Friday Cat Blogging

At right, the cats uncharacteristically dozing together on the futon, itself an unremarkable fact except that Trouble (left), the older and surlier one, never sits on the futon, much less sleeps on it. (Too bad I wasn’t fast enough to snap them cleaning each other.) Like Mutt and Jeff, these two. As I write this, Trouble’s back on the futon, fast asleep with his head in his paws, while Jenny (right) ogles squirrels from the back window. And while Jenny is always the darling, the ever-affectionate one, it’s Trouble who always surprises me: he’s acting more and more now like he did twelve years ago than six months ago. Why? Damned if I know. I just do what I’m told. As a friend likes to remind me, "Dogs have masters, cats have servants."

Am also going to try adding a bit of music to the blog now and then, though only for a day or two at a time. Here’s today’s offering, from an old master. Enjoy.

Out Of The Mouths Of....

From Overheard In New York:

NYU ditz: Oh, I know, I love philosophy classes. You can just feel your mind turning in new ways, grasping at straws.

Aha! Proof-positive: Several wrongs do make a right!

But someone should tell that poor girl that it's not nice to do such things to perfectly innocent metaphors.

Seedy Gonzales

I think the U.S. Attorney-General's ouster is pretty much inevitable now. (See also Slate's discussion of same here.) Frankly, I don't see how President Shrub can justify keeping him on at this point. Then again, I don't see how President Shrub can justify keeping himself on. Dangling apricocks and noisome weeds and all that.

This blog, however, can't help but observe that it's a chap named Sampson bringing the house down. In an Allen Drury novel, such a coincidence (should we call it onomastopoeia?) would have been considered a little too "on-the-nose. "

Follow-Up: Andrew Sullivan brings my attention to this seconder (or thirder, or...) of the Shrubbie jiggering of the justice system.

Boelyn For Dollars

Call it Parr for the coarse? (And somewhere, RK is shaking his head in magnificent despair.)

Gettin' Icky With It, Part Deux; or Ooze Lines Are They Anyway?

This blog can't wait for the sequels. Arse Poetica, perhaps? Pus in Boots? And this blog won't even consider the panoply of pubescent possibilities...

More-than-slightly discomforting key quote: "There is education there, but it is not rammed down their throats." Ahem...

Waiting to Exhale

Because there's nothing worse than a long Pooh dispute. (Redefines the term "press release," non?)

Gettin' Icky With It, or Whose Hairline Is It, Anyway?

Your disturbing image of the day, courtesy the Washington Post: Karl "Turd Blossom" Rove rapping, with Brad Sherwood and Colin Mochrie. Make sure you check out the video so you too can have a little taste of vomit in your mouth for the remainder of the day.

So we’ll go no more a Roving...

Afterthought: Maybe "Scene to Rap" wasn't such a bad choice; we all know Rover wouldn't have done very well with "Questions Only."

Licking Alec Guinness

C'mon, you know you wannnnnna.... (Feel free to vote here.)

I wonder if the Yoda one will taste like a peanut.

Walker, Texas Asshat

Because what the United States needs most right now is policy advice from the star of The Octagon.

Now Waaaaaait A Minute....

Just testing something out here....

Tuesday Tosses

Just some short takes on a few items of potential interest:

Curious about some of those academic cliches? Then see here. Keep in mind, of course, that cliches arise from the preponderance of experience resorting to pithy familiarity to explain itself.

2Blowhards go on a bit about 300 in this piece. Still have to see the blasted thing myself, though girding oneself for an engorged video game of rampant decapitations is tougher than it used to be.

Stephen Greenblatt has a piece from the New York Review of Books about Shakespeare and the uses of power. Not as bad as some of his stuff, at least.

