An escaped Alabama inmate charged with murder was caught this week after he traded a gun for tickets to Sunday’s NASCAR race at Atlanta Motor Speedway.
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An escaped Alabama inmate charged with murder was caught this week after he traded a gun for tickets to Sunday’s NASCAR race at Atlanta Motor Speedway.
The hit of the last fortnight has been Cee-Lo Green’s “Fuck You” (both the text-only version and the newer official version).
The hummable (if not singable) nature of the song and the amazing videos (as different as they are) got me thinking about another great tune with a stunning video: Her Morning Elegance by Oren Lavie. If you haven’t seen already (or it’s been a while and you want a refresher) here you go:
Petapixel posted an amazing “making of” video today that shows just how the process of creating the video came to be. Check it out:
There’s even a traveling art exhibit of the stills that make up the stop motion video OR you could own a piece of creative and buy one of the photos yourself for $250.
Anyhow, the Cee-Lo stuff (despite the completely opposite sentiment and presentation) got me thinking of Oren Lavie.
Enjoy your holiday weekend!
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Sleazeball emeritus Pat O’Brien has written a creepy open letter to Lindsay Lohan:
From where we all sit, this is also a big part of your snapshot … and despite all the crazy and mostly embellished media coverage of your life’s journey, there remain a great number of people who are worried about you. I am one of them. I am also one of those alcoholics that Grace Kelly spoke of.
Atlanta will be mighty Balkanized this weekend:
Oh, and there’s also a NASCAR race at Atlanta Motor Speedway.
The everyday Jolene is a horrible tipper — when she tips.
Palin does not always treat those ordinary people well, however—it depends on who is watching. Of the many famous people who have stayed at the Hyatt in Wichita (Cher, Reba McEntire, Neil Young), Sarah Palin ranks as the all-time worst tipper: $5 for seven bags. But the bellhops had it good in Kansas, compared with the bellman at another midwestern hotel who waited up until past midnight for Palin and her entourage to check in—and then got no tip at all for 10 bags. He was stiffed again at checkout time. The same went for the maids who cleaned Palin’s rooms in both places—no tip whatsoever.
Ask Evander Holyfield what happens to people who don’t tip. He was heavyweight champion when he stiffed me at a valet parking lot in Midtown. Now he’s battling foreclosure and dressing up in drag for Taco Bell.
This post is the real letter I sent to Kay-Roger. I'm not a happy camper right now and when momma's not happy, she tells ALL of her friends.The Oatmeal has me pegged and so I felt I needed to make amends.
Why did I wait for a free Internet cartoon strip series to guilt me in to buying the $1.99 version of a free game (ReMovEm) I’ve played over 12,000 times!?
As the strip posits, I had a rationalization problem. Anything that can hold my attention (or steal my attention a few minutes at a time over the past 2 years) deserves my financial support.
If you’re the Tetris-loving type, give the free version a shot and thank The Oatmeal for calling me on my own hypocrisy.
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Homer Simpson: As a jock, it is my duty to give nerds a hard time
Downtown will be crawling with them this weekend for DragonCon. I forecast their ascension in this column that appeared in the AJC on 12/29/03:
Remember the Star Trek juror, the Arkansas woman who wore a Starfleet uniform during the Whitewater trial? Yes, we all had a good laugh at her expense. Little did we know that within five years she’d be among Hollywood’s prized demographic. Without warning, a confederacy of geeks has taken over the popular culture.
“The Matrix.” “X-Men.” The latest chapter in the trolls and elves trilogy. This is cinema for the “Dungeons and Dragons” set. Who put the Society for Creative Anachronism (that group you may recall from college, jousting on the lawn in medieval garb shouting “zounds” at each other as they drank from faux goblets) in charge of programming?
Once we mocked nerds. It was tradition. Now we (filmgoers, the flock mentality media) follow their lead.
Check out the passion spouted by one local man in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution just before the opening of that hobbit movie: “There is a vague sense in my mind that this is the last time in my life I’m going to have this experience. Nothing else is going to generate this excitement.”
