foxtongue: (see the sky)
To celebrate my insanely exciting travel/adventure news, I've been blasting my facebook with the good times virus. Here's a round-up of some of the cheerful links, as well as a few extras:

  • A video of Mariachi Connecticut serenading a beluga whale at the Mystic Aquarium.

  • A video of a plane to plane skydive, taken by one of the skydivers.

  • A Swedish man was arrested for trying to split atoms in a home kitchen reactor. "Mr. Handl, 31, said he had tried for months to set up a nuclear reactor at home and kept a blog about his experiments, describing how he created a small meltdown on his stove. Only later did he realize it might not be legal and sent a question to Sweden's Radiation Authority, which answered by sending the police."

  • Revival, Beats Antique's brand shiny new music video.

  • One of the best sci-fi trailer-teasers ever made. (I wish it were for a new favourite television show, but no, it's for a terrible video game).

  • According to Gawker, Newt Gingrich might have paid for the majority of his Twitter followers.

  • Art installation: books rupturing through a wall of an advertising agency in a building that used to be a library.

  • Starting next August, U.S. insurance providers will be required to cover all FDA-approved birth control methods.

  • Timelapse of 3D printout of Stephen Colbert’s head.

  • Explain like I'm five, simply worded answers to complicated questions.

  • Fastest Shave Ever.
  • foxtongue: (Default)
  • "Birds for bulbs is a cute site and a great idea. The basic premise is this: If you switch one or more of your light bulbs to a CFL (Compact fluorescent light-bulb, which produces smaller amounts of harmful emissions), and send them an email with your name, they'll draw you a bird. Your bird shows up on the bird pages with your name as a mouse over, and in return you switch to a cheaper and more effective bulb. Rosemary from Bird and Moon draws the birds, and they're beautiful. Anyway, it's a fun demonstration that every little bit counts." as said by Joey.

  • In order to combat light pollution, city officials in Reykjavik, Iceland, "will turn off street lights on Thursday evening and people are also being encouraged to sit in their houses in the dark." The clincher: "While the lights are out, an astronomer will describe the night sky over national radio." via WorldChanging via +Z. (Speaking as someone who's gone so far as to actually disabling street lights, I want to kiss whomever set this up.)
  • foxtongue: (subtle feathers)
    When I was a kid, I wanted a tree-house. I liked the idea of having a little place that was my own, high up, and floored in the cloth bound books I liked to read. I would hang tassels, I would paper with comics and pieces of sari. I wanted to tumble down the ladder in a rush of limbs to a mother waiting with ice-cream. I wanted what the real kids had, only to try. I could see them sometimes, transitory, from the window of the truck I was growing up in as we drove past little houses. Surrounded by trees, always on the highway, these houses, with a gas station at the end of the row that would sell cold things and packets of shrink wrapped pepperoni sticks that my father would open with his teeth. My favourite treat was the Cadbury cream eggs with shiny tinfoil that I would flatten with the back of my fingernail until I could pretend it was tain I'd peeled whole from some antique washroom mirror.

    Andrew had a comment published on BoingBoing this week.

    Have you ever been in love with someone to the point where you're afraid? They meet your eyes and the amount of feeling that shoots in to your blood must betray you, it feels certain, but then they blink and look away. Disaster averted. It's terrifying, like suddenly discovering you've got a red jewel of cancer in the palm of your heart.

    I'm selling my old monitor on Craiglist for $50.

    The fireworks last night were nice. I led everyone directly to the waterfront, with nothing between us and the show but for water. Blooming explosions of mostly gold, laced with red and Italy's particular green. Their music choice was a little damning, no match of Denmark's Abba medley of last year, the cheesiest possible clips of Celine Dion, Queen, & Ennio Morricone, but they made up for it with the intense amount of bang.

