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Spock, chillaxin' [Dec. 26th, 2009|10:26 am]

ixzist
http://www.rad-dudes.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/tumblr_kqexdughmu1qzpsi6o1_r1_500.jpg

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Swedish Rocks [Dec. 26th, 2009|09:42 am]

ixzist
Those of you that know me know I love music from northern Europe.
I just found another band from Swedish to like-like: The Moonbabies

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Thin White Duke [Dec. 26th, 2009|08:27 am]

ixzist
http://theeweddingparty.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/bowie460.jpg

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SpaceShipOne [Dec. 25th, 2009|04:09 pm]

ixzist
http://www.miguelcarrasco.net/miguelcarrasco/WindowsLiveWriter/GoogleAcquiresSpaceshipOne_1363A/spaceshipone%5B3%5D_2.jpg

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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BON NATALE [Dec. 25th, 2009|08:31 am]

ixzist
I miss the spectre of the White Christmas this year. I don't miss the Wet Christmas that is more common. 

Irving Berlin, who penned "White Christmas" (the most popular recording of all time,) reportedly hated the holiday. I think he got his just desserts there. Nothing like being hailed for toadying to something you despise.

I am up early on the day, waiting for my family to assemble, waiting for my sister to call saying she is ready to be picked up and carried across town. 

Angry Bbq

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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The Soldier's Night Before Christmas [Dec. 25th, 2009|03:00 pm]
snopes_dot_com
A serviceman's poem describes a soldier's lonely night before Christmas.
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We slept in. [Dec. 24th, 2009|08:33 pm]

vikytickytembo
Image and video hosting by TinyPic

That's what my face looks like first thing in the morning too. I'm so fine, there's no telling where the money went.

Presents that are wrapped by me look like they were wrapped by a monster. An angry monster.

Last year my dad got my mom a scale for x-mas. A scale. For fatness. He better not have fucked up again this year.
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Written Before I Started to Read Rhode Island Notebook, Which is Brilliant [Dec. 24th, 2009|06:12 pm]

raygonne

A Defense of Poetry / Gabriel Gudding / Response Paper / Jeff T. Johnson

 

I’d like to say I’d never encountered the word butt in a poem before I read Gabriel Gudding’s A Defense of Poetry. I hope that’s true. And maybe there’s something refreshing about a poet who for the most part meticulously crafts his poems, while peppering them with scatological references, some sophisticated[1] and some puerile[2]. But I hope I never see the word butt in a poem again. Yes but, as John Ashbery wrote in “No Way of Knowing,” there are no ‘yes, buts.’

This is to say I appreciate Gudding’s obvious skill (see the deep slant rhyme and surprise/killer closing lines of “Bosun” (p. 28, 29)), and I can dig his irreverence (as when he interrupts the sentimental journey of “Wish” (p. 35) in the second line, “back into my fucking childhood”), but Gudding's compulsion to intentionally shoot himself in the foot (the line “Then I will dismount my heart-car” is such a clunker it dispels the pleasure of “Wish”[3]) heavy bores and bums me. (To be fair, “BOSUN” does not stoop to take aim at its shoe; it’s one of the few uncompromised successes of the book.)

            Importantly, the book is called A Defense of Poetry, not The Defense of Poetry. That’s modesty for you. It also says, There are many defenses of poetry, and here’s one of them. It also sounds like A Defensive Poetry. Hmm. Gudding loves to take the piss out of serious poetry, right? Why can’t we say butt in our poems? he asks again and again (not in so many words, of course—in more words, and different ones, but mostly the same one, butt, but also in its proper synonyms, like anus and rectum and asshole). Look, he says at the top of “My Buttocks,” Wallace Stevens says your buttocks! He’s talking about my buttocks (and yours!), and so am I, because poetry does in fact talk about butts! You think it doesn’t (or shouldn’t) but it does! It does! But his ploys sound kind of defensive. Gudding's strategy of undermining his well-crafted poems with scatological references and butt-talk is actually a critique of poetry, which is to say a critique of his own poetry.[4] It’s self-conscious. This is not uninteresting, but it is kind of annoying. What would happen if Gudding dropped the potty talk[5] and just went for it with his poems? Would he be just as tiresome, but in a more conventional way? I suspect this to be his concern: Poetry is a contrivance, and poetic sentiment can be a yawner. “Bosun” could come off as sentimental, but Gudding does a lot of work to earn his surprise ending. At the same time, maybe the harsh, fantastic imagery that precedes the last two lines is a defense mechanism to preempt criticism of the potentially sentimental ending. Maybe the defense mechanism is over-elaborated to demolish potential criticism: The end of the poem can’t be sentimental if it sits next to this giant, forbidding ship. Hey, did you notice that Gudding talks about parts of the ship (anchor, bows, deck, etc.) but never mentions the ship as a whole? It’s a good poem, even if it’s an elaborate defense mechanism.

