I’m not much of a short-skirt/woman with guns and/or sword anime fan, but Corpse Princess/Shikabane Hime is a good time. That said, I do like women with guns or swords, wearing short dresses. There seems to be an unwritten rule that anime has to have dreadful theme songs, schlock-laden and emotive.
Maundering: "It's Good for the Planet" edition
Reducing the human population by several billion would be good for the planet, in terms of less carbon released into atmosphere due to transportation/agriculture/convenience services, and less destruction and degradation of portions of the biosphere necessary for supporting life on the planet. Thus, war on a massive scale is good for the planet, and who doesn’t want to help our Mother in her...
The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Schadenfreude: I went with a friend to court for a minor vehicle infraction. People make some tragic choices about what to wear when standing in front of the man. I was able to immediately visually identify the young woman there for methamphetamine possession charges, and to my credit, did not talk her up or perhaps attempt a future assignation. The fact that I deliberately dressed like a cop...
True text messages from strange life: Re smoked paprika: generally African heritage not associated with effete limp-wristed behavior. Glad to see you are breaking that barrier.
Next week, I start two-hour dance classes. Rumba, cha cha, and East Coast Swing, Swing only for a few classes, then all rumba and cha cha. I’ll be stutter-stepping like a fool trying to keep to the beat for the intermediate cha cha lessons.
Damn, I am jealous of y’all who live in the South, I am shivering my cannot-hold-the-beat ass off here in Vermont.
I never learn. I succumbed to a few biscuits on Monday, high-protein pancakes today. My knees are sore, my hands feel arthritic or as if I have soaked them in ice water. Both of which are better than my head, it feels like I was punched in the gourd a few times. Drat. Perhaps this is psychosomatic, but there does appear to be correlation. More importantly, challenging yoga session, good workout,...
My favorite practice, hands-down, is using courtesy to deliberately goad self-important sorts. It provides me with entertainment, and allows for a lovely and sophisticated ‘Fuck you.’
Best quote ever, from Archer, Season One: “Well, Pam, c’mon. Let’s face it. Your entire job could be done by a bulletin board.” There are a lot of folks who could be replaced by bulletin boards, information kiosks, and simple software. Activists, administrative specialists, most accountants, nearly every manager. I think a serious drink will get me past this current misanthropy....
Insert sarcastic and mildly abusive comments on American film-viewers and the need to have ev’ry little plot detail spelled out -and resolved. And something snarky about the utter lack of character development in the top-grossing films in the States.
Holy fuck, I am watching Capote, and ashamed it has taken me this long to get to it.
The only activity that comes close to rivaling my book-purchasing follies is my purchasing of music.
I attest, if one needs to wrap up in the wooby, it be cold. Edited the following morning to add: I further attest, if I cannot spell and am sillier than the norm, I am stoned on zolpidem tartrate.
I’ve taken Ambien, 20 mg, and can feel it in my brain. As I wait for mewling, drooling incoherence I read The Breathing Book. Donna Farhi. Several thoughts, you may claim that they are judgements or pigeonholing , ripple through my doped brain. The woman in the cross-legged pose, shoulders back, hands grounded, her chest and neck pulsing as she loves the breath: 1. She is more capable than I, more...
Whoa, how did I not notice merengue is much more fun when wearing a cowboy hat?
Texts (of the generally ridiculous sort) from life: I have the back and forth basic for merengue locked. Need to work the open to close and the close to open. And the spins. There is only so much one can expect from a rifle as a dance partner. For actual improvement, one needs another person. Yes, I said it. No, I won’t deny it. Drat.
From email: ‘Have you been following the recent set of charges against Strauss-Kahn? Socialist equals National Socialist, if his attitude toward women, and in particular women of color are what they seem.’ Ha, it must be a frame-up, if the Left is to be believed. I, on the other hand, think it’s merely the foulness of human nature for all to see.
Och, aye, it does feel like 19 degrees Fahrenheit, I suppose. No surprise, when it was 80ish degrees last week, I was kvetching.
Toothbrush + lemon Lysol = very clean refrigerator.
O joy that is insomnia. I think another 10 mg of zolpidem tartrate will be required if I am to sleep tonight.
It’s a 24-hour Al Green marathon up in here.
Shopping after drinking may have unintended results. I apparently have copies of Shirley Jackson’s Just an Ordinary Day and a biography of Oppenheimer on the way.
Up-armored tipi? Surely.
Rainy and cold in #btv; seems a fine day for unfucking the basement, a little work on the new gas tank, and perhaps the mambo.
Safety in numbers is cowardice.