I used to have a sideblog for one-offs, riffs and links, now that’s what Facebook is for. However, here are some things I picked up on, realized, or thought about over my trip to Indiana last week.
- The first thing is one I’ve always wondered about: Why is the Yellow Freight Company’s logo orange?
- I saw a big billboard with a bald eagle and American flag that said “America — Bless God”. This doesn’t make any sense. America can’t bless God because God is from whom all blessings flow. The top 3 hits for the phrase could generate no end of cultural criticism writing. I could go on, and would really like to, but I’ll spare everyone.
- It took over a year, but I’ve now trained myself both physically and psychologically to eat smaller portion sizes. That means, on the occasions that I pig out, I’m actually just eating what Americans consider to be normal portions. My weight fluctuates between 178 & 182, and since whenever I try to dip below that, my appetite goes into overdrive, I figure that’s right where my body wants to be.
- Picked up this sweet piece of furniture for $70:
This clip, gratuitous and exploitative as it is, is one fine piece of filmmaking; which is the main reason it is so deliberately gratuitous and exploitative. Note how the timing of the cuts and changes in shot framing ramp up the sexiness of the scene, and by proxy, its comedy. Also, take note that I, Adam Harvey, have now said Something Good™ about a teenybopper romantic comedy done in the style of 1980s Brat Pack Crapfests™.
To distract you from what you most certainly think of as my blasphemy here is a spoof of the end of every 80s movie. 80s Ending.
I also recommend watching these animated shorts from Blur Studio:
In The Rough
• Vise Grips.
• Drop an anvil on it.
• With your thighs.
• Throw it into a black hole.
• Raise its property taxes.
• Trash compactor.
• Using some fat guy’s man-breasts.
• Using some hot chick’s woman-breasts.
• Belly flopping on it.
• With Dynamic Tension™.
Threes days gone down the by the road raging sybarisms and intactic redactions single-molar intransigent mendicant medication replicators, restate rewrithe intermedia necessitate interalia recalibrated the one washed wherewithal dancing on a ball entrancing seasonal spring reasonable thing this that there loafing in the wings of hanker hangar hanky-panky incorrectitude and a diet rich in amoral fiber rich and logy with prickly thickets of thought thinkers loafing on breads of self contained syllogisms tastily unmagically decanted precipitate and fall out on the bounce with scimitar slide guitar rankling wrangler haranguing around downtown with little to do and no one to pay me for it.
I posted this at Craigslist:
I was at the Tremont Laundromat, which incidentally, didn’t have raw sewage flooding out the front door today, and after I brought my clothes back to my apartment I found it. Yes, it. At first I thought I’d inherited a raggedy piece of pink dryer lint, but upon closer inspection I discovered that it was, in fact, your thong. Not just any thong, though. Your thong. This one is also, apparently, made of cheesecloth. The little bits of fabric that approximate covering are only distinguishable by being slightly wider than the actual thong, and a lesser shade of pink. Also, completely sheer.
Wearing see-through underwear [if one could be said to actually “wear” this item, and if a thong counts as “underwear”] is something of a conundrum. Roland Barthes’s essay Strip-tease may offer some insight into the paradoxical nature of covering that is, in fact, not covering; but I think it is rather obvious that this thong serves as little more than garnish for a carefully orchestrated rapprochement between various and sundry genitalia.
Stealing a page from Duchamp, I have taken to wearing your thong on my head, with the little triangle doohicky acting as a nose-guard. Thankfully this undergarment had been washed before I attempted this experiment. As a nose-warmer, the thong lacks a certain efficacy that I can only attribute to its screen-door like consistency.
Currently, your thong is pinned to my bulletin board, between a picture of my first dog and a political flyer from the Ward 13 Councilman.
In any case, Miss, if you would like me to facilitate the return of this sexually charged undergarment you may send me an email and I am sure that an agreement can be reached.
Today I heard “walking around the house with nothing but the radio on” as a euphemism for nakedness. What are your favorite euphemisms?