***

Gudding's endnote on “The OED” is revealing: acknowledging a factual error in the poem, he says “I would rather change history than change the meter” (p. 88). It’s a stubborn, winning sentiment that makes you want to root for him, but it’s also defensive.

“A Defense of Poetry” carries the Charles Bernstein epigraph, “The test of such poetry / is that it discomfits,” which applies to the book as a whole. More than “Statement” (p. 83), which suggests that “I” is lodged up a butt (which is perhaps to say that the lyric I is indrawn, self-involved, stuck up its own asshole), the epigraph of “A Defense of Poetry” is the book’s statement. Or perhaps it is the book’s warning: this poetry is such poetry, a poetry that discomfits; that discomfiture is an aesthetic, and a polemic. This poetry aligns itself, in evoking Bernstein, with Language Poetry, which (among other things) seeks to counteract seriousness in poetry. Gudding defends poetry by seeking to offend purists who don’t want to see butts in poetry. Again, it’s easy to root for Gudding in his battle against clenched butt cheeks. But the cheering is interrupted by a wince at a throwaway insult like

 

 

Yes the greatest of your sister’s

facial pimples did outweigh a

Turkey. (p. 1)

 

Hooray for poetry that doesn’t take itself too seriously; boo to poetry that plays the clever fool or the sake of provocation.

            Even still, the project is intriguing. A Defense of Poetry was published in 2002, and its final poem, “Requiem Cadenza,” reminds us of the stultifying U.S. atmosphere at the time. “I shall never blame America” (p. 84) recalls the clampdown on free speech, and even free thought, that we put on ourselves immediately after 9/11, as we tried to figure out who to blame for the attack (answer: anyone but US). In this context, Gudding bravely defends the right to be irreverent in a time when we weren’t sure it was appropriate to be funny or silly, when we were busy licking our wounds and disappearing up our own assholes. After spending the book showing his ass, Gudding shows his hand in “Requiem Cadenza”: He’s pissed.

            Theodor Adorno said to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric. Lyn Hejinian argued, in “Barbarism,” that after Auschwitz, poetry itself must be barbarian, “taking a creative, analytic, and often oppositional stance, occupying (and being occupied by)  foreignness—by the barbarism of strangeness.” After 9/11, Gudding took a similar approach, opposing self-repression with his own lack of restraint. This is admirable, even if, in practice, the poetry regresses to childish, self-amused declarations like “For you are a buttock.”[6]

 



[1] “The anus is a kind of larynx of the nether region: it is the only cord unattached to the lungs” (“On the Rectum of Peacocks p. 17) recalls William S. Burroughs’ talking anus (the one he described in Naked Lunch; I can’t say whether WSB was able to converse with his own asshole), and seems to do more, in terms of language and sense, than take the piss (or shit, as it were) out of the poem.

[2] “Poem Imploring the Return of My Butt” (p. 12), with its “Dear Sir—I have lost my butt,” is silly and flat-assed, a joke with a sub-Silversteinian punch line.

[3] Yesterday during a conversation about good and bad gratuitous profanity in poetry, I presented “Wish” as an example of good gratuitous profanity. Unfortunately, my friend’s eyes fell to “heart-car” and my point was lost. As 30 Rock’s Liz Lemon might say, if a poem contains the phrase “heart-car,” it’s a deal breaker. Even if the poem has a nice fucking ass.

[4] Gudding's poems may sometimes seem like doggerel, but he’s no hack; he can be lazy and self-defeating, but he is usually cunning and ambitious.

[5] “Bird” brags “I am the King of my potty” (p. 79).

