There are no lyrics to Pachelbel's Canon in D, which is what I was actually listening to. I figured a blank space would be too metatextual or some shit.
God, I love it when the Brits get snarky:
"Technically, 'Hoo Har' derives from 'Heard, Acknowledged, Understood'. Thus HUA. Less technically, it means, 'Yes, sir,' 'OK, sir,' 'Absolutely, sir,' 'Fucking A, sir,' 'Yes, sir I will go and clean the latrines or dig a ditch or fill sandbags or jump out of a helicopter in the middle of the night and stagger around big, dusty hills for days on end carrying a giant pack and trying not to get killed searching for an elusive and fanatical enemy. Sir.'"
The British armed forces radio station actually played the Eurythmics' "King and Queen of America" when I was in Saudi Arabia. I often got the feeling they didn't like us very much.
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New York Times film critic Elvis Mitchell appears on Minnesota Public Radio's Midday, name-checks "Pootie Tang" far too many times, permanently skews racial statistics for network. More news at 11.
Windy today. Even on calm days, the dreads refuse to be held down by the white man's gravity (think Aeris from Final Fantasy VII). Windy days, I get stuff like this:
The kid's mom was giving the cashier her co-op member number or writing a check or something. The kid was staring at me.
Those of us who don't deal with children often tend to forget that the little tykes are not, in fact, human. Oh sure, they look like smaller versions of us, and they can string words together into what seem like meaningful sentences, but the thought processes going on in their heads. . .
I looked behind me to see what the kid was looking at. Nope. Turned back to her and cocked my head to one side in the universal gesture for "You confuse me."
"Are you a witch?" she asked.
I have stubble, I thought. I have a visible Adam's App-- I have man han-- I have stubble.
"I'm a boy," I said.
She didn't say duh. It's only when kids become teenagers that they feel the need to point out how stupid you are. As children, they feel it's obvious to anyone, and hardly needs to be mentioned explicitly. She just waited patiently for me to stop talking crazy and answer her question.
"No, I'm not," I tried. "Why do you ask?"
"You look like a witch," she observed seriously.
So there you are, in case you were wondering what I look like. Hippie children in co-ops think I look like a witch.
Lisa, I saw this and immediately thought of you. Please don't kill me.
Not having seen the film and basing my opinion solely on the trailer and ads, Undercover Brother will suck with a ferocious suckiness. Sure, some of the webisodes are funny, but dragging one-joke characters through a full-length film is usually an exercise in deep hurting. Or did you enjoy all of the many Saturday Night Live-sketch based films of the past few years? Superstar, anyone? Coneheads? It's Pat?
I'd rather bitch about how the 'net community is ignoring the first film based on a flash animation to hit the big screen, and make vague, baseless allegations of racism. You know, the usual stuff I do. Note that these entries are usually quite brief. One-joke characters can't carry lengthy web pages, either.
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Was randomly -- and I mean randomly -- thinking about Patti Austin and Stacey Lattisaw last week. Today I visit George Kelly's way-cooler-than-this web site at http://www.allaboutgeorge.com/, and he's linked to an article about Patti Austin's popularity in Asia. Singing in Mandarin.
Any guesses as to where Lattisaw is these days, and what language she's crooning in?
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Negro what? Negro where? Negro when? Negro today.
Son, wipe
your feet.