FreewareGenius has brought my attention a few progs worth checking out, some of which are really quite neat: I recommend Spyware Terminator and KlipFolio (a variation on the Google Desktop sort of thing). When you’re like me, working with a computer that went obsolete in the Carter administration, you get very picky about the progs you’ll keep, especially since so many of them these days tend to be as resource-taxing as a trophy wife. (Yeah, Firefox, I’m looking at you, ye who could suck Uranus through a garden hose.) Terminator does fast, efficient and regular scanning for spyware, and (unlike Spybot and such) offers a real-time protection function. KlipFolio sets up your widgets for email, RSS feeds, Flickr and YouTube updates, among other things, in a fashion that’s flexible and resource-light. It provides a nice little gestalt of what’s new on the Net before you even have to open your browser. Give ’em both a try.

File it under Interesting Times, as Quebec has elected its first minority parliament in almost 130 years. It’s a bit of a rebuke against Premier Jean Charest, but a slap in the face of the Parti Quebecois.

In need of a good laugh? An old chestnut for your savoury finger, Fry and Laurie’s Barman sketch. It’s almost as funny as an episode of 24, which yesterday brought President Palmer the Younger out of his medically-induced coma, even though we’ve still to learn anything about the status of President "Douchebag of Liberty" Logan, stabbed episodes ago by the former First Lady when she inexplicably mistook her ex-husband for a giant kiwi. Somebody really has to tell the 24 writers that nearly losing one President is unfortunate, but nearly losing two-- well, that just seems like carelessness.

Enough for now. On to Other Stuff.

The End Of Rome (updated, briefly)

In a few days, HBO will air the last episode of Rome, its two-season series about the rise and fall of Caesar (Season One) and Mark Antony (Season Two). Apparently the cost of producing the show became prohibitive, despite the raves and ratings it regularly gathered, so HBO's ending it outright, even though there are hundreds of years of possible stories to tell. Too bad, but this blog’s wondering if HBO will be tempted to end the show in a fashion familiar to viewers, rather than merely follow history, given the programme’s willingness to junk history for spectacle. (See, for example, Brutus’ death in battle rather than his historical suicide.) So, let’s consider some of the possibilities:

• Camera comes in on a woman in bed, and then pans up to reveal the sleeping figure of Calpurnia. She wakes up, rubs her eyes, and sleepily makes her way to the vomitorium (last night being what it was); and there she discovers--- gasp and haw--- Caesar, alive and well! It was a dream! It was all a dream!


• Or, in a similar fashion, Pompey wakes up one morning to find himself in bed with Suzanne Pleshette. (A Pompous circumstance, no less.)


• Octavian, having eradicated Antony and Cleopatra accordingly, sails away from the Egyptian shore and discovers that Antony has left, in stone marks upon the pyramids, the word "Goodbye." [Cue "Suicide Is Painless" as everyone begins crying and rending their garments.]


• Alternately, Octavian, sailing away, perceives three figures, covered in something vaguely resembling powdered-sugar: the ghosts of the First Triumvirate. Caesar gently pats Pompey on the shoulder, while Mark Antony appears, finally at peace with himself. Octavian then goes off and, ahem, "hugs" his sister, while soldiers dressed as teddy-bears dance goofily in celebration.


• Antony goes backwards and forwards on his commitments to Octavia and Cleopatra, and takes off, ostensibly to marry one or the other, while his friends idle about and drink, lamenting the end of an era. Eventually Antony returns, miraculously single, reclaims Egypt, and gets royally sauced with his much-more-important-than-women fellows in drink. A ninety-minute reunion episode follows, hosted by Jay Leno.


• Octavian and Pullo, sauntering away from the dead Tony and Cleo, gaze knowingly at one another, until Octavian suggests that this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.


• Octavian, now Augustus Caesar, is drinking wine in Agrippa’s office, just having discharged Posca for his latest information. Then Octavian looks into the bottom of his goblet, as Agrippa explains the order to his chaos, saying that you have to see the whole picture. Cassius, Cassius, Cassius: and there at the bottom of the goblet, the maker of it, while the camera pans away to a lean and hungry bastard walking gleefully away. "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled...."


• Frogs fall on Egypt. But at this time, no one can be bothered to notice.