[6] The ambiguous you of “A Defense of Poetry” first appears in the statement “you have the mental capacity of the Anchovy” (p. 1). Among other possibilities detailed in sections 16-19 of this appealingly laid out poem, you might be:

a)     poetry

b)    readers of poetry

c)     people who don’t read poetry

d)    a buttock

e)     poets

f)     Gabriel Gudding

We might sympathize with the I of the poem and project Gudding into the you when we read: “Thus with you I am fed up” (p. 4). But we are also aware of the other possible yous, and sure, we’re fed up with them too.

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Christmas Wishes from Steve Martin, and Me, Wil Wheaton [Dec. 24th, 2009|10:40 am]
wilwheaton

Steve Martin has a Christmas wish to share with you:

(If you can't see Hulu videos, or just want the audio, YouTube has you covered. It's a Christmas miracle!)

And here's my holiday wish, which isn't nearly as funny, but is at least (if not more) sincere: 

Whatever you choose to celebrate this time of year, I hope it's filled with all the stuff you like, none of the stuff you don't like, and that you're surrounded by people you love, because that's how I'm doing it, and it rules.

Happy and Merry, everyone.

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Say What Now? [Dec. 24th, 2009|07:29 am]

ixzist
http://chickencrap.com/images/3259.jpg

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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bomb [Dec. 24th, 2009|05:58 am]

ixzist

bomb, originally uploaded by Mark Jondahl.

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Europa [Dec. 24th, 2009|04:10 am]

ixzist

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Good-bye from the world of tomorrow! [Dec. 24th, 2009|01:14 am]

vikytickytembo
You'll never get that cakes, dogs.
Good-bye, Creepers. I'll miss you.


And I'll miss you too, naked job. I may have you again in Feb., but idk. One of the students was all "so you're working for us again in February?" and I was like "No one told me?" and then no more was said about it, but it would be nice, and not just because there are dogs there.

I'm pretty much booked through January. Portrait sitting, and then a shoot for posters for Fleetweek. I think I have Fridays off, maybe Sundays too.

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Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Yeah. I came home to Mass and immediately put mistletoe on my dog's butt DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT?
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Hail Mary [Dec. 24th, 2009|03:00 pm]
snopes_dot_com
Football rumor: A bad officiating call killed the father of Vikings quarterback Fran Tarkenton.
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The Future is NOW [Dec. 23rd, 2009|05:33 pm]

ixzist

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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DIGITAL WALLPAPER [Dec. 23rd, 2009|05:21 pm]

ixzist

Hirzberger Events - Digital Wallpaper from Gregor Hofbauer on Vimeo.

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Camp [Dec. 23rd, 2009|11:57 am]

ixzist
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12.13.09: The Limits of Multiculturalism [Dec. 13th, 2009|11:50 am]
david_byrne

I was told that a powerful rabbi based in Williamsburg objected strongly to the bike lanes that run alongside their ghetto on Bedford Ave. We were informed that the sight of hipster girls, their heads uncovered and sometimes their lower legs as well, is just too much to bear — though it’s winter now, and surely the gals are bundled up this time of year? Well, that was what, we were told, was the problem initially.

12_13_09_a_hipsterhasid

Photo from Streetsblog

So, the powerful rabbi insisted to the DOT that the lanes had to go — and shortly thereafter they did.

Sure enough, some (Jewish) hipsters repainted the lane by hand, and the rabbi’s wrath was aroused once again — his neighborhood watch (vigilante) group detained the hipsters until the cops came. After no subsequent action against the perps was taken by the city, he demanded that the kids be re-apprehended, which they were — they voluntarily turned themselves in.

OK, on the face of it this is all pretty silly if you live in NY. Hasidic men are not supposed to see scantily clad women. (The man in the photo above has turned his head, but the gal is having a good long look.) In the past they’ve also complained about sexy billboards (ads for Sex and the City) on the BQE and elsewhere. How do they manage when they travel to Manhattan to deal diamonds and cameras? Are they blindfolded until they enter B&H? In addition, that corridor alongside the Hasidic ghetto is just about the only way to cycle from Williamsburg to Dumbo, Vinegar Hill or Brooklyn Heights. The stream of sexy cyclists will therefore continue, though at greater risk to their own safety. Maybe there could be a service offering wigs and wraps for cyclists passing through the No Skin zone.