    After, though, was better than nice, it was magical. Police arrived on horses, with back-up from police boats and helicopters, to clear people from the beach. Horses in riot gear, to be more precise, with little see-thru plastic helmets and shiny reflective socks. Lit only by beacons and searchlights, they came out of the heavy sulpherous smoke like a slowly solidifying dream. It was impossible to focus on them, they were so ephemeral, such perfect phantasmagorical memories come real. They seemed both bigger and smaller than horses are, because they faded in and out of the flashing lights so strangely, so beautifully. The police on top seemed grown from the same dark flesh, details were so randomly precise. A leg would show in stark detail then vanish again into the sand and night. I've never seen anything like it. Pristine wonder, approaching.
    foxtongue: (muppet mask)
    I am wretchedly tired. Come to my party tomorrow. Instead of writing, you're getting a tab-dump. (Has anyone formalized that term yet? We should get on that.)

  • Fairwood Press currently publishes Talebones, a magazine that has been publishing science fiction and fantasy short stories for eleven years. Yesterday they sent out a plea for subscriptions, saying that they are in financial distress and without new subscriptions, they'll have to quit putting the magazine out. Click here to see what you can do.

  • European Honeybees commonly imported to Japan fall prey to the Japanese giant hornet. The local bees do not, instead they have evolved a fascinating and wierdly wonderful defense. National Geographic News has a video.

  • An audio recording made on November 18, 1978, at the Peoples Temple compound in Jonestown, immediately preceding and during the mass suicide and/or murder of over 900 members of the cult, has been put on-line by someone who got the audio tape in 1979. This means that for your auditory indulgence, an alarming bit of educational history is vicerally available.

  • The Steam Powered Internet Machine, by Turner-prizewinning artist Jeremy Deller and his collaborator Alan Kane, links a steam engine to a computer, allowing visitors to surf the net, powered by one of the driving forces of the Industrial Age. Although mischieviously impractical, (click to see the picture, it's neat), the machine does work.

  • Gez Fry decided in 2002, without any experience whatsoever, that he wanted to make a living out of Japanese style illustration. After studying artists like Masamune Shirow, he emerged with an astonishing enough portfolio to break into the big market, in only two years. Pingmag has an essential interview that follows why he decided on his excellent life-changing decision and how he went about it.
  • foxtongue: (blowing kisses)

    Psychedelic Fur
    Originally uploaded by Airchinapilot.
    Fashionably Late Birthday Party, Saturday, July 15th, Cotton & Second, just off Commercial, BYOB, friends, instruments, sweets, savouries, BBQ-ables, drinks, bubbles, whatever-you-like, appropriately pass it on.

    Mike's so cutting edge.

    The silence was deafening, heavy with threats. To break the quiet, my friend asked, "Alright, what's the average penis length?" I asked, "Average average or average that I've encountered?" "Both," she said. I did a quick calculation using the wrist of my right hand, quickly marking off lengths from the tips of my fingers. She spit laughter, "Did I actually just see you do that?"

    Vladimir Putin kissed a boy 'like a kitten'.

    There was a behalf-of-someone-else marriage proposal in the comments section of my poll post. I don't know either of the men involved, but it made me smile through my ridiculous sun-burn. Not sure if I'm really marriage material right now, poorly tanned red leather for skin, hobbling around everywhere on my cane and wincing. If I move the wrong way right now, I'm liable to crumple like a burning photograph, clutching at my ruined shoulder or irritable wrist. On the up side, I came home to an answering machine message dismantled into merely someone scatting with the word 'beep'. I can't even tell what gender the person is, let alone figure out who I'm to call back. Congratulations mystery caller, you win the Interesting Yet Disadvantageous Communication award. Tonight, it's a paperback copy of The Fall by Albert Camus. Only trick is, you have to call back and actually leave contact information to get it.

    R.I.P. Syd Barret

    I pulled out a cheap pink striped restaurant mint. "Wait, no. I have better ones." My hand dug into my pocket again and emerged with an ouzo ball. "I'm useless for this right now," she said. I looked at her face, fixed behind the shield of her helmet, looking like a sixties movie astronaut, then at her gloved hands resting on the arms of the motorcycle. "You're right." I crumpled the blue foil wrapper off with my fingers, reached up under the plastic screen and placed the candy into her mouth. "Drive safely."

