Le sigh

Oct. 22nd, 2009 02:41 pm
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Peace, Ghani
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So, suffering from a wicked bout of insomnia at the moment; worried about coherency, which is why I've been scarce on the internet the past few days. Visiting a few of my favorite internet haunts this morning, some that I don't visit a lot for various reasons, and was reminded of how hard Noel and Mike Fielding rock the world! From Noel's official Twitter:

my brother dreamed I was trapped inside a huge solid gold greyhound on wheels wearing a poncho with my face sticking out. I love him.

I bloody love that man. Going to go lie down now, if I'm lucky take a little nap-nap.

Peace, my brothas and sistahs
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You know when you take a bite of a andwich or something, and then you try to talk, so you sort of shove it to the side of or under your tongue? That's how Scott Stapp sings. [livejournal.com profile] picklepopsicle calls it the pickle in the mouth.

I don't mean to sound like a fanatic or anything, but I did grow up around one of the most (unintentionally) inconsiderate smokers I've ever known and this is an observation: I haven't gotten really sick in a long time. I mean like coughing up hard bits of brown and grey...somethings. I seriously think it's because I'm not around my mom smoking all the time anymore. I never got sick like that when I was young, and haven't since she passed on; there was just that period of about fifteen years when I was a shut in and near her all the time. I loved my mom but she used to sit there and tut about people complaining over second hand smoke while the rest of the family, two chronic asthmatics, would be choking until they were purple in the face.

I miss having a bedroom "suite." I don't like to be seen before I've gotten myself ready. It's not like, "Don't look at me! I'm a monster!" It's more like a matter of privacy. The first house we lived in when we moved to Florida, I was completely private; the second, there was this pocket door that shut in the second and third bedrooms along with the bathroom, so that was as good as a private suite. Here, I have to parade across the hall to the bathroom; I don't care for it.

I think I might be having a mid-mid-life crisis. My celebrity crushes are getting younger and younger, as I pointed out to my sister last night, if you take, from the beginning of the year, Nicolas Cage and then progress down to Shia LaBeouf, which I really do feel like the creepy lady in the car offering him candy. I mean, there are older men and men my age, like Jeffrey Donovan or Edgar Wright, but then there's the Shias and Garrett Hedlunds. My sister was surprised but then admitted that she had had a dream in which I was romantically involved with Daniel Radcliffe.

Which is pretty flattering, 'cos Harry Potter's hung!

I'm extremely bored.

Peace, Ghani
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Now behind a realistic LJ cut! )

Wow, don't know what to add to that.

EDIT: You must, you must, you must read the article that that belonged to-- No Spitting on the Road to Olympic Glory, Beijing Says

Peace, Ghani


Feb. 23rd, 2007 07:22 pm
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Because I could use some cheering up today:

Peace, Ghani
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It's one of the most common childhood fears: A darkened bedroom, a child asleep, curled up in the covers, when sudeenly a tap, tap, tap at the window awakens them. At first, as they groggily come to awareness, they might believe that it's only the wind, a tree branch, perhaps, blown against the pane. Perhaps it's all a dream and the child never really heard anything at all. There's a breathless moment of anticipation, silence, and then it comes again, more deliberate. The child snaps awake and, wide-eyed, slips out of bed and cautiously approaches the window. Each footstep on the floor brings the child closer and closer, the shadows cast on the walls are moving--is that the outline of a person?! Carefully, the child draws the blinds back and looks out. Standing there, in the darkness they see... George Washington.

Total. Mood killer.

I can safely add that now to the very short list of things that would absolutely not terrify me if seen standing out side my window, right ahead of Luke Skywalker and a very comfy chair.

Peace, Ghani
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Homer: Kids, kids. I'm not going to die. That only happens to bad people.
Lisa: What about Abraham Lincoln?
Homer: He sold poison milk to school children.
Marge: Homer!
-The Simpsons

Okay, so I adore anthology show Masters of Horror. Not only does it showcase new and upcoming talent in the genre (who aren't Eli Roth, my nemisis), but it gives a chance to those who have worked pretty thanklessly for years. I don't think I've ever sat through one I didn't enjoy on some level. Erm, until last night that is. Actually, I was really enjoying the first half, but then realized where it was all going, and at a snail's pace as well, and not only felt dissatisfied, but rather alarmed by its message.

It's not unusual to find political satire in horror; hell, like sci-fi, it seems ripe for it. I've seen quite a few on Masters of Horror itself, such as the amazing, surprisingly touching and sharp Homecoming, so when my sister turned it on last night and the opening scene involved the lead characters listening to a political talk show on the radio, I knew what I was in for. Or thought I did at least.

It got progressively stranger from there. The parents of a ten year old daughter don't think it's odd or creepy at all that an older gent, who is behaving so strangely I'd have a hard time not laughing in his face, offer the kid a lollipop of his favorite flavor, cherry. Um, yeah. Wjat they do find creepy and odd is a portrait of George Washington in their deceased granny's basement. Yup, folks Washington. George. The. The little girl screams when she catched sight of a beam of light only highlighting his eyes and the father proclaims that he was always scared of the painting. Yup, George Washington, the very same historical favorite who could ruin any Ouji reading at any happening slumber party just by his presence via the board; he's just not scary!

