watching this show. I mean everything. Like, other than my gender, I have changed pretty much every other aspect of my life. I’ve had a child, earned a degree, married, moved, moved again, split up, shook up, sometimes I even throw up, overhauled career and self, set new goals, I mean, jeebus — I’ve been all over the map physically and emotionally since I first tuned in to this program.
(Not pictured in the above shot: Velociraptor cyborgs and the ghost of Abraham Lincoln’s clone. Yes, clone — the Good One. The Evil One went rogue and was shot by government agent and island native John Wilkes Boothe. Oh, historical snap! Eventually they killed the Good One too and his ghost haunts the island now because it is all just Agent Mulder’s dream.) I remember one time a friend telling me that he’d hit rock bottom and I agreed I’d done the same — but we also concurred that suicide was for neither of us an option because then we would never know what happens on the last episode of Lost. Does Gilligan pick Ginger? Or Mary Anne?? Aw, just kiddin’, rabid Losties. He picks the Skipper, duh!
It is sobering to consider how different a person I am now than I was when this interest began. I cannot even begin to count the ways, and it’s actually starting to freak me out. So now I am preparing to throw on pyjamas, pick up pepperoni pizza, and slide on down to Gorgeous George’s with the kidlet to watch the finale of Lost, and, in a wider sense, take another step toward closing what has been a very tumultuous chapter in my life.
Catch you on the flip side. (“See you in another life, brutha.”)
Spoiler: I can’t believe Darth Vader is Charles Widmore’s father.
I hope your mom has a good Mother’s Day. Sick burn! Except actually a fond wish …
Alanis Morissette — “The Heart of the House”
Shirley MacLaine and daughter Sachi.
You are the original template.
You are the original exemplary.
How seen were you, actually?
How revered were you, honestly, at the time?
Why pleased with your low maintenance?
Where was your ally,
your partner in feminine crime?
But, oh, mother, who’s your buddy?
Oh, mother, who’s got your back?
Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher on Debbie’s birthday.
The heart of the house,
The heart of the house.
All hail the goddess.
Joanie and Christina.
You were “good-ol'”
You were “count on her ’til four a.m.”
You saw me run from the house
In the snow melodramatically.
Marvelous Jessica Walter as Lucille on Arrested Development. It is comforting to know there are many worse winkers in the world than me. (But I wager not a great many.)
But, oh, mother, who’s your sister?
Oh, mother, who’s your friend?
The heart of the house.
The heart of the house.
All hail the goddess.
Shirley and Sachi again, by Leo Fuchs. I adore pictures of the two of them together.
We left the men and we went for a walk in the gatineaus
And talked like women,
Like women to women would.
“‘Women to women would’ — where did you get that from?
Must’ve been your father, your dad.”
Audrey Hepburn and her mother before the Occupation.
I got it from you, I got it from you.
Do you see yourself in my gypsy garage sale ways?
In my fits of laughter?
In my tinkerbell tendencies?
In my lack of color coordination?
Probably like the fifth time I’ve used this picture. Bebe Buell and Liv Tyler, beautiful women and loving mothers both.
All my best wishes to the maternal among us of any age or gender. I don’t believe God intends any of us to be orphans. In the absence of a literal physical “mother,” I hope we are able to open our hearts to others in our lives that wish to help fill that role. And if you have still your original mom, won’t you call her or something? It’s a horrible and complex thing and that’s why none of us mothers are perfect, because it’s the first time you realize that you have to be this role first, and a person second, and though high-handed so-called instruction books abound, your own children arrive essentially manual-less. Cut mom a break and shoot her a thank you, maybe? As Panda says, file that under “just sayin’.” SeaQuest out!
“1, 2, 3 — 4, 5, 6 — 7, 8, 9 — 10, 11, 12
Stormtroopers came to the Stormtroopers’ picnic…”
Photograph by Mark, aka smokebelch on the flickr.
The counting song “Ladybugs’ Picnic” was written and recorded in 1971 for the Childrens’ Television Workshop masterpiece Sesame Street. It was written by Bud Luckey with lyrics by Dan Hadley, and sung for the show by Muppeteers Richard Hunt (R.I.P., wonderful you) and Jerry Nelson. The first episode in which it aired was marked 0416 and appeared as Season 4, Episode 12. Original airdate December 11, 1972.
Though most of the Sesame Street content was usually filmed/animated at the same time in good-sized chunks in various studios after long brainstorming and writing sessions, individual segments could often languish on the shelf for awhile, until just the right spot in the exactly perfect episode was found for them. Such is the case in the gap between the writing of “Ladybugs’ Picnic” by Luckey and Hadley, its recording with vocal track by Jerry and Richard — you know them better as Waldorf and Statler, among the many characters they voice — and its eventual appearance almost two years later on the show.
I have much more to say about wonderful Richard Hunt a different day. That’s one that I won’t be forgetting.
“Batmasks” by Wirrow on the flickr.
Expect to read so much more about this. I can think of like 8 different ways of illustrating some of the amazing points Mr. Schöpflin makes throughout this fascinating essay on assimilation of cultural identities in order to face a morally uncertain future and the ambiguities of morality in a closed system where we pretend it is not bounded and treat as sacrosanct the presupposed morality that sits at its taboo-ridden core, too, like I’d go first obviously with stills from The Dark Knight to illustrate boundaries of security and the agents of anarchy and how new identities must be constructed to counteract them and maintain the safety of the bounded identity, then some Star Wars classic trilogy (Han vs. Boba Fett as two sides of the outsider coin, Luke vs. Vader as defending assimilated symbolic identities), then A Fistful of Dollars, then Sanjuro … like … dag.
“Nanananana” by annbemoish on the deviantart.
But instead I will be in Arcata, kicking these ideas around in my brain while Katohs and I listen to likely pointless drivel about how motivated and enriched the lives of the students at CSU Humboldt are thanks to their four years on the campus. It is like, dudes, she already wants to go here and you have agreed that she should: just tell the girl where the bathrooms and the coffee are, let her find some hookups for less savory entertainments, put in some face time with her department folks, and send us on our way. We do not need the I’m-okay-you’re-okay, hugs-across-the-student-body, banana splits and chicanery. It is well-understood that she is the most supafly and okay-est cat in town. Duh.
But on the plus side — road trip with Special K! Off to google sushi restaurants in Santa Rosa (our lunchtime stopping goal).
As seen on the forums of somethingawful.
Last night was supposed to be Star Wars and Indiana Jones trivia night at the pub, but there was a snafu with the printer and we did regular trivia instead. Total folklore!
It’s been rescheduled for next week. So, if you are in the area, come down to P. Wexford’s in Modesto next Tuesday starting at 7pm for cheap Irish pints and a no-holds-barred*, bloody-knuckles-trivia-showdown. Prize is a free round of beer for the winners! And the knowledge that you are the geekiest person in the pub. Which is saying something, believe me!
*okay. Some holds barred. Boob honks and throwin’ elbows are just plain not allowed.