    Vote for the Clowngod.
    Then vote for me.
    foxtongue: (hot in here)
    In memory of language, I will spit you, craven, from my mouth. Every day that was a letter with you, I will burn. In memory of words, of meaning, of the double-handed dealings of my tongue between your lips, I will tear you from me, reject your chrome sensationalism, my infatuation, my glorified attachment to your acquisitive frame. I will deny and repeal all rights your hands had, all liberties of motion, all the rapacious, itching greed I had mistakenly, lasciviously, authorized and stamped with the sanctioned approval of my gentlest kiss.

    I will not allow you the animistic gift of speech. It is mine.

    In respect for adoration, I will not name you. Your face will be blank, as slate on concrete, as lacking in feature as you were in grace. In respect for devotion, I will not need you, not crave or desire your golden smile, your irrevocable beauty, your unfortunate habit of junk crashing my mind. I flatly refuse to focus on your absence or notice the anger on my hands, my thwarted fingers, or my dizzying feeling of rejection. Your singular admiration will sink into time like twinkling stars into a cold winter sea, your voice will be like an aftertaste, and the flame of your being will be as to ashes dusted out of a failed marriage bed.

    Medical-tophat, the creator of The Doctor Pepper Show, has a flickr account.

    The latest in WTFJapan: "I think I have that song for DDR" with dubious thanks to Ed, who wants to know why Japanese women "sound so uncomfortable?"

    Stevie Wonder setting fire to Sesame Street with an injection of pure funk into the Sesame St. Song and Superstitious.
    foxtongue: (muppet mask)
    Does anyone know if the Livejournal Feed for We Make Money Not Art?

    I feel lit by the fall-out from my computer screen even when I'm on the bus. It's how I haven't been writing. The result is a litany in my head of things to write, moments to mention; the man in front of me with the fleshy ears and the Orson Wells voice who, when I looked back from the doors to see what he looked like, had lips flecked with foam, or the person at the party whose business partner had bitten out his girlfriend's eye or how the mail delivery woman has, unsolicited, lent me her favourite novel. I've simply been too busy, though in a vague sort of way. I haven't set aside any time for self-care. My room is a clutter of other people's DVD's, other people's clothes, other people's books. My laundry is threatening to implode, to cede from the country, to sprout new tendrils of species, to metamorph from silk and lace into sweat-pants and ugly knit sweaters made of reconstituted newspaper clippings of uninteresting murders. I even have dirty dishes. Only a few cups and possibly one crusty fork, but an obscenely slacker sort of thing for someone who never manages to cook a meal when single.

    Watch this.
    foxtongue: (ferret)

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    When you say, you in the plural, in the too many of you, "I'm not telling my wife," I have a perception shift as a tense block of knowledge creaks suddenly into place. You are partitioning me away, removing my reality. You are creating a space for me, which has nothing to do with your solid life, that is to abandoned as soon as primary characters arrive. I've done this before, had to live as my role is reshaped around me into the idea of my body and grace, I know what you're doing before you do. When I look down into my lap with resignation, what else is there to do, it is with this understanding. From there on in, your honesty diminishes every time you kiss me. You might not even see it. Every time my hand is held, every time I am told that I am loved or treasured, our light dims, laced with the knowledge that I am an eradicable betrayal that you will want later to erase.

    And then we playfully kiss like sticky children outside a door, we share a glance and giggle at something improbable. I carve lines in the air around your body with my breath like prayer. You hold my hand and trace the lines there, as if you could grant me immortality with the poetry of your smile. But there never is any poetry. As soon as I am out of the room, you can reattribute your actions, decide after the fact what you meant and how you meant it. It burns, your plausible explanations, how you write all the rules, how you'll still be cruel enough to pretend that I have any say in the matter, as if I had any power except to leave.