Some on the blogosphere claim it’s actually not about immodest dress at all — that it’s a ruse, and the real idea is to keep the number of car lanes in the ghetto intact, and to reinstate parking spaces that were cannibalized for the bike lane. The need for plenty of parking is due to the fact that the Hasidim often don’t travel with the rest of us on subways and buses, but in their own vans and bus services — and local transport (food shopping, etc.) is mostly done by private car as well. School kids are dropped off in buses that park in what were, until recently, the bike lanes. This lifestyle requires plenty of parking — more than most other folks need. And I suspect that yes, at times some hipsters probably zoom a bit too carelessly and too close to the school kids. Well, bike lanes or no bike lanes, parking is scarce and getting scarcer in NY, so there may have to be some adjustments eventually. In Antwerp, the European center for Hasidic diamond dealing, the Hasidic kids ride bikes around town.

Although I might be expected to champion anything bike related, I think my problem with this situation is more general — how much do we allow ethnic and religious groups to not blend in and to not become part of the general social fabric, especially in a major metropolis? (We’re not talking about rural communes, where folks can wear what they like and be as freaky as they like on their own.) Multiculturalism, I gather, is the idea that we shouldn’t force outside cultures and immigrants to conform to the culture of the dominant ethnic group — we should respect the integrity of their beliefs and customs. More than just allowing halal or kosher butchers to move in, this idea implies that we might start to see things from the other’s point of view — and sometimes accommodate their wishes, even if they don’t conform to those of the majority. This idea has met its match since 9/11 — Europe, previously a bastion of Muslim enclaves and ghettos of various types and ethnicities, has in recent years pushed back against multiculturalism, and a more nuanced idea is taking hold — sometimes. Other times intolerance rears its ugly head.

Likewise, cyclists, thus far a minority, might be seen in the same light — as a fringe culture that mainstream culture accommodates and tolerates as long as the cyclists don’t insist that the dominant culture bend to their specific wishes. This, in a nutshell, is the argument that some NY communities have made when Janette Sadik-Kahn throws a bike lane in their hood. The argument might be valid, though often the local businesses discover that, for example, bike parking by their shop fronts brings in more customers, and there’s less of a chance that a van or truck will block the view of their windows. And in many cases, the complainers were outvoted by the rest of their own community.

Plus, in NYC, drivers and car owners might be in the minority — most of my friends who live here don’t own cars.

In Holland, the most tolerant place on the planet, it is becoming accepted that tolerance has to go both ways. In other words, the Muslim immigrants are increasingly expected, even by fellow Muslims in Amsterdam, to become “Dutch” in some respects. Which means they must accept that there is a long tradition of tolerance in Holland, especially in Amsterdam, and if one is to move to Holland one should expect to accept this typically Dutch way of thinking. The Muslim community, for example, has to get used to the fact that there is a district with sex shops and scantily dressed women in the windows, same-sex couples might kiss in public, and coffee shops selling hash are a common sight. The implicit agreement is that living in Holland means you accept such things, as tasteless as you may find them. The Dutch, of course, allow the local Muslim population to maintain their own customs as well — as long as they fit in and don’t make lots of demands.

This is a change from a provocative attitude that, a few years ago, resulted in the death of Theo van Gogh. He had made a film, one that deliberately goaded and incited the Dutch Muslim population, in collaboration with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who received death threats and is now protected by the government — and is involved with the American Enterprise Institute, a right wing US think tank. Their 10 minute film features a naked woman in a see-through chador, with Koranic verses justifying the submission of women written on her body. Like the Danish cartoons, this was viewed by Muslims as a deliberate provocation… and a crude one at that. One might view it as liberal fascism.

12_13_09_b_koranicback 12_13_09_c_vangoghbody

An image from the film — and van Gogh dead on the street.

Not that van Gogh deserved to die. The Dutch rallied and demonstrated after his death, and saw the killing as an attempt to stifle free speech — to imply that public expression and criticism has limits. Some free speech advocates insist that one be allowed to say and express anything, barring the encouragement of violence. Others saw the film as being offensively provocative — in a way, they viewed the incident as if the filmmakers were asking for it. Free speech advocates feel that it’s an absolute, and that people should be allowed to say anything, as it’s “only words.”