• Antony, in committing suicide, swears, upon that dying sword, that it’s a far, far better thing that he does than he has ever done before. No one, curiously, disagrees with him.


• Atia, returned to Rome, so much having happened, rests in bed, caressing herself. And yes he would say yes he would yes, she moans, as the closing credits roll.


• Octavian chases Antony and Cleopatra to the top of the Sphinx, where, naturally, she falls off and hangs by the creature’s nose, until he pulls he up (Octavian having fallen off in the interim), and pulls her into a sweet and decadent embrace. On a barge and in a bunk together. (Surprise, surprise.)
  


• Marcus Aurelius appears, and snottily says, "Stop this! Stops this!" He immediately arrests the entire cast and shuts down production.


• Octavian and Agrippa, successful at last in their vanquishing of Antony ("that’s Anthony!") and his scourge, sail off into Mediterranean--- and then inexplicably land. They debark and walk into the sunset, toward a waiting limousine, which carries them off as an appropriate Eastern anthem burgeons....

What’s your favourite? Got one of your own? Toss ’em up in the penis pitchfork peanut gallery.

/and, yeah, I guess I’m kinda back; kinda....
// and yeah, made it all this with way without a Caligula reference. I must be getting mild in my old age.

FOLLOWUP:  Naturally, it ended with a little bit of historical fantasy.  I'll be kind and not spoil it, but suffice to say there was a little Caesarion resectioning, with a note of Casablanca to boot.  Oy vey.  

Finally, We Have Found Dr J's Ideal Mate

She may be rusty, but damned sure she’d also be appreciative.

And in other news: See, even her family wants to be rid of her....

Has the whole world gone gay?

Forget about that ridiculous wardrobe malfunction incident. Apparently this year’s Superbowl halftime prompted 150 disgusted complaints to the FCC from viewers and The Smoking Gun website has posted some of them. Basically the Superbowl seems to be more of a revelation about the twisted psyches of the viewers than it is about the football. Here is one of the most insane complaints and it begs the question of whether most of these people have the IQ required to work a spellchecker:

It was obscene to show Prince a HOMOSEXUAL person through a sheet as to show his siluette while his guitar showed a very phalic symbol coming from his below-midriff section. I am very offended and I would preffer not to have showed it to my 4 children who love football. One of them has hoped to be a quarterback and now he will turn out gay. I am actually considering to check him for HIV. Thanks CBS for turning my son gay

Most of the complainants agreed that Prince was giving a graphic phallic display (not realizing it was his symbol from when we couldn't call him Prince), however their versions are pretty different. Some described seeing stains on the curtain he was behind (they were looking very closely I guess), his stroking of the guitar neck, some saw testicles (on a guitar?) and one was appalled that the protrusion had the appearance of a massive pitchfork (Yowzah!). Apparently one man was so ashamed of his size in comparison that he couldn’t perform that night. Sure buddy, keep telling yourself that...

Other than Prince, half the complaints to the FCC were focused on the Snickers commercial that was pulled because gay rights groups rightly protested that the men who accidentally kissed had to do something ‘manly’ to wash away the taint of gayness. Naturally if thoughts of Prince’s package prompted such complaints, imagine the homophobic outrage this commercial caused. Again, some people claimed they saw tongues intertwining and heard them making ‘prurient noises’, one person wrote something about one of the men simulating an erection in the other’s face??? Um, what commercial were you freaks watching because it sounds like you stumbled onto a wicked episode of kink. They were all upset however about being tricked into watching ‘gay sex’ when they thought they were just going to see some football.

What astounds me is this: isn’t football kinda gay to begin with? All those guys in tight spandex pants, who run around and dive on one another, wriggle around and then smack each other on the ass for a doing a good job with the pinning and wriggling??

p.s. the title of this post has a link just for fun

The Hand That Rocks The Something-Something

Had to share this, blog-break or no: the best internet ad ever. Enjoy.