    Yesterday the line, "cradling my hips like a warm cup of tea," popped into my head. When I was younger, I imagined that's what I wanted. Someone who would hold my body canted to their lips as if I was a chalice of some sort to be poured. It might have even been the word canted that gave me such a fancy. Now that I've found a few of those people, I've discovered that I was right. It's comforting to know that not everything I thought would be nice turned out to be wrong. There's a not a lot else that I still have, not in the long run. I had a golden summer once that taught me how to smile. I cried when it was time to leave and when my then partner held me in the cloak of his obscene hair and comforted me, "Life is long, you will fall in love again, many times," through my wracking body, I knew he was right. What he failed to explain was how few people would bother face the fear of falling in love, how they would hold back and hold back and hold back until finally, in cowardice, lose their mind and flee to be free.

    edit: p.s. Finland won?? whiskey tango fff?
    foxtongue: (welcome to the sideshow)

    sultans elephant
    Originally uploaded by nickestamp.
    The Secret Machines didn't really kick in until a third through their set, but when they kick in, they're kicking in more than just the front door, they're kicking in your entire cellular system. They sure do love their lights. It's a first class show, only a little below Metric or the Arcade Fire with Wolf Parade. Duncan took a great little video of glasses dancing off a table from the thump and pull of the music. I was farther forward, in the front against the stage. It was both a tragedy and a shame that there weren't more people, but it meant that I could move back and forth in front of the stage as much as I wanted, trying to get the perfect angle for my fan-slavish photography.

    Sultans Elephant 12
    Originally uploaded by Mr Hyde.
    Two found ads that taste great together: Campari & Choco.

    And here I am, glad to be on-line again because a friend is building a spaceship that's going to fly with NASA and a 43-tonne wooden elephant took over London and Burrow has a new boy and they've discovered the oceans on Titan are actually sand. I felt horribly cut off without my pretty little window screen into the rest of the world. Trapped in my own head, unable to push out my miseries with keeping busy, is a wretched place indeed. I don't recommend visiting. As I said to a friend earlier today, my posts this week have been the written equivilant of my computer catching me in the middle of a crying jag. I would apologize if what I had written wasn't also true, however, so that's that.

    Especially the awesome bit about the elephant.
    foxtongue: (on a box)

    Devon came out of surgery fine. He's tired and looks worn, but that's to be expected when your innards have been slipped out of your belly and rewound, I'm sure. His intestines had twisted, kinked themselves into knots in ten different places. There's no need to worry, he's resiliant, recovers like I do from damage. I have a fabulous picture of him in the hospital bed, looking put upon by uncomfortable plastic tubes, holding hands with his beaming parents. I didn't get to post it last night, unfortunately, but it will be available soon. He's possibly not sleeping enough, but that's so close to normal that it almost doesn't bear mentioning. We're a batch of night owls, we are. A coven of ridiculously interesting people who are most alive when everyone else is in bed. Dancing with blades, dancing in gruops and apart from eachother, dancing and being glad that life continues. Sneaking into hospitals at ten minutes to midnight and being turned away at the last possible moment.

    Duncan's got a livejournal.

    Various people have been asking me what my plans are this week. As of yet, I really don't know. I'd been planning on going to the Pacific Cinematheque double-bill tonight: Paul Williams hosting THE MUPPET MOVIE and PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE, followed by an After-Party at the Media Club where he's going to play a set alongside July Fourth Toilet, (no, I don't know who they are either), but I expect to skip the first film entirely for the sake of visiting hours. Tomorrow I may end up missing rehearsal for the sake of other things. Visiting Devon in the hospital, for example, or dropping by Bob's for a showing of A Tale of Two Sisters, one of my favourite movies, (just as Phantom of the Paradise is my mother's), and finishing the cleaning of my room that's been dragging on for something akin to a month simply because I'm never there anymore.
    foxtongue: (hot in here)

    Originally uploaded by noveltywearsoff.
    KindelingBoy Michael is having a party tomorrow evening to celebrate his final freedom from Too Much School TM.

    My cool news today is this letter:


    Just a head's up to let you know that I've added your blog, Dreampepper, to the British Columbia Blogs directory and aggregator at - if for any reason you do not want your blog listed, please let me know and I'll take it back down immediately.


    I don't know how they found me, but the list looks pretty small, so I'm pleased. Apparently the main criteria be that they're well written, been around for awhile, and update frequently, as well as having that undefinable "something".

    Max Headroom creator made Roswell alien.
    Deathboy makes a song based on the very first episode.

