We Are Not Alone (Jumping Around All Nimbly Bimbly)

And it's scary.

Do I look like a cat to ya, boy?

I've done this to people in staff meetings and stuff. But this is pretty ballsy, on national tv and all. And dedicated. The article is correct, he really hits his stride at about 2:21.

All of this makes me really crave a LitreO Cola. It's French.

Mad props to Omey for the link.

Because Captain Picard Is Always The Right Answer

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

I apologize for the ads. And I really apologize if it's the Charmin bears one. I hate those much--I can't even type about it. It's bad for my bp.

things that pop in your head

people are so damn fragile
and that's the honest truth
they break so very easily
but that won't stop them from breaking you

The Real Reason I Can't Get A Job

They're on to me.

Movies! Movies! Movies! Pt2

Continuing on with pointless ramblings that have no interested recipients.

Beyond the cut lay films that include Joanna Hogg, Paul Newman, Baz Luhrman, PT Anderson, and my Sweet Baboo.

Movies! Movies! Movies! Pt1

So, somehow I've managed to watch a few more films than usual lately. It seems proper to put them down for posterity, not that I can promise any sort of sense to be parsed from these ramblings.

Due to the influence of the often well-schemed RJ, I found myself attending a few screenings at the recent LA Shorts Fest. I also seem to just be wandering around watching stuff online, staying up too late, and consuming way too much British cinema.

Beyond the cut lay films that include Joanna Hogg, Paul Newman, Baz Luhrman, PT Anderson, and my Sweet Baboo.

Beware: here thar be spastic ramblings.

Sending Out An S.O.S.

Dear Universe At Large,

I'm not going to produce a laundry list of complaints and grievances. I'm not even going to cite the most recent incident-cum-insult that arrived in the mail.

I'm just going to throw this out there, on the off chance that wishing might work out, just this once:

If there is any chance and it's not too much bother, it would be awfully nice if a bit of non-Faustian, no strings attached, random good luck came my way. Soonish. Not that I'm sniffing at the good fortune I have, but it would be really awesome if I was actually overwhelming good fortune for once, instead of "crisis averted" good fortune.

Or not even overwhelming. I'd settle for just being whelmed at this point.

So, yeah--spot of luck, a good break. You know I'm good for paying it forward, back, and just spreading it around in general.

Thank you for your consideration.

The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

or

Yet Another Horrific Glimpse Into the 

Lovecraftian Nightmare of My Brainium*

You ever find yourself reading BlatherBlahg and going, "What the hell is wrong with this person?"

You're not alone--I wonder it too! And so we begin another confessional/ therapeutic session/ uncomfortable TMI moment.

Regular readers (all .0146 of you) will have noticed that I can get a stuck on certain actors/musicians/creative public types. How? Why? 

Ultimately, I blame the Internet. As with so many other things, it just makes it too damn easy to get all obsessive compulsive about, er, things. In fact, you don’t even have to do your own dirty work anymore, because chances are there is some cray cray fan out there who has done all the video hunting, magazine scanning, screen capping and (occasional) real life stalking for you. 

So, I guess it really started when I watched Thor** on pay per view earlier this year. I was underwhelmed by the experience. To sum up, my thoughts went a little like this:   

• huh, I expected better from Branagh.  

• WTF is up with the magically shiny Asgard made of disco plastic? 

• That is some baaaad hur weave, Thor.

• Natalie Portman as a scientist?? Not buying it.

• That bad guy is fun. Nice helmet.

• Ooo! Cask of Ancient Winters??? I remember that from the comics!

• Hellooooooo Idris Elba.

• Stellan Skarsgard! He should be in every movie. All the time.

Then The Avengers rolled around. Which was like a nerd geek holy day celebration. Strange, because I never got into the comic. But the movie was so much fun, and I easily forgave its flaws in the face of entertainment. 

Now, here’s the part I can’t trace for you. I don’t what happened in this last 4-5 weeks that made me revisit these movies. But through some strange twist of fate, I looked up something Avengers related and ended up on a Wiki Walk. 

Hear that? That sound was the Gong of Encroaching Doom. For one link led to another, and another, and soon I was knee deep in You Tube interviews, gifs, and photos. And worst of all: Tumblr. <---And that’s a huge tip off as to what this whole thing is about.

And what happened? This asshole, that’s what:

Why can't I ever meet a man that doesn't have daddy issues?

Everybody knows they photoshop these things.

Unretouched photo. Still amazing. Disgusting

Mother Effin Tom Hiddleston. Okay, so he's pretty. If you're into soulful, mutable eyes and razor cheekbones. But there's something else. He reminds me of someone. . . 
 

Aww. . . it's Spot.

Aww. . . you're planning patricide.

Yes, yes. There is that. That’s cute. Wait, you’re a natural blonde? Oh good, I don’t prefer blonds. 

Damn. Damn. That’s some crazy hair. I lurves me some crazy hair. And the feeling of familiarity is growing.

