Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The estimated blackboard pauses opposite his thesis.

Prefab Sprout - Jordan: The Comeback: Painful. Critics swoon over Prefab Sprout. And I demand that they justify themselves. This overlong album (by about 17 songs) grates horrendously. Twee and kaleidoscopic. It's so bad, I'm reduced to poor commentary with incomplete sentences made only of adjectives. The only song I really think is worthwhile is "Scarlet Nights," a touching yet rollicking farewell to a dying relative. (And if you can't tolerate even that, you're completely forgiven.)

The Iron Lady: I was too young to really get Margaret Thatcher. To me, Maggie was just a stern British headmistress on the news who was the last person you wanted as a babysitter. Oh, and the punks hated her. Normally, a movie about her would barely raise an eyebrow. But this has me itching to see more. And Meryl Streep could clinch an Oscar - or at least a nomination - on the basis of this trailer alone. Hell, she's not even onscreen for half her part!

Uh...um...this. This actually outdoes People of Wal-Mart. I mean, I kind of slightly enjoy POWM once every few years. But then I get to thinking...hmm. These people are genetically related to me. I could, theoretically, breed with one of these people and we could turn out a specimen that is not incompatible with life. All the DNA fits, we share the same number of chromosomes...it could happen. (Though, of course, the same could be said about a chihuahua and a Great Dane. Theoretically.) And it's at that point that I'm out.
See, with these two glass-eyed walking poster children for Ugly Anorexics of America, I don't even enjoy looking at them. There's no schadenfreude, no amusing rolling of the eyes. It's just disgust that paparazzi have deemed these genetic freaks somehow worthy of tabloids. I mean, they don't do anything interesting. They don't even move. They just stand, wear expensive, ugly...uh...clothes, and look homely. But combine this phenomenon with some of the most nauseating conspicuous consumption and saddest use for reptiles, and we have reached the level of obscenity. If this is what these twins are good for, then put 'em out of my misery. I have a garden to cultivate. Ship 'em off to Siberia. Or a cat farm. (I'm convinced they're gonna be the subject of the next Grey Gardens.)

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

"With thy blast of thunder/O tear me asunder!"

Storms. Good god, I love 'em. Too often here in Denver, we get the huge clouds, the darkened skies, the thunder, a fair bit of wind, some lightning, and some big raindrops. But all too often, they just tease us with what sounds like it could be some rip-roarin' fun, then move on with nothing to show for it except further evidence that we're just an inch of rain or so from living in a full-on desert.
For some reason, while Texas and so much of the south is reeling from a gawdawful drought, we've been getting rain, rain, rain, for once. And last night was the wildest of it all. I wandered outside to skies that were lit up almost constantly from lightning behind the most frightening, forbidding squall line I've ever seen. (Cue "Ride of the Valkyries" or "Night on Bald Mountain.") Seriously, the sky was dark midnight purplish-blue, and the thunder, for quite a while, was ominously silent. Only the wind played with the trees, freakishly, tickling the leaves in preparation for an onslaught.
And man, did it come. I haven't seen a storm pummel the earth like this one did in years. Some people get frightened to death of thunderstorms. I have to be a part of it. I run outside and stand, flee, exult in the middle of it all, and am whipped around by the wind, stung by the rain, blinded by the lightning, and riven by the thunder deep in my bones. And I run back inside, my body flooded with water, shivering, and screaming, "I'M ALIIIVE!!!" It's my soul's all-too-swift escape from a beige, cubicled world.

Storms like that inspire a myriad of Facebook posts, of course. Unfortunately, I notice how many people were amazed by all the "lightening." And I die a little inside.

(Added: Not five minutes after I posted this, did another wild storm hit town. You know exactly what I did. Only this time, I had to wait until the hail passed. My revelries do know bounds, after all.)

Sunday, July 10, 2011

"The illegal cigarette waits for the formal airport."

Ambien - No long and heavily-researched rant here. But I've heard so many horror stories about this drug. One friend took Ambien before taking a flight to South America. The next thing he knew, he was being yanked off the plane forcibly by security, and was nearly arrested until he mentioned that he had taken Ambien. Other people have engaged in simple sleep-eating and sleep-driving, sleep-crashing, and coming to hours later with no recollection of said stupid actions. I'm sure you can Google to your heart's content and find more stories.

If the FDA had a conscience of any kind, it would yank this drug posthaste. As it is, I have NO trust and NO respect for the FDA. And for those people who claim that Ambien does such good for you? Go and get your insomnia treated safely and effectively...and ideally, naturally. You do not suffer from an Ambien deficiency. Figure out what's wrong. Then treat it appropriately.

Counting change the right way - I'm so gonna date myself for this...at least, I'm sure I will. But go purchase something for $17.36. Plunk down a yuppie food stamp. And the cashier will undoubtedly (assuming there's not an automatic change dispenser) look at the $2.64 change display, and haul out two ones, two quarters, a dime, and four pennies. In that order. It's the tiniest of pet peeves. But. It ain't right.

The next person I see saying "thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, fifty, seventy-five, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty" while counting out the change in that order and handing it to me in that order, I will automatically tell to keep the change for themselves. Just because that's how it should be done, yo.