that's my new favorite phrase, alongside "pelenque sarcophagus." watch the history channel, dear readers, it's gold. but the bit about whooping cranes is not from the history channel to my knowledge. it's from the Division of Migratory Bird Management website. don't judge, it's for an informational design project.
festooned around the site are delicious phrases like "resident canada goose nest egg registration" and "adaptive harvest management" and "Bald Eagle Post-Delisting Management" and the aforementioned title of this post.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
twattering
what is le deal with twittering all of a sudden? in my realm of awareness--and clearly i speak as a representative for all the citizens of earth--twitter was something i'd vaguely heard about but stayed away from (not unlike my treatment of facebook*) until every talking head, pundit and congressman has been heard babbling about it on the talky box. i just wanna be all, "YO. WASHINGTON PEOPLE. WE'VE ALL BEEN INSTANT MESSAGING FOR YEARS. IT'S NOT THAT COOL."
*hello, over-monitoring! on one of my limited forays in facebookery (i limit myself to two or three minute stints to preserve sanity) i was alerted that someone on the fringy periphery of my facebook circle had changed their cell phone number. and then it displayed the number! kinda makes me rethink the shady characters i've accepted just because i was too much of a pussy to click no. on a related note, i have an irrational fear that people will be alerted when you ignore a cause or invite they give you. i can just see that damn facebook alert, "anna has IGNORED your cause! she thinks you are a douche!"
*hello, over-monitoring! on one of my limited forays in facebookery (i limit myself to two or three minute stints to preserve sanity) i was alerted that someone on the fringy periphery of my facebook circle had changed their cell phone number. and then it displayed the number! kinda makes me rethink the shady characters i've accepted just because i was too much of a pussy to click no. on a related note, i have an irrational fear that people will be alerted when you ignore a cause or invite they give you. i can just see that damn facebook alert, "anna has IGNORED your cause! she thinks you are a douche!"
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
tenderloin haiku
i travel through a particularly colorful section of town on my way to school. these are my thoughts. naturally in the form of haiku.
empty crack baggy
you denote transactions that
i'd rather not know.
of all the strip clubs
wonder why this one has a
lone stroller in front
is that poop from the
ass of a dog or a man?
wait--please don't tell me
i did not know that
starbucks was the new place to
smoke crack in front of
bum, please don't push me
to get to that cigarette
butt, i'll gladly move.
empty crack baggy
you denote transactions that
i'd rather not know.
of all the strip clubs
wonder why this one has a
lone stroller in front
is that poop from the
ass of a dog or a man?
wait--please don't tell me
i did not know that
starbucks was the new place to
smoke crack in front of
bum, please don't push me
to get to that cigarette
butt, i'll gladly move.
Monday, December 15, 2008
cities of the WONDERworld
cities of the underworld is a newish show on the history channel in which host don wildman takes the viewer to historic, underground (and subsequently rarely seen) sites (and sights!) in various cities, always led by a local knowledgeable docent. secret subterranean free mason meeting rooms and underground mafia consortia are typical examples. it's really a fascinating show for anyone with a modicum of interest in history and i find myself watching it whenever i see it on.
but i think the real reason i view it is to watch don's relish as he describes the scenery. "so this TUNNEL leads us to LENNIN'S secret WAR room?" he earnestly asks his guide.
"yes. it does."
the guides are clearly chosen for their static qualities and play nice, subdued foils to don's sensational statements. don continues, "it's POSSIBLE, that the ENTRANCE to the SECRET TUNNEL connecting the gladiator training school to the coliseum can be FOUND in this SEWER."
you have to appreciate how much he tries to take the viewer along for the ride. when touring the holding rooms for gladiators that sat below the coliseum, he opines, "down here is where i LIVE. up there [dramatically gesturing to the arena] is where i DIE."
i sometimes imagine the conversations he has with the producers in between takes.
"so should i be turning the corner of the tunnel leading to the gaelic sacrificial edifice and THEN give my opening line? or say it before?"
"you know, that's really up for debate, but i would love to hear you pant more, as if you've just spelunked your way down by your boot strings."
