Brain Crumbs

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

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:

Antique Oak Dresser

Career Opportunities

Tuesday, 17 October 2006

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:

Gopher Broke
In The Rough
Aunt Luisa

Alternative Ways to Squeeze the Charmin

Tuesday, 27 June 2006

• 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™.

Hazardous Waste Spill

Tuesday, 28 March 2006

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 Found Your Pink Thong

Monday, 21 November 2005

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.


Wednesday, 16 November 2005

Today I heard “walk­ing around the house with noth­ing but the ra­dio on” as a eu­phemism for naked­ness. What are your fa­vorite eu­phemisms?