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Bad Benefits | edward
Dear edward,
I will not leave a wad of chewed up gum near the computer again.
Sincerely, jenna
So I went to Borders the other day and discovered that they have a 4 for 3 movie deal where if you buy four dvds you get one of them for free. I significantly augmented my tv show collection in my first run...but now I need to go get more again.
With that said, I have two dvds already selected for the next run, namely Samurai Champloo and Wonderfalls.
So what I need are two more kick-ass movies to purchase, one of which will be free. Any suggestions?
Anyone seen the RANCOR tags around town? They don't look like this collaboration with Borf, but they're still pretty cool.
Of course, every time I see one I'm reminded of my favorite elftor cartoon of all-time.
This TNR Piece is amazing. Lizza neatly deconstructs the race for DNC chair:
In hindsight, the boozy requiem wasn't just for Hindery, but for an era. The DNC chair race has exposed deep fissures within the Democratic Party. Some of these are ideological, but the real story of the race is the diffusion of power away from Washington and to new people and entities that have rushed to fill the power vacuum at the top of the party. When the Democrats control the White House, the president can simply pick the chair of the party. But, even when out of power, Democratic pooh-bahs traditionally rally around a consensus figure and present him to the DNC members as a fait accompli. An open process with all the trappings of a modern political campaign--including a seven-candidate field, fund-raising, regional debates, and smear campaigns in the press--is unprecedented in the party's history. To many Washington Democrats watching the circus-like contest from afar, it has been an embarrassment. "I think it's pathetic," says James Carville. "It's so indicative of the Democratic Party. Now we're just playing into every stereotype: We're weak, disorganized, flopping around. ... Somebody should have fixed this damn thing in November. I wish someone would have taken charge and three or four people would have gotten together in a smoke-filled room. ... They're not running for president! They are running for party chair. This is supposed to be a rigged deal. You think the Republicans would do it this way?"
But every attempt to rig the race failed, revealing that the levers of power in the Democratic Party have shifted out of Washington's hands. From the congressional leadership to the governors to the Clintons, top Democrats were all terrified of a Dean victory. They believe he will turn what is essentially a low-key fund-raising and management position into a lightning rod for GOP attacks, eclipsing other voices and emphasizing exactly the elements of the party that weeks of postelection soul-searching had determined the Democrats needed to play down (e.g., its liberal stance on cultural issues and its weakness on national security). And yet none of them could stop him.
I'd post the entire piece but since anyone can just click over, I recommend they do that themselves. Using my special link, of course.
My cable was out, so I watched a half-hour of Stealing Beauty and listened to Invader Zim commentary instead of watching the State of the Union. (I’d much rather the person trying to ravage my existence call me a “filthy Earth-monkey” to my face, rather than “my fellow Americans”…)
But my friend Melissa Tritter was on NPR this morning. Apparently those Tufts kids followed the speech quite closely.
The funniest thing I've read all day is this chat with Newsweek's Baghdad bureau chief, Rod Nordland. It's like the movie, Liar Liar, he just can't stop being honest.
Hopatcong, NJ: [yadda, yadda, yadda] Why don't you [reporters] have the gumption to call a spade a spade?
Rod Nordland: OK, you're an idiot. How's that?
All this and trenchant analysis of the Iraq situation, too.
Today I will be celebrating the 27th year of my existence by going skiing at Prospect. I know, there are other, uncharted territories where I should be out breaking ground, but I never lost the love for my old, familiar turf. To go to a place where the wooden deer still gaze out of upstairs windows, and where signs still warn to keep your gloves off the stove (it is HOT!) Today I will ski a trail between the old and the new - connecting the ghosts with visions of what is yet to come. Maybe you need to go back in time to see the future - or maybe, more than anywhere else in the world, this is where I want to be.
so i'm minding my own business, watching what is currently a rather lackluster season of 24, when on pops a new ad for the cherry vanilla diet dr. pepper.
i'd link to it, but can't seem to find it anywhere - but i will send you this way towards the inspiration for the spot - enjoy! and if anyone finds the actual ad, please let me know...
I'm avarice, melancholy, sloth and discord.
This happens to me in DC a lot. I find about some hip music-related event, let's take for this instance last night's monthly moving New Wave 80s dance party, Strange Love. I psychologically steel my ego in advance for all those immaculately yet shabbily donned and coiffed hipsters doing their best (but not their very best) tongue-in-cheek Human League impressions. I ready myself for the attitude at the door, at the bar, at the dj booth ... only to find that I am the chic hipster, and my friends are the somewhat awkwardly but well-dressedly bored crowd prone to enthusiastic bouts of dancing when they condescend that the music is cool enough.
I LOVE IT.
The "scene" in DC exists, but it's a friendly one. In New York, say, or at my alma mater, it was a competitive sport.
Strange Love is a perfect example. Someone forwards you an email. You visit the website, RSVP, and get in for free (this month it was at Zucchabar, a comfortably divey-chic train-car space on Columbia). In any other city you would expect either the tragically hip or gaggles of sorostitutes assuming the garb of their favorite John Hughes characters. In The District you somehow, luckily, get the best possible group for an evening of dancing to self-indulgent music from the me-generation - the unembarrassed.
When my friend and I arrive around 10pm, we pass by the utterly attitudeless doorperson and bouncers and enjoy ludicrously expensive drinks out of plastic cups while awaiting the rest of our posse. Although the floor is a little sparse when we first show up, groups are already eagerly gettin' down to "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night." The music does not disappoint. The entire night. The floor packs and jams at a comfortable pace. The DJ is friendly and amenable to suggestion. I am probably the most eightiesed-out cat in the joint. In the cute unisex bathroom, gaggles of girls cramming into one stall to blow their noses are nowhere to be seen. This is, after all, DC.
Overall? I'd give it an A+ for awesome. Go with your dancingest friends. I'll see you there.
(We cap off an evening of spastic dancing with a little Amsterdam Falafel. If you haven't been, run don't walk. There's something strangely satisfying about self-serve falafel pockets. Mmmmm garlic sauce ...)
I have been trying to put the largely un(der)employed hours of my post-graduate life toward discovering how to take what I do naturally and turn it into some sort of lucrative career. Turns out some bastard's gone and done it already.
In an LA Times article highlighted by News of the Weird, editor Frank Kelly Rich has this to say:
Calling serious drinkers an "oppressed minority," Rich said he himself has about eight drinks a day, sometimes up to 30 (when he frequently blacks out). Said Rich's wife, of her husband's career, "When you find your calling, you have to go with it."
I'm glad to finally find my very own oppressed minority to belong to, but I'm not just a little upset that Rich has found MY calling. Modern Multiple Substance Abuser just doesn't have the same ring to it.