    This week has been a successful book of matches, every day burning when I strike it with my eyes. I feel like a chemical reaction, sparkling and fizzing, exploding strong-box secrets and licking what's inside. If I were Rapunzel, this would be me letting down my hair, suddenly afraid that my princes were just a dream. This would be taking myself and my bedding and my famous blue raincoat to wind my fairy-tales a rope, offering them a way in instead of a noose, banishing my fears, losing them one by one like beads from a broken string.

    AXE's GameKillers advertisement series.
    Adidas Idicolor viral-marketing films. (watch PINK especially)

    foxtongue: (wires)
  • Wisconsin voters support Iraq withdrawal.
  • Homeland Security official arrested in child sex sting.

    A nun and some schoolgirls have set themselves up as an international arms company to highlight the absence of weapons brokerage laws in Ireland, successfully importing torture equipment with the assistance of local justice group, Afri.

    Amnesty International has made a short but effective shopping channel film on the topic.

  • No domain name left for you.
  • The top 100 Livejournals.

    Chris Applebaum, one of the youngest yet more heavily T&A music directors, (the guilty man behind the Paris Hilton Burger advert), has done it again, this time allowing Britney Spears to prove she deserved that statue.

  • New String-Theory notion redefines the Big Bang.
  • First lab-engineered organs successfully transplanted into humans.
  • foxtongue: (wires)
    There is a raccoon stuck bottom-half inside a tree, I see it when I walk from the bus-stop. There is a man on a blue ladder, his arm up to his elbow in the hole, trying to shove the squirming creature free from the other side. I want to walk up to the situation and reach up and grab onto the creature, ignore the claws and teeth that would tear at me and pull. Yank it free in one smooth movement. Instead I run my tongue over the inside of my teeth, ossified pearls, and walk away. I will be late if I do not go now. I am obscurely disappointed my skin will remain intact.

  • Net-funded professional journalism.

    I've been sleeping heavily lately, as if everything shuts down, as if my soul goes absent. I'm not used to it. Every morning is a dim entrance, a watery sky debut into a film I never needed to see. It's like there's a blanket of dust over me in my dreams. I twitch, I can feel it, just on the edge outside of consciousness. My body is trying to cope and maybe not doing as well as it used to. There's something in my head getting in the way. It's like when I lie in bed, when it's time to dream, my mind seizes the chance to escape me, drive fast and away, disassociate from the crashing tide of conflicting shades of ache that run underneath my point of view, instead of resting, instead of taking the space to relax and fix my scrapes and bruises. It's tiring me out, not being in my body. I have to find someone who knows how to connect the bits and pieces. I have hopes for Saturday.

  • The Sexy Beast is talking to you.

    Today the radio plays songs I used to listen to last year. It's like nostalgia without the immediacy of caring about what happened. My in-box tells me letters from people who used to be my lovers. Someone drops the word muse on me and I smile, warmed by a rare spark of feeling worthwhile. If they weren't so far away, that's exactly what I want to be. The weather here never changes. Overcast with a chance of sun, sunny with a chance of rain. Always water from the sky. Even when it is blue it looks gray. I haven't taken part in creating in a long time, too long for me.
  • foxtongue: (red laughing)

    My Sparrow Hath No Tongue
    Originally uploaded by cabbit.
    Two torrents containing a total of nearly one thousand free songs from bands at the 2006 SXSW Music Conference.

    Being with a ghost is hard. It's tricky, navigating the pathways that carry the least number of rattling chains. I confuse him he says, just like the last few. They think they know themselves, then I come along. "Sometimes I want you to just leave me alone, but whenever I'm with you it all goes away and I'm just comfortable, you know? It's weird. You're weird." He's telling me this on his cell phone, attempting to be locked in some small room, his foot against the door to keep out his friends. I shouldn't even be on the phone right now. You make me feel safe, I told him another night. He quotes me, "That's what you do," he says. Like you said and I said and he has no memory. No memory at all. It drains away daily. He tells me that he's worried, that he's scared, but he doesn't say he loves me. That's my line, spoken to the dark when he's asleep, when he's awake but not quite paying attention. He says I found him at a strange time. I stole him out into monogamy and being crazy just when his life started again, and he likes it, he digs me a whole lot, but he can't shake the feeling of bad timing. The same you're awesome but as everyone else. I can't help it, this terrifying dream. I'm afraid this will end in another You Can't See Me.