"oh, brilliant, brilliant."
it's awesome.
watch it.
fin.
but i think the real reason i view it is to watch don's relish as he describes the scenery. "so this TUNNEL leads us to LENNIN'S secret WAR room?" he earnestly asks his guide.
"yes. it does."
the guides are clearly chosen for their static qualities and play nice, subdued foils to don's sensational statements. don continues, "it's POSSIBLE, that the ENTRANCE to the SECRET TUNNEL connecting the gladiator training school to the coliseum can be FOUND in this SEWER."
you have to appreciate how much he tries to take the viewer along for the ride. when touring the holding rooms for gladiators that sat below the coliseum, he opines, "down here is where i LIVE. up there [dramatically gesturing to the arena] is where i DIE."
i sometimes imagine the conversations he has with the producers in between takes.
"so should i be turning the corner of the tunnel leading to the gaelic sacrificial edifice and THEN give my opening line? or say it before?"
"you know, that's really up for debate, but i would love to hear you pant more, as if you've just spelunked your way down by your boot strings."
"oh, brilliant, brilliant."
it's awesome.
watch it.
fin.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
for joolz
so i signed onto one of my regular trusty timewaster websites yesterday and almost vomited in my mouth. there, plastered as a wallpaper behind the content of the page, was a reclining heather locklear's smug grin, boring holes into my face. oh...i'm sorry...i think smug is a little too indicative and generous. i suppose "vacant" or "blank" or "plastered" would be more appropriate, because, in reality, YOU CAN'T DECIPHER THE EXPRESSION ON HER BOTOX-ADDLED FACE. hay-SOOS, heather. lay off the frigging injections. tell me, when was the last time you were physically able to furrow your brow at the joke your career has become? sigh. it turns out heather is busy promoting her new rom-com series, "flirting with 40" that seems to be spawned out of the recent cougar epidemic that's sweeping american consciousness. "oh, i'm so old," she demurely croons at her beefcake co-star through frozen lips and cheeks. the plot, shockingly, being that some young hottie falls head over heels for heather and she, presumably through the power of love, learns to FEEL again. so i guess the other eight-fillion canceled shows with similar premise didn't sway the executives at--that's right--lifetime. buuuut in retrospect, i suppose you can't expect anything less from the same people that are serving the public shows called "diet-tribe" and "wife swap" each week.
Monday, June 30, 2008
unwanted, aka, "why angelina jolie's bum bum isn't enough to save a crappy movie"
seeing Wanted last night was like buying a nice, delicious brownie at a bakery only to bite into it and discover that it was really just the baker's square-shaped shit. morgan freeman, angelina jolie, james mcavoy and common were merely the pearls thrust at this sprawling, self-loving cinematic swine.
my first clue should have been the bit of info at the opening of the film, words on the screen telling a brief history of a band of--yes--weavers turned ASSASSINS living 1000 years ago. what it really should have said was, "long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away was a premise so stupid, you wouldn't realize its ridiculous, bloated point until it was too late to walk out of the movie and get your money back.
"
i'm going to throw a few spoilers out here, although i prefer to call them 'savers,' as i am writing this in hopes that you will be saved the hour and 38 minutes i wasted and do something more worthwhile with your time, like watch paint peel or knit a cozy for your dvd player or stab yourself in the face with a rusty fork.
the film opens with a pretty cool action scene detailing some baddie getting offed in a Matrixian, gravity defying way. some other people are shot, too. cut to mcavoy, playing an anxiety-riddled doormat accountant. of course he gets introduced to jolie and her band of killers known as 'the fraternity.' because the screenwriter couldn't think of a name with any iota of originality. i mean, what else would medieval textile manufacturers call themselves when they discover--i shit you not--a magic loom that weaves random targets' names in a hidden code in the fabric. THAT'S WHERE THEY GET THEIR NEXT HITS.
lets pause and let that sink in.
