Also:

Facts & Figures

# of times I banged my head on a pipe while doing laundry last night: 6
# of times I banged my leg on the dining room table while folding said laundry: 3
# of times I think about something I want to geek out/blog about but don't because I fear getting fired from my job for further extolling the virtues of Simon Pegg, examining the elation LARPing seems to bring to so many of my fellow geek people, dishing on shooting the latest ep of MTSS, or rambling aimlessly and gleefully about pop cultural milestones and yardsticks and thimblefuls of human experience, revelation, and progress---while at work: 1,000,000,0000000 yes an EXTREME MADE UP NUMBER OF TIMES.
# of times I realized I frakking love rambling aimlessly and gleefully about the goodness and darkness of people as expressed through the written & performed word, dramatic storytelling, the moving image, and/or via vampires, girl detectives, and Simon Pegg---and that I should ramble forth freely because any day my brain could be smashed in or my hands could be lost or my sight or my tongue or my internet access:

1 time. Last night.

of course the new band I like is an icelandic indie-folk rock band

What is Iceland made of, anyway? Wispy ghost songwriters with love on their minds and melody in their blood?





jesus chrICE.

My 5-Second Review of Get Smart

Steve Carell: so hot he's out of CONTROL.

Gods & Monsters

STAN WINSTON RETROSPECTIVE

My cubicle walls are decorated with drawings I've done and images I've loved for a long time. Sketches of zombies at prom and vampire co-eds face Van Gogh's Starry Night, some screengrabs of Tim Burton movies, various posters boasting comic book characters I love in rich black and cream or bold color. At first they were just the sum of their parts: pretty distractions from the workaday world I've gotten myself into. But yesterday, something clicked: they all shared color schemes. The lines had some kinship to them. It looked like they could be photos from the glossy pages of a brochure for my brain: a travelogue of my inner landscape.

I love moments of clarity like that. When you realize you have been shaped by people you've never met and never will: that someone's imagination spread and spurred your own. It makes me proud to be a human, and thrilled to be myself, and happy to be joining in the cycle and experience-however stumblingly slow.

I don't have any Stan Winston stuff on my office walls. But the man features prominently in my travelogue. Looking back at these images, I realize he had a heavy hand in writing the book.

Ira Glass's Twitter Account: An Update

He has posted no new tweets since joining up several days ago.
Yet he has several thousand followers.

My thesis: Ira Glass never intended to be a full-fledged Twitterer. He wanted an instant ego boost, one his harem of bespectacled brunette intern girls could no longer adequately provide. So instead of taking stock of the number of times his smirking mug appears in the margins of Myspace and Gawker Media pages, he made a Twitter.

And then he watched the numbers of Followers swell, till their number became as engorged as the hard-ons hipster intellectuals have for his radio program.

Bastard.



PS: Ira Glass is still not really one of my favorite pop culture obsessions. And he is STILL not following me on twitter.

I'm Following Ira Glass on Twitter

And Ira Glass is following ten cute (guessing smart) brunette girls and one sandy-haired boy with a Mac.






(ed. note: I'm not so much an Ira Glass person as I am a nerdy-white-boy-with-prominent-nose-and-thick-black-rimmed-specs person. Ira is a salt-and-pepper hair too cocky for my taste. So smug in his exalted hipster-geek status. Oh who am I kidding who doesn't like This American Life?)