OH SNAP! That’s so unfair. Why can’t you remind me of someone I hate?

Honestly, he’s too tall. He’s too pretty and fey. He’s too, too Eton. But, he’s also unfailingly polite in interviews. He’s passionate about his work. He sings and dances, on stage and off. 

Infamous tweet to fans as thanks for Loki support. Bastard.

Can I get some fries with that shake, shake a booty?

He does impressions of his co-stars. Really good impressions. Uh-oh. Danger, gurl, danger! He dresses well and accessorizes.

Vest. . . like Kryptonite. Resistance. . .fading. . . gasp. . .

Furthermore, his fandom is populated by some whacked out peeps. I love a fandom that doesn’t take itself too seriously, while taking itself really really seriously. Cognitive dissonance*** is good for the soul.

http://gofuckyourselftomhiddleston.tumblr.com/

http://lokismonstercrotch.tumblr.com/

I mean, any blogs/tumblrs with “sits like a whore appreciation posts” can’t help but win my admiration.

And so, as I tumbled down the rabbit hole of ovary imploding life ruination that is Hiddles, I eventually wandered onto Ye Olde Wikipaedia. You always end up there sooner or later. It was while reading that entry that my universe did a record scratch. 

One line. One simple little line.

born 9 February 1981

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Over.

Oh no. HELL NO. This dude is young. Wait, he’s not just young. He’s younger than my little brother. That date looks familiar because it makes him almost ONE YEAR YOUNGER THAN MY BABY BROTHER. I mean, come on. People born in the 80s probably don't even count as actual humans. They are some kind of Pop Tart/MTV cyborgs. (I can't even talk about people born in the 90s. Are they real? Do they have all their parts? It just doesn't seem possible).

A sudden and terrible silence descended.

Look, I don’t do younger, okay? It’s not just a preference, it’s almost biological imperative. My physiology won’t support it—the moment the “younger” information registers, the attraction is gone. Finito. Shuffled off its mortal coil. An ex-parrot, if you will.

So, I was pretty horrified that I had just invested SRS Stalking Time, possibly to the point of Top Five Freebie addition, to such a wee little bairn. After several shots of whiskey and multiple showers, I thought I would be okay.

But I made a classic blunder. Only slightly less well known than never getting involved in a land war in Asia—I took One Last Look.

Big mistake. Huge.

Because more crap kept showing up.

Sure, go ahead. I never liked Shakespeare that much. *coughignoreallquotesatblatherblaghcough*

Wait, did you just make Shakespeare sexy? Who do you think you are, Ian McKellan? 

Shakespearean Sweat: When You Care To Sweat The Very Best

Dear lord. Put your shirt on.

Seriously? This is my thing, man. Everybody knows it. I wanna be a raptor. Knock it off.

 

OMG---ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? IS THIS EVEN REAL LIFE? NO ONE IS THAT NICE. JEEZ!

Did you just whiteboy rap, trash talk, do impressions—all in the same interview? STOP IT. JUST STOP. THIS IS RIDIC---

 

 

OKAY, THAT TEARS IT. YOU—OUTTA THE POOL. I REJECT YOUR EXISTENCE. THIS IS MADNESS.

It’s an onslaught of charm, a full frontal of charisma, full scale global thermonuclear geekery, DEFCON 1 dorkiness. How can I fight against this?

But fight I shall!

I shall employ my Brodys, Fassbenders, and Butlers. I will use the stealth Ferguson. I deny thee, Hiddles. The power of Waterston compels you. Begone! In nomine Pacino, et Sting, et Elliott Sancti. 

I am heartily ashamed of myself. Pray for me, you guys. Pray Harderer: The Electric Boogaloo Sickening.

*tentacles not included 

**No-Prize for anybody who guessed the object d'amour from that clue alone 

***No scientific evidence to back this up, but with the regularity of occurrence in my life, I sure hope it's true

It Can't Rain All The Time You Homophobe

Yesterday was a day of letters. Take that as you will.

These are both practical and uplifting, though you might find they manifest in very different ways.

A celebrity's genuine response to a cry for help about depression. God, that man is so frickin cool. Srsly.

From the sports world, a surprising level of basic rationale and acceptance. My friend forwarded this, saying the combination of wordiness and foul language immediately brought me to mind.

That's me--pretentious potty mouth. Eloquent excrement flinger. Shakespearean shit talker. Heh. I'm cracking myself up now. :)

So remember, "it will be sunny one day." And "they won't magically turn you into lustful cockmonsters."

One I completely believe, and the other I desperately want to believe.

It was me and my sidecik

He was drunk and I was sick
We were caught up in bar room fight
Till an Indian shot out the light
I'm so tired of being tired
Sure as night will follow day
Most things I worry 'bout
Never happen anyway

Othello, Act II Scene I

Reading this for the first time (I know, I know. I'm scandalously undereducated and uncouth).

I am beginning to suspect that Iago may replace Mercutio as my favorite Shakesperean word slinger.

Hmmm.