Great times...

...but what kind of people refuse to get up and dance to Come On Eileen?

Wouldn't mama be proud.

Looks like someone is a chip off the old block.

So, he may not have completely lost his shit on HempNecklaceGuy, but the disapproval was palpable.

To tell the truth...

If Alex can bandy about rumors, so can I. Appropriate, considering that Joss Whedon has been tapped for the screenplay, but I wish he had cast his sights a little higher to the much more Amazonian Zoe.

"Your footsteps give you away."

It doesn't take much to propel me out of bed at 2:27 AM. My brain is usually dying for a stab at paranoia at that hour and my reflexes are unswerving yes-men in the dark. Last night it was a creak--or maybe a snick--that sent me up and about, exploring the undersides of beds, standing still and snuffling for long moments at doorways, coming eerily close to looking like some kind of barefoot invader myself. Probing corners, breath held.

And creeping to the window for the final check.

I never know what to expect when I look out. A flapping dog leash in the form of a noose. A ring of dancing jackrabbits (sinister animals). Maybe an eye peering back. But I was not prepared, in bending back the blind, for it to make the same noise that woke me. At that hour strange logic asserts itself and I felt sure that it could have only been me that I had heard minutes ago--standing there, dreaming myself back in bed and waking myself in turn. Or maybe I'd been late for my nightly appointment at the window and some ghostly impulse had given the blinds a sympathetic flick. Anyway, I was comforted where I probably should not have been, and followed my previous and future shades back to sleep.

Back in your crate.

It occurred to me last week as I blew past the open windows, shrieking inanities at the pup, that I should try being more selective with my invectives. Who is it exactly that the luckless passerby thinks I'm entertaining? What is the neighborhood left guessing as choruses of whosabadboy?s and nobiting!s and shameless cackles float out past the curtains into the early afternoon? Perhaps something a little less innocent than the game of tag with a tiny bulldog who's just pissed on my foot.

Idiot, slow down.

Thom Yorke's The Eraser released yesterday. Rhapsody's withholding it and I had to fight the impulse to trot down Elmwood and buy it sight unseen. I've since heard a few tracks and meh. But a well-written review always makes a shitty album seem worthwhile.

Doin' it for themselves.

I suppose it's only fitting that I offset a weekend spent marvelling (as an outsider) at the bonds of sisterhood with an ode to the two worst sisters in literature. Balance things out a little, as I'm sure it's not all mohitos and chocolate ice cream and shared sparkly shirts. Though I could be wrong.

Aside from a scheming duo in Arabian Nights that would switch out their sister's newborns for puppies, these two are the worst of the lot. Not to mention successful, having managed spots in the biggies of both mythology and fairytale. All despite the obstacles of merchant class mediocrity, and pinching corsets, and sub-par husbands. You've got to admire their persistence.

More of the same.

Me likey. From their upcoming album.

Season of the Shark.

Went to see this last night. Great stuff, if you like arthropodal makeout scenes and fuzzed-out guitars. The crowd was an improbable mix, the music was terrifying and beautiful and precise, and the ushers were appropriately ogreish.
Oh, and the band was selling t-shirts in the Shea's lobby before the show--next to the bar, under the painting of Lucille Ball, largely ignored. It was all pretty perfect.

Oh-joh-boh.

Or whatever cutesy noises you prefer.

Puppywatch 2006 has begun. This is Dooley. Or Duel-y. Or Duly. I'm not certain on the spelling, but considering we only get him for one shift a day, it doesn't really matter.

Magically delicious.

Purple sky. Orange moon. Something real cool is happening somewhere close.

Nods.

A hearty hurrah to the Garveys. We tipped our barbeque beefs to you at lunchtime. In all seriousness.

Congrats also go out to UltraViolet for unseating Daredevil as Shittiest Movie. Affleck had a good long run, but he fell to flaming swords, sharp one-liners, and the omnipresent pelvic area of Milla Jovovich.

Never enough.

My parents returned from the wastes of El Paso this past week.

They came bearing gifts, among which were spices, hot sauce, handmade Indian kitzch (the New Mexican natives have this crazy knack for nitelights), a set of godawful monogrammed coasters that by week's end will have been tucked away, and this:


It's an actual paper with actual articles and we're actually planning on framing and hanging it. So, feel free to either covet or condemn, according to your inclination.

Feed me banks of light.

God damn, I love being an American.

Snubbed a porchly Fourth in favor of rockers and fireflies. Ate some mean brats. Hounded other peoples' dogs. Followed a glittering line of connect-the-dots back into the city on a well-timed drive home. Listened to music that filled the dark corners perfectly. Sat under a flag.

Avatar.

Gotta run...episodes of Last Airbender are on YouTube.