Blogabeth. A new iteration.

Really?

I know SkyMall shopping is a bit of a joke, but this is just incredible.

WOW. 

10 months ago

Darjeeling Limited vs. Hotel Chevalier

In the spirit of Web 2.0, Wes Anderson has made available to the general public, free of charge, a 13-minute short film entitled Hotel Chevalier . The short is intended as a prologue to his full-length feature opening this Friday, The Darjeeling Limited, though if you’re more dramatically inclined, intended as a “brief coda to a doomed romance.”

Good for you, Wes. Or to your Marketing Executive. Whichever.

10 months ago

Taking Back Sunday

The day. Not the band.

Sunday has always seemed to me to possess distinct characteristics, as days of the week go. I know I’m not alone in this feeling, as several other days have their own personas of sorts to the point of being cliche; for instance: Manic Monday, Freaky Friday, Must See Thursdays.

Okay, so maybe none of those are actual characteristics. But Lazy Sunday does have some truth to it, and that dear readers, is the subject of this entry.

The idea and indeed the general aura of Sundays evoke strong urges for me. These include, but are not limited to, musical preferences, activities, shifts in opinion and outlook, and occasionally attire. I’m not sure if one can validly feel nostalgia for something one has never developed a habit around, but for lack of a better term, this is what I’ll call it. I feel nostalgia for Sunday drives, bridge clubs, pot roast, aprons, cucumber sandwiches, tea time, the Rat Pack, oversized hats, constitutionals in the park. I’ll not delve too far into my own psyche, but suffice to say I’ve read/watched enough Oscar Wilde/Turner Classic Movies to provide ample evidence of my penchant for these types of things, whether it be logical, desirable, possible, or not. And so, in desperation for any sort of hobby, I’m toying with the idea of something I’ve lightly dubbed, “Classy Sundays.”

Whether “Classy Sundays” becomes a communal event is still in debate in the Ration Committee in Liz’s brain. The concept is gaining immense popularity in the Do Something You Lazy Asshole Committee, however, as it gives me renewed motivation to do certain things that I’ve long listed on New Year’s Resolutions and angry “Turning Over A New Leaf”-type journal entries. I’ll list them now for your benefit and compare them with their relevant applications in the “Classy Sundays” realm:

- cooking (cucumber sandwiches, pot roast, appetizers/pastries for theoretical club members)
- sewing (aprons, high-waisted A-line dresses a la 50s-era fashion)
- cards (Eucher, Bridge, Hearts)
- exercise (constitutionals, tennis, leisurely bike rides)
- mixology (Mint Juleps, mojitos, mimosas, Bloody Marys)
- using the turntable (classicly with Sinatra, Martin, Crosby, contemporarily  with Andrew Bird, Antony and the Johnsons, Camera Obscura)

The idea, dear readers, is to juxtapose the leisure activities with a certain amount of productivity that’s conveniently wrapped up in a kitschy kind of theme that can be executed socially or solo. Though what I’m doing at the moment (blogging) would take a bit of effort to be considered “productive,” this morning’s activities (grocery shopping, cooking an omelet, listening to Andrew Bird) fit easily into my latest idiom. I am, at least, sitting on the back porch enjoying the warmth and sounds of a summer Sunday and not in the frigid A/C where roommates stagger around in bathrobes.

As I contemplate the relevance of my habitual lack of follow-through in this exciting venture, I’m reminded of a Ze Frank video blog in which he preaches about the dangers of brain crack. Brain crack reflects my exact situation; one has an idea they think brilliant, yet tuck away in the recesses of their mind (or Internet, as it were) instead of acting on it. There it stays, rotting away in your brain. You occasionally take it out and admire it, but immediately put it back as you’re too addicted to the concept of it to ever throw it away.

I turned 25 on Friday. Is this the year Liz becomes a (wo)man of action? We shall see. I have no definitive Sunday plans (with the exception of Dragon*Con next week) for the foreseeable future as Roller Derby season is over, and I’m becoming fed up with these wasted weekends on the couch. At least for today, I have exercised my vocabulary and my cooking skills (both the omelet this morning and the chicken breast thawing in anticipation of the philly I plan on making for dunch). At least I have that.