    Streaming audio: Magnetic Fields, an hour of live concert.

    Fresh in my mind, his rambling nervous phone-call, scratchy over the line. I don't think I could take that. I can feel he's convincing himself of something, but not a decision I can quite access. The story hasn't enough pieces for me to draw into words, there are gaps, milk-teeth spaces that I need to fill in. I told him I'd call at one. An hour and half, I'd said, to give him time to figure out where he'll be. "Do you want to come over?" and Yes, in a small voice. A tiny admittal voice, one that's scared of seeing where it's been leading. Then, No, wait, I didn't say that like that, though I did, and you know I did, and you know what that means. I just don't want you barking up the wrong tree. When I called, he didn't pick up.

    One MP3 a day for one year. Archived bi-weekly. Produced in 2003.

    Part of it is that he can't figure out why I like him, not the way I do. I should be more upset or less patient, less accepting. He goes on about it. Not that liking him is all that strange, I'm sure he has the same sort of line-up as I do, ghost or no. I'd be surprised if he didn't. No, he thinks his life is unusual, that his insides are crazy and strange. Well they might be, but I'm not in any position to see. I've learned over time that I've got blinders to socially abnormal behaviour that makes sense. Apparently most girls, they fade away, maybe in a musty cloud of arguements and perfume, when he's not around as much as they want him to be. Me, it's more than I have and almost as much as I need.

    Top 65 Songs of 2005: 65-26, as picked by the clever Good Weather For An Airstrike.
    foxtongue: (ferret)
    Ed found me a video of Will Wright talking at the Game Developer's Conference about 'Spore', the Next Amazing Thing to happen to video games. James was at this talk and constantly bubbled up about it while I was in Montreal with him. Now that I've seen it, or practically all of it, I entirely understand. Will Wright might be showing us the next evolution. If it's required, I'm going to upgrade for this when it's available, and some people I know have sworn that they'll be switching from Mac to PC.

    It's understandable. When even Science!!* is awesome, something like this is above proper description.

    Science!! of course, being more along the lines of World Jump Day. link found thanks to sophie. The basic idea is that if the people on earth all jump at the exact same time, a time specially choreographed, we can change the orbit of the planet into one with more hours of daylight, a more homogenous climate, and stop global warming. I'm signing up, aren't you? I even vaguely would like a t-shirt for the amusement value.
    foxtongue: (ferret)
    My monthly bus-pass ran out yesterday, so I mostly got home on the back of a strangers bike. I'd never ridden on the back of a bike before. It was fun, though it feels precarious. Stopping was an adventure.

    "I'm going a long way still, mind if I catch a bit of a lift?" When he'd stopped at the light next to me, I saw he had foot-pegs on his back tires. He grinned when I asked, pleased to get such an oddball request. He gave me a ride to Main Street. I told him children's stories for my fare, "and then the prince took out his cleaning supplies and began to scrub away the ashes", leaning over his back in my long inappropriate coat and top-hat, my hands slipping a bit on his jacket. He pedaled away laughing.

    It only occurred to me about a block later that we didn't exchange names. Sometimes, I am too stupid to be brilliant. That's two strangers in a row who're probably going to be telling stories of That Weird Girl They Met. (I hope I get my book back. He said it would take him a week to read.)

  • Fredo Viola has new video up.
  • Public Domain Film Torrents.
  • Marimba Ponies. thanks Cherie, happy wedding.)
  • foxtongue: (ferret)
  • Tron remixed as a Depeche Mode music video from Justin Alt. does anyone else agree that tron refuses to look dated?
  • Scariest film in years, Mac Cosmetics Ad ft. Amanda Lepoore.
  • Polysics, who seem like a Japanses Devo.
  • Naked taiko drumming. ( a longer cut of the same performance.)
  • the eerie game of quarters
  • LSD being tested on Britsh Troops. "he himself then lapsed into laughter."
  • Brokeback to the Future
  • Not a Stupid Girl, by Pink

  • foxtongue: (ferret)
    My mother writes a splendid explanation of her time at the University of British Columbia.