Ian Buruma, a writer of Dutch background, has written about this incident and the issues that arise from it. He argues that freedom of speech should not be considered absolute — and that thinking in absolutes always leads to disaster. He says we limit our own freedom of speech all the time — around family and relatives over the holidays, I am reminded — and we do it to get along, to allow society to function, for our own happiness and the happiness of others. It’s not necessarily a lie to not blurt out the ugly truth whenever you think it. During the holidays we don’t tease Uncle Harry about his comb-over because we know it would just make the get together more tense than it already is — and who would gain from such insensitive honesty? Stifling free speech just a little, with some subtle self-censorship, makes life pleasanter for everyone.

A few years ago, Mamie Manneh, a Staten Island woman, was arrested for importing 720 pounds of monkey meat, including limbs, skulls and torsos, from baboons and green monkeys in boxes labeled “African dresses and smoked fish” [Link]. She argued it was her Constitutional right to bring monkey meat into the United States. Her lawyers claimed she needed to eat monkey during certain religious ceremonies for her syncretic faith, which merges Christian and African traditions [Source].

In my opinion, besides being disgusting, eating bush meat isn’t actually linked to deep traditions — it emerged as a food source fairly recently, out of hunger and dire necessity. And yes, it crossed the line among some people and was considered an element of ritual. I would argue that it’s not actually a healthy or acceptable food source in Africa, and if you immigrate to Staten Island that might be one of the things you compromise in the move.

Then, on the other side, there’s the recent Swiss minaret ban. Unbelievable! — Zurich has decided to ban new construction of minarets. I foresee other countries banning steeples typical of Christian churches in retaliation. Tit for tat. The Swiss right wing reasoning, if you can call it reasoning, is that mosques are not Swiss, and when in Switzerland one must be Swiss. McDonald’s isn’t Swiss either, and neither are a lot of other easily recognizable branded forms of architecture and décor. Who knows, maybe they even have a panel of guys in funny alpine clothes who decide if contemporary buildings are “Swiss” or not. Presumably, all banks are Swiss — except the ones with Arabic decoration.

Historically, erasing the culture of immigrants or ethnic groups within one’s borders has been attempted over and over. The Soviet Union tried to make all the groups within its massive borders Russian. Stalin shipped ethnic groups from one side of the continent to the other, to thwart any future ethnic unity and uprising. I’ve seen pockets of distinctly Asian-looking Kazakhs in the part of Russia that borders Finland!

In Tajikistan they banned the Persian alphabet, erasing Tajiks’ literary history, and outlawed Islam. This intolerance often only partly succeeds — in many of those former republics, now no longer part of Russia, Islam and local pride have reasserted themselves with a vengeance. Ripping out people’s identities has frightening consequences. When Tajikistan became independent in 1991, the country soon became immersed in a bloody civil war.

One wishes for some kind of common sense to prevail. What harm does a minaret do to the neighborhood? Well, I guess some have a sense of Swiss purity — and purity seeking of any kind always raises a red flag. Some small Italian towns have banned new kebab shops — again, claiming they are not Italian. Hello? Neither were tomatoes! To me, this is all just as silly as the rabbi in Brooklyn claiming that the hipster babes must be discouraged from passing through his neighborhood. Prohibition would probably be preferable — though he doesn’t want to build a wall just yet…

When foreigners visit religious shrines, temples, mosques and churches in other lands, we — if we’re at all sensitive — abide by the local customs. And people from those lands can be expected to reciprocate when they are within our borders.

From a New York Times advice column:

“My husband was at Starbucks enjoying a coffee and reading the paper when about eight people sat down, opened their Bibles and held a group prayer. Then one of them began a loud sermon that my husband found offensive for its content as well as its sheer volume. I say the group was within its rights. My husband says they made inappropriate use of the location. What do you say?”

(The advice columnist said the evangelicals were within their legal rights, but their lack of social empathy was disgusting.)