eventually mcavoy is convinced that his absentee father was really a member of the fraternity and was just betrayed and assassinated merely days ago. (he was the victim of the opening death scene.) mcavoy's job is now to become a trained killer so he can off the guy that double-crossed his pops. "my name is james mcavoy. you keel my father. prepare to die. i have a-six fingers." ad nauseum. we then get slapped in the face with some cliche meet-the-impossibly-cool-and-unaffected-members-of-our-killing-club scenes in which we discover they really do still operate out of a functional textile factory. mcavoy's character is convinced this is a front and charmingly asks freeman's character, head honcho Sloan, "so, wait.
do you guys make sweaters or kill people?"
they kill, james, but not necessarily people. the only murder going on is the death of the cinematic tradition.
in the film's defense, the action scenes are exciting; however, they get carried away with themselves. ok...so the bullet bending is cool and all, but this movie is trying to e an overt exaggeration a la Kill Bill or Shoot Em Up, yet comes off as a twelve year old boy's fantasy escape during fifth period math class, not a filmmaker's fun and fantastical vision. you can almost hear a little kid making engine noises and explosion sounds during the chase scenes.
every character is an exaggeration of ridiculous proportion. mcavoy's morbidly obese boss is a foul-mouthed dead ringer for drew carey's tranny-like sidekick. his best friend/co-worker is literally fucking james' girlfriend on their own kitchen table every morning on his break from work and even manages to finagle james' character to buy condoms for him. angelina's character, Fox, (yeah) coolly eats a hamburger with all the emotional disassociation of an autistic savant as mcavoy gets the living shit kicked out of him during one of his many training sessions in which his countenance is being broken for the 87th time. it all ends up being really sloppy and obtuse. i haven't even mentioned the musical training montage in which he hones his skills in the textile factory's meat locker with the resident guido/knife expert.
the end of the film reveals that the man mcavoy was trained to kill (and just did in a drawn-out train crash scene set in...i don't know...slovakia or something) really IS his father, not his father's killer like we were all led to believe. it turns out that he was pursuing mcavoy with a gun the whole goddamn movie to "protect him" from the fraternity. not to kill him as the fired bullets implied. riiiight.
the ending is so unfathomably retarded, a multi-layered, preposterous turd-cake, if you will that i don't even have the energy to describe it. i'll just say that it involved, i'm not kidding, exploding rats and a single bullet that kills a large number of people that are standing in a circle. it's like a merry-go-round of incredulous crap.
if you're going to see this film, i understand angie's draw, just know that despite the amazing talents of the headlining actors, this is one festering pile of poo that is best left untouched...nay...UNWANTED
my first clue should have been the bit of info at the opening of the film, words on the screen telling a brief history of a band of--yes--weavers turned ASSASSINS living 1000 years ago. what it really should have said was, "long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away was a premise so stupid, you wouldn't realize its ridiculous, bloated point until it was too late to walk out of the movie and get your money back.
"
i'm going to throw a few spoilers out here, although i prefer to call them 'savers,' as i am writing this in hopes that you will be saved the hour and 38 minutes i wasted and do something more worthwhile with your time, like watch paint peel or knit a cozy for your dvd player or stab yourself in the face with a rusty fork.
the film opens with a pretty cool action scene detailing some baddie getting offed in a Matrixian, gravity defying way. some other people are shot, too. cut to mcavoy, playing an anxiety-riddled doormat accountant. of course he gets introduced to jolie and her band of killers known as 'the fraternity.' because the screenwriter couldn't think of a name with any iota of originality. i mean, what else would medieval textile manufacturers call themselves when they discover--i shit you not--a magic loom that weaves random targets' names in a hidden code in the fabric. THAT'S WHERE THEY GET THEIR NEXT HITS.
lets pause and let that sink in.
eventually mcavoy is convinced that his absentee father was really a member of the fraternity and was just betrayed and assassinated merely days ago. (he was the victim of the opening death scene.) mcavoy's job is now to become a trained killer so he can off the guy that double-crossed his pops. "my name is james mcavoy. you keel my father. prepare to die. i have a-six fingers." ad nauseum. we then get slapped in the face with some cliche meet-the-impossibly-cool-and-unaffected-members-of-our-killing-club scenes in which we discover they really do still operate out of a functional textile factory. mcavoy's character is convinced this is a front and charmingly asks freeman's character, head honcho Sloan, "so, wait.
