Brain Crumbs

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

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

• 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

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

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.