Like Rodney King said — Can we all just get along? Can we tolerate difference, without taking toleration to the extreme, where everyone is expected to accept insults and provocations? Tolerance shouldn’t mean we have to let anyone with a different lifestyle boss the rest of us around. It seems maybe there’s no absolute dividing line between what we tolerate and what we insist is unacceptable. The measure of how much we should tolerate is: does it help us get along? If it divides us further, then maybe it’s not a good idea. Granted we don’t want to have to compromise our own beliefs or ways of life — resentment will lie buried, festering, and will reassert itself in some form, later, maybe somewhere else seemingly completely unrelated. I don’t want to compromise my own activities, safety and way of life more than is reasonably necessary — but I can still accommodate somewhat. Where the line is might shift from time to time — it’s not fixed, or unchangeable forever. Adaptability and accommodation make us human. Absolutes are for machines and vengeful Gods. What we sometimes call common sense — not going by the book, whether that be the law or the Bible — might be how we survive. But being an ever-changing thing, it’s hard to define. It is learnt, I imagine, by living together, improvising, and innovating, not from a rulebook.

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A Softer World: 515 [Dec. 23rd, 2009|08:23 am]
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the twelve days of pirate christmas [Dec. 23rd, 2009|06:14 am]
wilwheaton

Reader Brian B. sent me this yesterday, and it made me smile so much, I secured permission to share it.

"The Twelve Days of Pirate Christmas"

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me ... 

12 ships to plunder, 

11 cannons firing, 

10 crewmen leaping, 

9 sharks a' swimming, 

8 rum-filled bottles, 

7 lusty wenches, 

6 jolly rogers, 

5 gold doubloons, 

4 eyepatches, 

3 earrings, 

2 wooden legs, 

and a parrot for my shoulder - Arrr!

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Crabulous [Dec. 23rd, 2009|05:39 am]

ixzist

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Mighty Boosh interview [Dec. 23rd, 2009|05:15 am]

ixzist
I have been finding interesting things to post this morning.
The fact that I went to sleep at 4pm and woke up at 2am
has no bearing whatsoever.

 

 

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Rodrigo y Gabriela live [Dec. 23rd, 2009|05:01 am]

ixzist

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Steampunk Alien [Dec. 23rd, 2009|04:50 am]

ixzist

Posted via email from Mark Jondahl

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Hoity-Toity [Dec. 23rd, 2009|03:00 pm]
snopes_dot_com
Does the term 'hoity-toity' come from the French words for 'high roof'?
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From the Vault: surrounded by the joy of the season [Dec. 22nd, 2009|11:14 am]
wilwheaton

In December of 2001, Anne I were really struggling financially. It had already been a pretty lousy year, as far as work went, and after September 11th, things only got worse. As Christmas got closer, it was clear that we simply couldn't afford to put many things under the tree for our kids, let alone each other. 

One night around the second weekend of December that year, Anne and I had a long talk about the impending holidays. We never wanted the holidays to be about stuff, anyway, so we used the opportunity to introduce the concept of "Little Christmas" to our kids. We told them that, contrary to what television told them, it wasn't about shopping and things, as much as it was about spending time with people you love (and music, and spiced cider, and walking through the neighborhood at night to look at all the pretty lights.) Little Christmas began as a financial necessity, but we discovered that putting the emphasis on the holiday "spirit" rather on the holiday "stuff" made us all happier, and we pretty much removed ourselves from the consumerism that bummed out Charlie Brown so much in 1965. 

Even though things eventually got better, we crossed a Rubicon that year, and we never went back. Instead of submerging ourselves in Christmas Crap, we got a few gifts for each other, but we always did some sort of cool thing together as a family, like a trip to the Grand Canyon, or a night out with my parents to see a play. The idea was that Christmas Crap usually gets old and dusty, but the memories we created doing something together would last for the rest of our lives, and that's a better gift to give or receive than anything we could get at the store.

This post From The Vault features a portion of a post I read on this week's Radio Free Burrito, about our 2006 Christmas trip to Julian, in San Diego County, which included a day at the San Diego Wild Animal Park with my brother, his wife, and my parents:

We stayed at the Wild Animal Park until it got dark. On the way out, Nolan came over to me and he said, "I'm really glad we came here today."

"So am I," I said.

"I wasn't all that excited when you told us what we were doing," he said, "but now I'm really glad we did this. I've had a lot of fun today."

"Yeah, your mom and I were a little bummed out that you weren't into doing this when we told you about it," I said, "but we were pretty sure you'd like it once you got here."