do you guys make sweaters or kill people?"
they kill, james, but not necessarily people. the only murder going on is the death of the cinematic tradition.
in the film's defense, the action scenes are exciting; however, they get carried away with themselves. ok...so the bullet bending is cool and all, but this movie is trying to e an overt exaggeration a la Kill Bill or Shoot Em Up, yet comes off as a twelve year old boy's fantasy escape during fifth period math class, not a filmmaker's fun and fantastical vision. you can almost hear a little kid making engine noises and explosion sounds during the chase scenes.
every character is an exaggeration of ridiculous proportion. mcavoy's morbidly obese boss is a foul-mouthed dead ringer for drew carey's tranny-like sidekick. his best friend/co-worker is literally fucking james' girlfriend on their own kitchen table every morning on his break from work and even manages to finagle james' character to buy condoms for him. angelina's character, Fox, (yeah) coolly eats a hamburger with all the emotional disassociation of an autistic savant as mcavoy gets the living shit kicked out of him during one of his many training sessions in which his countenance is being broken for the 87th time. it all ends up being really sloppy and obtuse. i haven't even mentioned the musical training montage in which he hones his skills in the textile factory's meat locker with the resident guido/knife expert.
the end of the film reveals that the man mcavoy was trained to kill (and just did in a drawn-out train crash scene set in...i don't know...slovakia or something) really IS his father, not his father's killer like we were all led to believe. it turns out that he was pursuing mcavoy with a gun the whole goddamn movie to "protect him" from the fraternity. not to kill him as the fired bullets implied. riiiight.
the ending is so unfathomably retarded, a multi-layered, preposterous turd-cake, if you will that i don't even have the energy to describe it. i'll just say that it involved, i'm not kidding, exploding rats and a single bullet that kills a large number of people that are standing in a circle. it's like a merry-go-round of incredulous crap.
if you're going to see this film, i understand angie's draw, just know that despite the amazing talents of the headlining actors, this is one festering pile of poo that is best left untouched...nay...UNWANTED
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
People That Need To Get Some: Part 73
I flew up to Seattle for my dad's 60th birthday on Sunday and stayed to ring in my 25th. I flew Southwest on the way up (the way back is Virgin Atlantic and I'm quite excited...I'm told that it's like flying in an iPod). Now, we're all familiar with the Southwest No Assigned Seating Boarding The Plane rigamarole. My spot in line was B25. When it came time for all the B's to line up, I stepped over to the place in line marked 21-25. There were a couple people already standing in the middle of this assigned area (this gets important in a moment) so I stood near the front of the area. NOT THINKING IT WOULD BE A BIG DEAL. The 21-25 zone, like every other line zone, is approximately 4 feet in total. I was busy fidgeting with the delicate balance of Bag + Starbucks + iPod + Boarding Pass when another traveller walked up to me.
"Are you number 21?" he blandly asked.
"No, I'm 25, I just--" I don't really know how I was going to finish this sentence, but I didn't even get the chance to think about it because he cut me off with a,
"Well...UHM...ok...." and gave me a concerned stare. Apparently he was put off by the fact that I was assigned position 25 and was stealing bases all the way up to, oh, position 22. HOW COULD I?
I looked him with a stare more dry than the Mojave and stepped back a foot and a half, around the people behind me to the far end of the 21-25 bracket. I can only assume that when I relinquished my coveted and stolen spot his trip immediately was enhanced.
"Are you number 21?" he blandly asked.
"No, I'm 25, I just--" I don't really know how I was going to finish this sentence, but I didn't even get the chance to think about it because he cut me off with a,
"Well...UHM...ok...." and gave me a concerned stare. Apparently he was put off by the fact that I was assigned position 25 and was stealing bases all the way up to, oh, position 22. HOW COULD I?
I looked him with a stare more dry than the Mojave and stepped back a foot and a half, around the people behind me to the far end of the 21-25 bracket. I can only assume that when I relinquished my coveted and stolen spot his trip immediately was enhanced.
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