Touching Me, Touching You

This isn’t quite a return to blogging (I’m still savouring my indolence), but was posed an interesting question the other day, and it seemed a fun one to answer here. Some of you might want to chime in with your own answers, if you dare. The question that’s not really a question: Name TEN songs you’re embarrassed, or should be embarrassed, to have in your music library, or that people would never expect you to have in it. My threshold for shame being what it is, here goes, with a few extras in the hope any confessional overage counts toward karmic bonus-points.

• INXS, "Please (You Got That)": A revolting band from a revolting age for music, but this song featured Michael Hutchence making the deadly mistake of trying to keep up with Ray Charles, who was only phoning it in and still kicking Hutchence’s Aussie ass.


• Jann Arden, "Could I Be Your Girl?": Here’s something that probably says something about the occasional derangement of my imagination, because every time this song plays, I hear Tom Waits doing the chorus in full-throated snarl. This, of course, gets very funny when the title words come up.


• Tom Jones, "What’s New Pussycat?": Easy to forget sometimes the man has a helluva voice, so thoroughly he’s now dipped in cheese, and this song has to be one of the most ridiculous, even by his standards. But c’mon, how can you not have it?


• Rod Stewart, "People Get Ready": I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate Rod Stewart, especially for his horrifying mutilations of other people’s lesser-known hits (Van Morrison’s "Have I Told You Lately," Robbie Robertson’s "Broken Arrow," Tom Waits’ "Downtown Train," to name just a few). But this Curtis Mayfield classic is almost miraculously immune to Rod’s butchery. Almost.


• Corinne Bailey Rae, "Put Your Records On": I don’t know why I actually kinda like this song, though maybe it has something to do with the central evocation and it’s strangely catchy hook.


• Billy Ocean, "Get Outta My Dreams": Oh Good God. Enough saccharine here to fell an elephant, but (here’s that derangement again) every time I hear this song, I remember Bob Robertson from Double Exposure singing his Iraq War The First (A New Hope) parody, as Joe Clark addresses the United Nations. Hey Saddam, Get out of Kuwait, / Go back to Iraq....


• Prince, "Raspberry Beret": As one scarred in my teen years by the horrors of "Purple Rain" and "When Doves Cry," and having to dance to them no less, I should despise this song. But I don’t. In fact, quite the opposite. Don’t ask me to justify this, because I plainly and simply can’t.


• 10,000 Maniacs, "Because the Night": A limp band with a pretentious and passionless lead-singer, but the strings are cool, and this (i.e., the original) song is a classic all-round. And it’s just well-enough performed that I don’t always barrel over in laughter when Natalie Merchant instructs us to "take [her] now."


• Elton John, "I’m Your Man": More kitsch in this cover of the Leonard Cohen classic than in a dozen John Waters movies, but it’s there because I don’t have the heart to delete it. I dare you to listen to this, ahem, extraordinary rendition and not laugh.


• Sophie B. Hawkins, "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover": It has to be the only song in the past thirty years to use the word "shucks." And how can you resist imagery like, "I’ll do such things to ease your pain, / Free your mind and you won’t feel ashamed?" Oh, and I guess I should confess that I probably had a lascivious thought or two when the song was released, and may or may not have bought the CD because of them. (And don’t any of you say you didn’t do that, either. We’ll all know you’re lying. Something has to explain Color Me Badd and the Spice Girls.)


• Steve Winwood, "Valerie": I confess, I like Steve Winwood, even though he’s whiter than a frightened eggshell; but he had a great voice, and this song has some great lines, including "she was like jazz on a summer’s day" and "oh, she can’t be that one, / with the wind in her arms." A onetime involvement described Winwood’s oeuvre as "happy fuck music." True enough. (Now there’s a genre to check for in your record shops. Would parental advisories be required or implied?)


• King Harvest, "Dancing In The Moonlight": It uses the every hippie cliche it can muster, but it’s (appropriately?) catchier than herpes. Listen to it with two drinks in you, even if you’re a pro with the potables, and you’ll be dancing, too. See also James Taylor, "Mexico," and Jimmy Buffet, well, just about anything in his collection.