"Well, I just wanted to spend the weekend with my friends," he said, "because I'll be gone all next week and I won't get to see them."

"I get that," I said.

"But it was totally worth it to come down here. Thank you."

"I'm really glad you told me that, Nolan," I said.

He smiled, walked over to Anne, and told her the same thing. Then he told my mom.

Nolan is 15, chronologically and in every other sense, and I feel like I'm dealing with something from another planet more often than I'd like these days, so it really meant a lot to me that he made the effort to let the people who pulled the trip together know that he enjoyed it, instead of finding lots of reasons to be sullen and unhappy because . . . well, that's what teenagers do, if I remember correctly.

After dinner that night, we drove back up to Julian, and the rest of my family drove back to their hotel down in the valley. When we got back to the B&B, we put another fire in the stove and watched A Charlie Brown Christmas together. As much as I've loved that special my entire life, this was the first time I watched it and really felt its message about the meaning of Christmas. 

We're not religious, and we're not into the consumerism of the holidays, so it would be easy to feel like we're not part of the whole Christmas thing, but as we sat there, basked in television's warm glowing warming glow, and drank hot apple cider together, we were surrounded by the joy of the season.

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Bringing it back from '07, My Terrible Taste Brings You: The Music Meme [Dec. 22nd, 2009|01:14 am]

vikytickytembo
Step 1. Put your playlist on random.
Step 2. Post the lyrics from the first 20 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing.
Step 3. Strike out the songs when someone guesses correctly. NO GOOGLING


1. I'm still waiting for your heart, 'cause I'm sure that someday it's gonna start.

2. Poor young grandson, there's nothing I can say. You'll have to learn just like me, and that's the hardest way.

3. Catch a cannonball, now take me down the line. My bag is sinkin' low and I do believe it's time. [info]3pipeproblem, The Band: 'The Weight'.

4. Let me make it plain: gotta make way for the homo superior.

5. To do it, to do it, to do it, to do it, to do it, to do it right. [info]tekalynn, George Harrison: 'I Got My Mind Set On You'.

6. One time I saw my daddy dance. Watched him moving like a man in a trance. He brought it back from the war in france.

7. My love will turn you on.

8. Victoria you talk so low that no one else can hear, unless you point your megaphone directly at their ear.

9. I see my Marianne walkin' away. [info]treelines, Boston: 'More Than A Feeling'.

10. Il faut croire que c'est la societe qui m'a definitivement abime.

11. And the public don't dwell on my transmission, 'cause it wasn't televised.

12. Ces bottes sont faites pour marcher, tu vas le regretter, car je mettrais ces bottes un jour ou l'autre pour te quitter!

13. She looks like the real thing. She tastes like the real thing. [info]3pipeproblem, Radiohead: 'Fake Plastic Trees'.

14. I get the news I need on the weather report. [info]3pipeproblem, Simon and Garfunkel: 'The Only Living Boy In New York'.

15. Someone painted "April Fool" in big black letters on a Dead End sign.

16. If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it. [info]treelines, Beyonce, bitch: 'Single Ladies'.

17. Old fashioned superstitions, I find too hard to break. Maybe you're out of place.

18. I'd rather be a fool. I'd be lost with someone new. I'd be better off dead than to live without you.

19. And I could say woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo woo as if everybody knows what I'm talking about.

20. Chippin' around; kick my brains around the floor. These are the days it never rains but it pours. [info]treelines, Queen: 'Under Pressure'.

Pretty heavily considered quoting the "um ba ba de" part of that last song, just to see if anyone could get it from that. Or the part where they go "give love", like, 80 times in a row.
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The Fair Shake [Dec. 22nd, 2009|03:00 pm]
snopes_dot_com
Crime legend: After the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, a car thief was found crushed to death under a collapsed freeway overpass in the vehicle he'd stolen.
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From The Vault: Cross the Blazing Bridge of Fire! [Dec. 21st, 2009|03:05 pm]
wilwheaton

Did you know that I used to write a weekly column called The Games of Our Lives for The AV Club? It was about classic arcade (and occasionally console) video games that were just far enough off the mainstream radar for Gen Xers to realize that they remembered playing or seeing them, even if they hadn't thought about them since the 80s.