I should’ve seen this coming. On my first day as a film schooler out West, we were asked which writer or director had inspired us most. I feared my response would be sneered at as pedestrian or, even worse, domestic!
But then I heard the name James Cameron. More than once. Same with George Lucas. No Ashbys or Wilders or Peckinpahs or Hustons.
Even now, having switched coasts a second time, I can’t avoid the “other world” acolytes. An editor recently encouraged me to hook an article about police corruption to the struggle for the ring. When I displayed ignorance at his reference to Gollum, he gave me the kind of look once reserved for people who couldn’t tell you the name of the vice president.
Such sentiments were formerly restricted to online chat rooms and sci-fi conventions, a few of which I covered (we had slow news days back then). I watched people nearly trample each other in their rush to fill an auditorium where Marc “The Beastmaster” Singer was set to muse. I observed adults bid thousands of dollars on an autographed copy of Leonard Nimoy’s biography.
Little wonder I would always leave those events with unprecedented conviction that I was the coolest guy in the room.
Nerd mainstreaming was inevitable, I guess. It happened to rednecks (auto racing and wrestling have never been more popular). Are you really prepared for a pocket protector version of comic Jeff Foxworthy: You might be a dork if . . . ?
So the need for reaction is clear. It’s time someone stood up against geek chic. Back to your parents’ basement, I say.
As for everyone else, step back and reflect on the security of the schoolyard pecking order. Remember when the kid with the Star Trek Trapper Keeper was all that stood between you and the bottom social rung? Fight these otherworldly powers or, 10 years on, face the prospect of water cooler chatter about “Dungeons and Dragons 4: Back from the Maze.”
For the past several days, every time one of us opens the door leading to the basement, a little brown mouse scurries down from the top step, cuts right into the bathroom, and then disappears under the door into the garage. I usually chase him with whatever’s in my hand (trying to trap him with a glass or swat him with a stack of clients’ medical records), but the little brown bastard is too agile to even come close.
Yesterday, Pretty Bride decided that, since it was the one night of the week we’d both be home, it was time to take the fight to the mice. We pulled the cars out of the garage and started looking for their home, which appeared to be near a giant bag of grass seed with a corner nibbled open. Piles and piles of grass seed in the corner of the garage, mixed with stacks of mouse turds (think grains of rice, colored black).
Then I pulled back the insulation from the wall and nearly vomited at the smell: mouse urine, mouse birthing secretions, mouse fornication residue, more mouse turds.
A fat one scurried up the wall as I was vacuuming up the turds and grass seed; I aimed the nozzle at it and frantically tried to suck its well-girthed body into the flexible chord. Fail. He did a u-turn and bolted back to the concrete before sliding under the door to the bathroom.
We put glue traps along all four walls of the garage, catching another baby within 5 minutes of putting them out. Stupid baby.
I walked over to it and watched it squirm and squeak as it wrestled against the adhesive gripping its little bastard mouse feet and its little bastard mouse side.
Me: Does that feel good, little vermin?
Mouse: *squeak*
Me: How do you think it feels to be trapped in an unsellable house full of you and your little fucker mouse friends, huh?
Mouse: *squeak!*
Me: I got glue traps all over this garage. I’m gonna catch your momma, your papa, and all your little mouse siblings. All y’all are going to spend the rest of your sorry, short lives on trays of glue in this hot ass garage. Thirsty. Hungry. And pissing all over yourself. You excited about the next few days?
Mouse:
This morning, I barreled downstairs to check out all the traps.
Nothing.
Just the baby from last night, lying motionless on its side in the trap next to my car. I trudged back upstairs to get ready for work.
I was about 2 miles down the road when my phone rang.
Me: Hello?
Pretty Bride: Did you look at the traps? I’m afraid to look.
Me: Yeah. Nothing but the baby from last night.
PB: Do you think they’re laughing at you from their new mouse home? I bet they are.
Me: I don’t know… let me know next time you drive your Odyssey.
PB: Ass.
Judge for yourself:
I’d hate to be stuck with Cassandras like these if the shit ever really hits the fan.