Well, it was called The Washiontonians and did have a Headless Horseman-esque opening sequence in which a Revolutionary figure stalks and cuts a woman's head off, so we decided to wait and see. Where was this all going? Down the crapper, it turned out. You see, Washington, according to this story, was a cannibal. Remember the cherry tree? Well, that was a metaphor for virginity, and cutting down the cherry tree equated in eating the flesh of a virgin. seriously, folks, I couldn't make this up if I tried. and I wouldn't want to.

You see, in the end, our lesson was that people want to believe the myth of history, it's what survives, and some would go to any length to conceal "the truth" (used in the same vague manner as it was on X-Files, where they threw around the term weekly without ever defining just what they expected it to be). In a none too suble allegory (with emphasis on the gory), we're shown that governments are cruel cannibalistic monsters who eat the people they serve and turn inward on themselves. At the very end, we're told that "one George was swapped for another", and we're shown a dollar bill with Dubbya's face proudly smiling back at us as the characters comically all exclaim, 'No shit!'

I got over the idea that history was written by the winners when I was in my teens; after all, if that were true, what would we know about Auschwitz, Wounded Knee, or Billy the Kid? What my sister said after watching it was true: History sorts itself out; it's the present people are usually blind to. But, more than that, the paranoia of governmental mistrust runs so deeply throughout the story, it scared me. The end comes as the cannibals are gunned down by "the men who could cover up anything", like Roswell, we're told. The kindly professor who was in search of that elusive "the truth" tells our intrepid hero to get the word out, no matter what. I mean, the whole thing is fucking insane!

And it's offensive. Trust me, I'm not the model of a flag waving partior these days, but I do respect our history and the men who had the vision to set us all on a new course in life. While they refer to Washington's image as that of a "kindly old gentleman" in the show, I've always thought of him as the spirit of youthful, idealistic exuberance, just like our own country back in those days. How, in any way, their situation echoes our present day conundrum completely eludes me, to compare the war in Iraq with the Revoltuion is hilariously offbase and plain bizzare, to compare the respective leaders is worse.

And I have to wonder just how they thought history could be hidden quite so well when we know more about them than we really should do via letters (and don't tell me Adams was in any way involved in any of this because, for Gawd's sake, it's Adams!); our attempt to "humanize" them stripping them of a kind of pleasant mystique we've kept to.

And what's with Washington's fake teeth? Do people really find them ominous and terrifying? There's such a strange focus on the grotesqueness of his dentures, with close-ups of the cannibals mock pairs and one even having an almost orgasmic reaction to the originals. Are people really scared of this shit?! Is this, like, some rational fear that other people have and we just don't know about it?! My grandmother wore dentures and, aside from the contant click-clack that could get on one's nerves, I wasn't ever really mortally terrified of them. And the thing with the wood- it's old, guys! We know from historic texts that they didn't look bad! Well, why would they? He was rich, he was famous, would he really have disguting dentures? Think about it. Or, please don't, actually.

I know it's just a fantasy, but who would write this stuff, who would believe this is an accurate analogy?! I always knew the complete whackjobs were out there, I just never realized that someone who was as seemingly intelligent as to get his works published would be on the level of men who wear tinfoil hats so the CIA can't read their thoughts.

Peace, Ghani
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ARGH! The ongoing saga that is my laptop crash resfuses to die! After months of drama, taking it to best Buy, having them run the diagnostic, telling them to install a new hard drive, waiting for them to do it, calling Compaq to get a new set of back up discs (my brother did that part, I hate phones! Bleh!), waiting for 'em, taking them to best Buy for the Geek Squad to install, I got it home today and discovered, surprise, that the one feature I use, the word processor, wasn't there. Oh, they installed virus protection and media players galore, which are all pretty useless to me as I don't use my laptop to get online. But no Word, no Works. So, now, I'll have to wait until I have the moolah, which might not be for some time, shell it out and install that. I am vexed.

And what a lovely way to end a day that started, well, near 4 o'clock this morning, when I actually fell asleep. Been drowsy ever since finally dragging my lazy butt out of bed around noon. Had some particularly vivid dreams which kept me restless, snoozing in fits and starts, and even though every time I woke up, I told myself, 'Don't have the same dream, don't have the same dream', it was right there again when I drifted off. I don't get my hyper-real Titanic dreams so much anymore, but when I do, they're usually whoppers; whether that has to do with a heightened level of reality or the fact that I'm not "used" to them anymore, I do not know. All I know is, it's impossible to explain them because they work on feelings rather sight or description. I can't put down in words the sheer and over-whelming enormity of the ship as I sat in a small lifeboat alongside it, the frightening height of the stern as it stood straight in the air, or the smoke stack as it broke off. Truly terrifying stuff and you're going to have to take my word on it because nothing could ever sum up the sheer emotions I was feeling while dreaming. Still right now, thinking about it, it scares the hell out of me!

Ah, well. I suppose it's a trade off: One night, Bale sex, the next, Titanic sinking! Then again, if I remember correctly, Bale sex also including family!angst and hentai-style tentacle rape... Well, strike that theory. ;-P

Peace, Ghani
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Your Daddy Is Johnny Depp

What You Call Him: Daddy-o

Why You Love Him: He gives good spankings

Peace, Ghani


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Jean: A Legend In My Own Mind

March 2017

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