I worked very hard to keep it funny, nostalgic, and even a little informative. Though I didn't always come up with heartbreaking works of staggering genius, I'm really happy with about 95% of the columns I turned in ... like this one for Satan's Hollow:

The flyer from Bally advertises "The hot new battle game that dares you to cross the blazing Bridge of Fire to do battle with the Master of Darkness-Satan of the Hollow!" After languishing for years in the obscurity of role-playing games, Satan finally crossed into the mainstream of arcades everywhere. Parents panicked as kids eagerly coughed up pocketfuls of quarters to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.

Gameplay: It's 1982, so of course you have to enter Satan's Hollow in a spaceship. To pull this off, you build a bridge across a river of fire by picking up pieces from the left side of the screen and dropping them onto the right side of the screen. You have a shield that will protect you (for about .08 seconds) from the gargoyles and demons dropping World War II-style bombs. When the bridge is completed, you cross into the game's eponymous locale and face down Satan himself. If you avoid his magic pitchforks and destroy him, you won't save mankind from eternal damnation, but you will earn bonus points and an extra laser blaster for your space ship.

Before you complain that none of this makes sense, please remember that the number-one song of 1982 was "Centerfold" by J. Geils Band, and the number-one film was Tootsie.

Could be mistaken for: Galaxian, Dark Tower, Phoenix

Kids today may not like it because: Satan looks more like a sea monkey than like the Prince Of Darkness.

Kids today may like it because: Freaking your parents out because you're playing a game with Satan in it is always cool, whether it's 1982 or 2005.

Enduring contribution to gaming history: Doom wouldn't have been able to take players right into Hell in 1993 if Satan's Hollow hadn't opened the portal 11 years earlier. 

Every column had a different byline, which I tried very hard to make some kind of clever "nobody's going to get this, except for those few people who do and totally love it" joke: 

.mraf ynnuf eht, notaehW liW ot seilper rouy dnes esaelP .egassem terces eht dnuof ev'uoY !snoitalutargnoC

See what I did there? It's a game with SATAN in the title, so I put at BACKWARDS MESSAGE in the column. Ha! Ha! Ha! I am using the Internet!

I loved doing this column, and deliberately retired it while it was still going strong, so it didn't turn into [Pick some series that should have ended years ago while it was still funny. This is not a placeholder note to myself, it's a free option for you, dear reader. Merry Christmas.]

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From the Vault: The Fires of Mordor [Dec. 21st, 2009|10:54 am]
wilwheaton

Yesterday, I decided that I'd reach into The Vault a few times this week, and reprint some holiday-related posts. 

While I combed through the WWdN archives, I came across this post, which I haven't thought about pretty much since I wrote it. It has nothing to do with the holidays, but I still like it. I'm reprinting it today so I can remember a time when I didn't feel so self conscious about my writing, could totally lose myself in a moment, and do my very best to fearlessly capture it in words.

We are under partly cloudy skies today here in Pasadena. All day long, the blue sky has been brilliant and beautiful. The few clouds that dot the sky are small and fluffy, blown at incredible speeds by the high altitude winds, and illuminated to a magnificently bright white by the sun.

About 20 minutes ago, the sun began to set, and I watched as it put silver linings behind cloud after cloud as it sank into the west. Shortly after the horizon took it away for another day, the sun did an amazing thing: it illuminated the only cloud in the sky, a monstrous one — several thousand feet cross, at least — which hung over my house. The cloud acted as a giant reflector, bouncing yellow, then orange, then red light down upon my neighborhood.

At first, the yellow light was beautiful, bringing out a brilliance in the lawns and leaves seldom seen in winter. Then, the orange light became a little creepy, casting the same muted color as sunlight filtered through the smoke of a brushfire.

When the light turned red, though, it was positively scary. The red glow that it washed over the Earth was straight out of the fires of Mount Doom.

As the light turned from orange to red, my mom called me, and asked me if it looked like the world was coming to an end over my house, too. I laughed, and told her that it did.

Then a Ring Wraith knocked on my door, and I politely hung up the phone.

Remember when Lord of the Rings ruled the world with a power and inevitability challenged and equalled only by frozen yogurt shops in the 80s? Those were some magical days, Precioussss. We loves them.

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