• Dooley Wilson, "As Time Goes By": Yes, the song from Casablanca. If any of you dare to say I’m a romantic because of this, I am not responsible for the Hostel treatment you more than surely deserve and will inevitably receive.


• Neil Diamond, "Sweet Caroline": Four words: Touching me, touching you.


• The Charlie Daniels Band, "The Devil Went Down To Georgia": Some awesome fiddle work here, and a lyric recasting the Robert Johnson myth. At least it’s not The Oak Ridge Boys.


• Tom Cochrane, "Life Is A Highway": You’re like a highway, and I wanna ride you all night long....


• Aretha Franklin, "I Say A Little Prayer": No shame at all in my Aretha collection, but since that stupid Julia Roberts movie, whichever one it was, it’s almost embarrassing to admit to liking this song. See also Roy Orbison, "Pretty Woman," and Van Morrison, "Brown-Eyed Girl," two other songs unfortunately sliced, diced, and Julianned.


• J. Geils Band, "Centerfold": "Oh no, I can’t deny it / Oh yeah, I guess I’m gonna buy it...." All that and whistling, too.


• Jim Croce, "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown": If you can resist this song, you are shamelessly and unforgivably Modern. Leroy looked like a jigsaw puzzle / with a couple of pieces gone is better than Verdi. (Then again, what isn’t?)


• Tom Jones, "Mama Told Me Not To Come": Unkind as it must seem to pick on him twice here, if there’s anything more spine-chilling than Tom Jones ejaculating, it’s the thought of his mother offering instruction upon same. That ain’t no way to have fun, as the song goes. Could only be worse if Joe Cocker sang about taking a dump, a long toothpasty one, and how his great-great-grandmother coached him through it. *shudder*

And with that image of Joe Cocker in your head (worse: imagine the spasms!), it’s back to my blogging break I go. Aren’t you glad I don’t listen to Pete Townsend? Or, heaven forfend, Ashley McIsaac? Oy vey....

looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue

I guess there is something worse than being seating next to a crying child on a long flight. At least she won't be a jerk when you have to climb over her to get to the bathroom.

crotch shot

An eyetracking experiment found that men and women tend to fixate their gaze on different areas of an image. Apparently men tend to give the crotch area a good staring even if the subject is not a Hollywood princess getting out of a car.

Coyne adds that this difference doesn’t just occur with images of people. Men tend to fixate more on areas of private anatomy on animals as well, as evidenced when users were directed to browse the American Kennel Club site.

The kennel club?! hmmmn, I'll take the Dr. J route and refrain from commenting!

Goodbye Mr. Humphries

Sad and belated news (I’m a couple of weeks behind as usual), I’ve just found out that John Inman passed away March 8th. Are You Being Served was one of the staple shows I grew up watching (disclosure: I caught it in reruns of course since I did not actually exist when it was in its first run), it was a Friday or Saturday night PBS thing that our family did until us kids were all too cool to stay at home. We usually watched some combination of AYBS with Fawlty Towers (again reruns), Blackadder later in the 80s and often we were forced to sit through Rumpole of the Bailey. This all took place way, way, way back in the days where there was one TV in the whole house, we only had antenna channels and the final decision for what we watched rested with the pater familias.

Anyhow, here's a good clip of John Inman as Mr. Humphries taking over as the Bliss Girl in the store



Having spent the last few hours scouring clips of these shows I think I have a new understanding of how my sense of humour developed the way it did and I'm a little surprised I was exposed to these shows but not allowed to watch Married with Children for some reason! A plethora of sexual double entendres to corrupt a young mind -thanks mom and dad.

FYI

The Ever-So Rotten Not-So-Good-Dr is absenting himself from his blogging duties for the next little bit, ostensibly toward refreshing the unrefreshable. Any posts here in the interim will be from nic, whose tenure here seems to be going remarkably well, and to whom I owe much. She is to be thanked in advance.

As for me: like a bad rash, I'll be back soon enough. Until then, nic's in charge here. Please be as good to her as you have been to me. She deserves it.