    Earlier this week, Jenn came down for breakfast and gave me a packet of glow-in-the-dark fridge letters. I just opened them tonight. Sliding one nail under the plastic and attempting to pry it free of the thin cardboard backing launched every little letter violently airborne and straight into all the stove elements. I was impressed. After fishing them all out with a twist of wire, I've written GOD IS VENEREAL on the freezer and left the rest of the letters to the other occupants on the apartment. (Of which there is going to be one less as of March, as Ryan is officially moving in with Eva instead of continuing the sham of living with me and Graham.) It seemed the easiest thing to write, but now I'm vaguely concerned at my frame of mind. I seem to remember that the most common message in the english language is HELLO.

    Neried rants a good shot at explaining her being a mother.

    Nothing lingers like the realization that almost my every reference lately to interesting conversations has begun with "We were in bed and.." It's like a bad habit, it brings to mind all the wrong connotations, like I prefaced with "and we were taking off each other's clothes.." instead. I stop. My sentence echoes in the air as I halt midbreath and wish I could reverse what I just said. Thankfully, my friends understand. It's possible they're used to me. I've forgotten. This week I had the treat of a late night outing with someone who knows all my older friends, the clan of theatre folk who are a generation ahead of people like Antonio and Mimi. It was like a rewind on a few years. It was a gift. The nicest thing he said to me, "You were like you are now."

    My dear friend Joseph is about to be laid off, so if anyone knows of any work in Montreal for aerospace engineers...?

    It's a wedding. They are dressed in their best clothes, lying on a hill. They look like a carefully staged moment for a documentary on the history of stock photography. Her lips are painted pink. From his hang a flower picked from the grass beside his hand. Posed on the brink of conversation, they are skirmishing with words, throwing a miniature fit in avoidance. "Congress is preparing an investigation, and I will work with members of both parties to make sure this effort is thorough." she said. "I don't believe you," he replied. "Look, that cloud's shaped like a stork."

    Nicholas has been spending slightly too much time on-line.

    One of the perks of my job is free long distance phone calls to anywhere in Canada and the U.S. As I have a few stretches of hours wherein all I'm doing is upping my freecell score to ridiculous levels or reading a book, I've been encouraged to try it out. This offer sounds like cool water in the scorching sun to me. I like this opportunity to get some of you a little better, to get to finally greet my family in a different medium. If you want to hear from me, simply fill out my little poll. Store hours of operation are 11 - 6 PST.

    [Poll #664582]
    foxtongue: (have to be kidding)

    "Hey you!!" "WHAT!" "Nothing..."

    Remember a year ago, that Eurovision Contest Band that Nicholas and I were banging on about so loudly that BoingBoing finally picked it up a month or two later?

    25 years after they disbanded, Dschinghis Khan has returned with a world-wide reunion tour called "Back On Their Horses".

    A little digging and we find the man who used to play Khan passed away from AIDS complications. When they played at the Olympiyski Arena in Moscow to 30,000 screaming fans on the 17th of December, 2005, they had a replacement. From pictures found here and here, it appears the years have not been as kind as they could have been.

    This is the first video that I found. There were more found by Nicholas, but world save us if we spend the time to dig them up again. We're already becoming dangerously interested in this retro-disco pop band from before we were born. Any more time spent researching Dschinghis Khan and William Gibson will dedicate a dry mocking paragraph of some short story to describing us in uncanny detail.

    Environment in crisis: 'We are past the point of no return'

    Of course, a latent obsession with a discontinued gimmick band is admittedly a little outré. It's much more conventional to share surreal clips of Japanese culture like this nicotine energy drink commercial featuring Arnold Schwarzenegger exploding out of a girl's head or this happy-hardcore music video featuring a fire-breathing fat man in gold lamé dancing with a harem of pretty, um, genies?

