윤

And as such, I could manipulate the wind beneath me precisely enough (however complicated the mathematics, I reasoned; after all, I was a god) to sustain my flight across the country. My traveling companion, alas, was not one of several comely candidates for oracle at my shrine, but old co-worker Jackson Chandler. We were amidst some discussion when I realized we had wandered into a cave lined with ancient pillars that had long existed unbeknownst to modern man. A change of perspective made me yet another person, and the now three of us stopped our horizontal movement to elevate through an opening above. Behind us, what originally appeared to be a giant statue of a camel broke from the wall and lifted off its brontosaurus neck to reveal several more of its kind, covered with leech-like parasites. [Bafflingly well-received White on Rice mentioned the dinosaur in a rather mean scene about an unusually tall Japanese woman.]

I have this pair of Adidas sweat pants—now that I mention it, my Nike “training” shorts are the same way, so it’s not a brand issue—whose pockets are so shallow that anything entrusted in them unfailingly fall out when I sit on anything equal to or sharper than a 90-degree angle. I suspect the Chinese manufacturers of skimping on the pattern-making and using the same ones regardless of the size, which may only be plenty deep for someone with legs half mine’s length. (I know what you’re thinking: if keys are gonna slide the entire distance anyway, what does it matter how far they’re down? Because friction’s more likely to intervene, that’s why. The additional travel time’s bound to alert me, too.) Or was it decided that it’s in the best interest of society to inconvenience us than to require another part of the population to dig in up to their elbows?

And while I’m at it, will they ever make a car without crevices between the seats too small for your hands to fit through and fumble around for such emptied contents without parking and moving the seat back? Tall people have it rough, too.

Wunderbar, because Lisa’s ball of leftovers never worked for real:
(2) Designer’s got to be Korean, with a name like that; and (3) not everyone’s converted to that wasteful liquid stuff!

Could be my age showing—make that resistance thereto—but I think I’ve grown somewhat open to (read: less than 100% against) remakes or re-imaginings, though the final product will invariably determine my verdict. “H50”, for instance, is a mediocre cops-on-location show that doesn’t even have the once-exotic setting going for it anymore; the BBC have done a far better job of incorporating the change in times for homeboy Shirley. I like his use of the hard drive metaphor for the human brain, if only because I’ve always complained how much the limited capacity of my huge head is like the 200MB 386/33 tower in my storage versus my wife’s newer, more compact desktop.

Found this gem in there, too, the actual howdunnit closer to They Might Be Giants than The Return of Sherlock Holmes, which if anything, reveals more of how far along the Joker’s come than the Victorian-era property.Oh, and the Doctor Who writers show their hand with their wonderful reinvention of Moriarty as well, who goes from inspiring the Master to taking after the opposing yet complementary nature of the villain, the kind of existential interplay that Conan Doyle probably couldn’t foresee for his one-shot menace (nor the benefit to sales, like Batman’s): “consulting criminal,” indeed.

You’d expect it to happen more often, but it doesn’t: I followed up last night’s live-from-New York episode of 30 Rock—and not the awful second installment of the BBC’s new Sherlock that ended my evening… 2009, and cultural awareness hasn’t improved since The Talons of Weng-Chiang—with a dream featuring the cast of characters, myself of course among them. The details are so many tears in the rain, but I seem to recall being a lowly staff writer seeking Liz Lemon for recognition or otherwise and mistaking Alec Baldwin’s character’s last name as Geiss (his deceased mentor) at first before eventually addressing him as Mr. Donaghy. It was one of those typical frustrating affairs where I’d try and find someone who just refuses to be found, or get somewhere and even backtracking won’t return me to the same place. Either way, nothing nearly as good as Internet favorite-for-Superman role Jon Hamm’s “Please, I’m so tired!” line:

My second storages are proof that the only thing we’d do with another planet is fuck it up as well. Unless it’s inhabited by monsters already. Sorry, son, but this is why you have to learn martial arts.

老婆 and I decided to stop at 大黒家 ら～めん on our way back from the little old lady who twists her back every week and had to drive around blocked-off one-way streets for half-an-hour before settling for a $4 parking lot nearby. We had unwittingly arrived on the one day Angelinos busted out their bicycles (or more likely, the cash for them) to challenge our dependence upon foreign oil, promote green transportation, or something. Of course, regardless of how they actually got there. Now you know me, I’m all for self-flagellation propulsion; I just think it shouldn’t have to be as part of a Flickr event. Wanna experience downtown outside a cage? Move the route over a few and ride up 5th.

Google and the third result is a J.’s Brain-era write-up whose reason for hating I can’t quite determine, since the hard shells don’t even hail from south of the border. (It’s like my recent observation that the only thing Sheil won’t be able to eat back in Taiwan is Panda Express.) And at the time its rather unfortunate connotations had yet to emerge. Myself I’ve only recently been introduced to the delicacy, and find it to be a superior alternative to the similarly-composed Drumstick®, whose top-heavy content distribution invariably leaves an empty cone, and the muss resulting from the brittle chocolate coating Klondike bars, as I’m not about to allow food that precariously close to my mouth in inedible wrappers.

I was onto the Mayans at least 15 years ago, and that was probably before a shitload of other people were, said term of venery to include this entrepreneur. (I have about as much faith in their community as I do the ark of rich folks who we were supposed to get behind at the end of that execrable movie.) My 15-year-older self, said term of maturity to include this descendant, may have more reason for hope but still concedes things gotta give, though I’m also now more inclined to believe that their calendar was only this long because the idea never struck them for the business of selling a new one every 12 months. Maybe they never grew tired of Miss June.

I may not be the designer of the family, but I know crap when I see it. (Even their “BR” Banana Republic logo pales in comparison to Baskin Robbins’. What can I say, I like clever, even borderline-cheesy.) Not that it really makes a difference to the consumer such as myself, to whom the fit of their clothing is more cause for concern, but surely they must have considered how well the new concept will translate on their once-mall standard navy bags, which plastic or not, must be credited with much of their success so far. They gonna change them to supermarket white ones now? Obviously marketing is lost on me.