Though I do not agree with all of her politics, Annie Lennox is a personal hero of mine…a glorious singer, a brilliant woman, and an all around class act.
See the video below to understand the third part of that statement a little better…and I REALLY want one of those shirts.
As expected, Apple’s new wunderkind, the iPad, is taking the tech world by storm…however it is not without it’s detractors. In fact, the very power and savagery of apple’s hype machine is starting to put people off about the first of the coming wave of Tablet PCs.
In response to the endless amount of press about the iPad, Billy Kimball at The New Yorker decided to publish the following list of The Least Common Complaints About the iPad…and it was simply too rich not to repost here.
· Too salty.
· Time-travel app does not automatically adjust for Julian calendar.
· When used as tanning bed, battery life is limited.
· Not rhino-proof.
· Salesperson in Apple Store not wearing ironic “jazzman” hat.
· Not available in soothing Harvest Gold color.
· Strange odor coming from husband while using iPad.
· For $499, I was expecting a few more sequins.
· No USB port for whatever it is that they do.
· The iBookstore ichthyology section includes almost nothing on lampreys.
· When used as murder weapon, oleophobic coating does not completely eliminate incriminating fingerprints.
· Copying document files requires installation of forty-dollar iCarbonCopy app.
· Virtual cupholder does not actually hold cups.
· Unwilling to buy anything from Apple ever since Steve Jobs killed my parents.
· Insufficient media coverage.
· Original iPad was good enough for Grandpa and it’s good enough for me.
· Upscaling makes porn unexpectedly upsetting.
· After owning a Kindle for three weeks, I have become deeply loyal to the brand.
· The virtual keyboard is too %&@#! hard to use.
· New York Herald Tribune not available online anyway.
Plant a tree of glass and iron and burnt stone.
Drive it deep, a spike in the heart of the matter.
Make your stand, keep your counsel.
Drive it deep.
Let the world
and the heavens
and all the delights of creation
whirl around it.
Whirl around you.
Whirl away.
Wait a way.
Wait for the end of the world, a spike in the heart of the matter.
A spike in the end of the world.
Bell jar on the shelf, blue cascading down to grey.
Watching light distort to fit the shape, smoothing and sagging.
Time in a bottle, blue down to grey.
Filled with the past.
Distorting.
To fit the shape.
When in doubt, recite this to yourself 20 times fast…God knows I do.
One of my personal gods…singing the song of the day.
I have often commented here on the amazing arrogance of modern society. We are taught a contempt for the past from an early age, or perhaps that is just human nature. I remember distinctly being certain as a child that color didn’t exist in the past, and that the world of history had been in black and white. Convincing me otherwise was something of a chore.
In the same way, we tend to think that the things which give our lives color, such as sex, either didn’t exist in the past or were a sad shadow of their modern glory. That is especially true when we think of the attitudes of our female ancestors to sex…they must have been repressed, cold, trapped in a web of superstition and repression and fear before modern birth control, Cosmo and Hello Kitty vibrators set them free. However, was that really true?
Some new scholarship is emerging that shows that perhaps our great grandmothers may not have been so different in bed than our wives and girlfriends…as disturbing as that image may be.
Springtime tends to be a season of dark memories and bittersweet moments for me, but that was made all the more visceral this week after reading the story of Mike Penner/Christine Daniels.
Life is seldom easy, and the hardest thing is always finding our proper place and role in it…where we feel safe, comfortable, loved. Seeking it against all odds is an act of courage, often a source of tragedy…and I for one bitterly mourn the death of Mike/Christine, and hope that the life they lived will help other people find the peace they never found.
Read on, to understand.
Ok, I admit I am getting excited to see how they handle the last book on film, however I strangely have faith in these three. They really have grown with the characters.
Of course, in ten years it will be Daniel Radcliff appearing with the Royal Shakespeare, Emma Watson doing something shockingly intelligent and artistic in academia and Rupert “Harry Potter’s Ron” Grint in the corner seat on Hollywood Squares.
Still, I love all three of ‘em…
Looking for land in Second Life? In the mood to build a screamingly chic gothic castle, chain a few virgins in the dungeon and invite the neighbors over for coffee and Ghoul Scout cookies? Need that perfect estate on a remote promontory to brood in dashing, mysterious peace as you attempt to solve the riddle of instilling life in lifeless matter and/or how to mix the ideal Banana Daiquiri?
Then you are in LUCK! A brand new Sim is opening in Winterfell, the home for all things a bit on the deliciously macabre side in Second Life – Ravens Reach!
Read on to see the official press release and order your parcel TODAY! Contact Serra Anansi in SL for more information.
No one boring, mundane or namby-pamby need apply. Void where prohibited.
Someday, I am going to get this statement tattooed on my chest.
I mean it.
..Seriously.
The bridge looms large in my mind still…the bridge.
Stone saints dancing and dying along the bridge while streetcorner Rembrandts hustle amidst the fading pillars.
The bridge started so long away, spanning more than I pretend to understand, to take me somewhere I cannot go until I’ve been there in my childhood.
The bridge cuts through my dreams as I stare up at each chalk white face, each hard mouth whispering salvation to me.
So many figures line the bridge, so many faceless coats push and shove.
Yet on the bridge, I am always alone, alone with my ghosts.
The bridge…the bridge looms large today.
I admit, I am really not sure what to make of this one.
It seems that some academics, having nothing much else to do, decided to compare artistic representations of The Last Supper. They were not looking for anything of great theological import…no signs that Judas was giggling and making evil faces in the back, or looking for Jame’s bra strap, or even trying to work out who got stuck with the bill. No, they were examining…the portion sizes.
I mean it, I couldn’t make this stuff up. The portion sizes at The Last Supper. Read on and see.
To be honest, I have sort of based my entire life around these two simple rules.
Doctor Who trailers for Season 5 (as it is called officially by the BBC) or in more understandable parlance, 11th Doctor, Year One are all over the place this week. In fact, below you will find the trailer produced for BBC America, followed by a shorter trailer for BBC 1 in the UK. As could be anticipated, the American trailer has more meat and potential spoilers, but the UK one has much more style.
I have been officially dubious of the 11th Doctor, mainly because he appears to be about 12 years old, but his attitude and dialogue are surprisingly dark. I will still withhold judgment until this season is over…but he may be growing on me. We shall see. All I know is, I am REALLY looking forward to the start of the new season. For one thing, MORE RIVER SONG!
The News from BardHaven 