    It's understandable, a country that gives us such gems as japanese girls versus the syncopated masturbation video of doom", "japanese girls in meat-visor hats versus the giant lizard" or "japanese girls versus the giant black man" deserves whatever press they can get. (Doesn't being Bob Sapp in Japan strike you as an excellent way to make a living? To hell with being a Pro Wrestler and K-1 fighter, just cash in on being incredibly big.) In fact, when I discovered "japanese girl in seal hat versus the polar bear", I think I watched it three times in a row, my hand over my mouth in vague shock each time, more concerned for the bear than the screaming girl.

    However, I think it's only fair to give the rest of the world's astounding media a moment in the sun. Like, alright, I know it's not as weird as the hip thrusting lingerie flamingos, (and what do you even call Shingo Mama no oHa?), it's more of a catastrophe, but what about the David Hasselhoff Ooga-Chacka video that's been dominating my friends list? The thing with the fish or the eggs or the flying fairy children are all just as messed up as anything spewed forth from a pop idol incubator. (Don't even get me started on the green screening. I did better with a painted floor and a second-hand handheld camera that had an eyepiece with a tendency to fall off mid-shot). After all, American Idol has its own trainwrecks, some so spectacular it's a wonder they don't bring back the tradition of leaving brain damaged babies in the hills to die of exposure at the Burger King Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch.

    Brain scans reveal men's pleasure in revenge.

    BoingBoing recently featured Heavy Ammunition, for example, who has put together a brilliant clip of the Che-Stormtrooper phenomenon comprised solely of individual photos put together to look like video and put to a catchy hip-hop version of the Vader theme, (Here is where to get the stickers). They also pointed the way to a neat page showing a side-by-side video of an eerily identical Apple commercial and a Postal Service video.

    Not blindingly funny stuff, true, but decidedly as artistic as SHUN! or the classic slap-stick german safety film and about as equally creative as when The Tonight Show rigged a phony free photobooth and created a clip so delightful that LOL becomes LOL and not "I smile gently at this".

    As an eye-wash, even if you weren't brave enough to click on anything else in this post, (and shame on you for missing out on the marvelously astonishing photobooth), Everyone must watch this video. That means you, yes you, who is looking at this with skeptic eyes that are already wandering down to what's in the next entry. Too bad, toughen up, this is where your attention's at if it knows what's good for it. If you really must know, it features dogs and lasers, but that tells you nothing, so there was really no point in saying so. GO NOW WITH THE CLICK!

    edit: the dog video is for Vitalic and created by Pleix.
    foxtongue: (purple)
    "The Animaris Rhinoceros Transport is a type of animal with a steel skeleton and a polyester skin. It looks as if there is a thick layer of sand coating the animal. It weighs 2 tons, but can be set into motion by one person. It stands 4.70 meters tall. Because of its height it catches enough wind to start moving."

    Watch the video!

    There's more at has a session with Theo Jansen, the creator of these wondrous wind-powered walking machines, at Pop!Tech 2005 here.

    The Machine, a short story by Joey Comeau of a softer world.

    I leaned over the pool-table at Joe's Cafe and while I carefully lined up my cue with the ball, I unexpectedly felt like I was a copyright infringement. That someone more deserving had done this exact thing, but had made it art. Shaken, I missed my shot and tried to shoo away my strange thoughts. I was in the wrong company to be attempting to discuss such ideas away. Robin isn't educated on the right topics and Shadow, Ducky's brother, doesn't even have a computer yet. Instead I stood and looked over the poor constellation I had offered the next player. I counted the balls left and questioned colour as a concept. "It's lucky all three of us suck at this, hey?"

    Katie's started to take pictures wearing her holiday present.

    This is the day I was hit by the truck three years ago. I had killed the hot seed of a child in my womb a month before and where I stained my skirt when I skid along the road, the blood from my bone bare knees mixed with blood from that left-over wound. The snow, that sensation, was so light and soft that it felt like it wasn't real. My arm was fire and my eyes had met those of the driver a disturbing fraction of a minute before I turned and jumped into the air. My intention was to slide along the hood of the truck, but the snow, that delicate snow, it caught on my shoes. I slipped.


    foxtongue: (Default)

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