Is a shitty haircut and poor intellect mutually inclusive with the wearing of polo shirts, or am I more intolerant than the norm? By which I mean my norm, not society’s. Bitter Orange soda, Campari, and blood orange bitters. Soon to be grapefruit juice, Campari, and blood orange bitters. Wasabi Bloody Mary with home-smoked bacon singing its siren song, no lie.
It’s 8ish degrees above freezing, and I am shopping for engines. Hope springs eternal.
The Pagan Queen. Well worth the time.
Success is not to be measured in terms of one’s ease in paying others to do the work one cannot accomplish due to overspecialization.
It’s a bit sad, but I am simply not enchanted with Eickhoff’s versions of the Ulster Cycle. The magic of the language is lost in his use of dim modern colloquialisms.
Sur quelque préférence une estime se fonde, et c’est n’estimer rien qu’estimer tout le monde.
Oh, the eternal question: to read about evolution and psychology, or internal combustion engines and carburetion.
Nothing sadder than a shitty ‘custom’ motorcycle.
Tamarind and rum cocktails. I need to rent a shop to work in, or this will surely be a booze-addled Winter.
I now review my text-messaging after taking ambien. Last night’s areas of discussion: acquisitiveness, exotic dancers, The Wind in the Willows, libertinage, privateers. And nothing that I am hanging my head about, which sadly does occasionally happen. Odd to have a complete WTF moment and no recollection at all.
Nothing to clutch in life. Nothing to fear in death.
Nobody move, I am down to one half-full bottle of Matouk’s West Indian hot sauce. Green label, papaya, pickled scotch bonnets. Critical for meat pie ingestion.
Shite. I need to replace the wiring harness on the US bike. Worse, no heated work/storage space for me this Winter, and there is no way I can carry 500 pounds of bike up to my second-story apartment. Okay, that’s a lie. I just don’t want to carry it.
Curse of the Crimson Altar. Barbara Steele’s cleavage in blue paint. What’s not to like?
The best thing about Paranormal Activity 2 is knowing that Micah is going to die.
O, I had high hopes for Fringe. Hokey doesn’t begin to capture it.
I hate the Brooklyn beard. I have yet to shave, Winter in VT produces some cold for which a beard’s insulation is rather nice.
Two whiskeys and two aspirin. I’m not calling anyone in the morning.
Balada Triste de Trompeta. Much better than the English title. For a while I was concerned that it was going to end like a Hollywood love story. As long as the sad clown is sad, and the funny clown, funny, I am happy.
The Last Circus. Yuletide joy all around.
I tire of the full beard. Perhaps a pencil moustache next.
Robocop. Not certain which is worse, the animation, or the tired play on society’s assumption that women cannot serve in high-risk positions.
Who the fuck fostered a culture of bad haircuts and inflated self-importance?
I think it’s time for the Schrödinger’s cat tattoo.
Julie Delpy’s fictionalized bio of Erzebet Bathory is quite tasty.
Beautiful. Australian film. Mild shades of American Beauty, but weirder. And quite good. Fie on me, I didn’t take the bike out, and it was in the 40s Fahrenheit…
Rammbock. German, short-ish, zombies. Excellent.
The Violent Kind. I don’t have high hopes. Several minutes in, when the protein-deprived 20-something kicks the shit out of the 30-something who out-masses the former by 60 or so pounds, I was ready to call bullshit. New hypothesis: if someone’s forearm has an equal-to or larger circumference than your upper arm, and they are not morbidly obese, 10 to 1 that they will stomp a mud...
One quarter-pound of unsalted butter, 3ish pounds almond flour, 3 tablespoons honey, one egg, one teaspoon smoked salt. Not exactly shortbread, but damned close.
Oh, The Good, The Bad, and The Weird, how I need to watch thee. Later, today’s drinking is fitting to begin. The goal, neither maudlin nor generally angry with homo ferox/stultus/sapiens.
If you’ve been in one place long enough to need to dig in, you’re been there too long. Me, 15ish years ago. I was a horrible asshole then, too.
High five to me: I just found and bought a copy of R.A. Wilson’s The Book of the Breast, the edition printed by Playboy. It’s way better with nudie pictures from the 1970s and earlier.
Isolation. Not much better than an Irish film about bovine genetic engineering gone wrong.
Them! 1954. Dawn of the Atomic Age, or so the blurb says.
Bloody populists and their insistence that children need to be protected, versus informed by their families. the average person, applying contemporary community standards, would find, taken as a whole and with respect to minors, appeals to a prurient interest in nudity, sex, or excretion, and the average person, applying contemporary community standards, would find depicts, describes, or...