ALSO: As I typed this entry, I watched a hummingbird getting down on one of the flowering veggies my roommate has in her garden. Neat. 11 months ago

So You Think You Can Blog About Dance

I watch reality shows sometimes. Project Runway. So You Think You Can Dance. It’s much more engaging and seemingly legitimate when the show requires the contestants to perform a skill.

The little sister of last year’s So You Think You Can Dance winner and this year’s shoo-in, Lacey, is week-to-week my favorite dancer. She’s got amazing technique (from what I can tell), superb performance skills and has a fuckton of national dance titles, but for some reason, she decided to phone in her solo this week. I honestly say I don’t blame her entirely since the second duet she performed, for any of you who watch or give the tiniest shit, was the result of an Emmy-nominated choreographer making an extremely well-calculated move to winning that award and arguably one of the best routines they’ve had in three seasons of the show. Were the competition still in the hands of the judges, Lacey would have been knocked down a peg or three for her slothful solo, as even an idiot (me) could tell that she put absolutely no thought into her thirty seconds. However, the show is at the point where everything hinges on the votes of the home viewers who, like me, adore Lacey. I still want her to win the competition, but as sucked into the show as I am, I’m really pissed at her for that horrid display of cockiness and disdain. Check your attitude, lady. Don’t need it. 1 year ago

Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.

Hi. My name is Liz, and I can’t stop thinking about Cylons.

Now that Heroes and the Shield seasons have ended, I’m beating the rerun blues by engaging myself in a new series. Maybe you’ve heard of it. If you watch The Office (US), you’ll recognize it as the beloved TV show of the lovely and talented Dwight Shrute.

Yes, my fellow nerdlings. I have been watching Battlestar Galactica.

As I said before with Firefly, I’m wary of anything that smacks of the Sci-Fi Channel, but after re-watching Firefly and Serenity two weekends in a row, I was desperate for more…something. I’d overheard many non-geek-type folk saying they were really into the series which gave me hope that the production value and script were high quality. I’m pleased to report that this is the case. The stories are, on the whole, engaging and the ensemble characters are all unique and well-rounded, if a little typical. The overall theme, survival of the human race, gives rise to other compelling themes of human nature: the importance and effectiveness of government versus military in wartime; monotheism versus polytheism versus atheism; love of family and romantic love; science versus religion; the nature of the soul, and countless others.

My religion teacher in high school was a nun who was nicknamed Sister Star Wars after her penchant for science fiction as a means of teaching. During the course of her class, we watched the entire Star Wars trilogy, Star Trek II: the Wrath of Kahn, Apollo 18, and several episode of the classic Kirk Star Trek. The sister’s premise for her medium was that science fiction is a means of placing issues and conflicts of the present far into the future so it gives us the opportunity to examine them objectively. I have since seen this premise affirmed by other scholarly sources, and in my opinion, shows like Firefly and Battlestar Galactica carry out this duty as well as Star Wars/Trek ever did.

For all you naysayers out there (not really sure why I always get defensive when it comes to my nerdish leanings), it’s amazing what you can find when you let go your pretensions. I challenge you to take the Battlestar Galactica challenge. If you’re not hooked after five episodes, I’ll send a case of yogurt and a copy of Body by Jake.*



*Offer void if you read this far. 1 year ago

IT'S THE BEST KIND OF MOTION THERE IS.

My promotion finally went through. I am now no longer Production Coordinator. I am now

Assistant Production Manager

Yay. 1 year ago

Is it next weekend yet?

Shatner’s sitting on the floor next to the couch either unwilling or unable to lie down. She paces somewhere else every two minutes to see if she could lie down there, only to find out it’s no different. Why?

Keep reading to find out.

I agreed to dog-sit for my friend Juston’s pug Bridget this weekend. He dropped her at my house yesterday evening, which meant I had an early night and consequently, an early morning. I thought it would be nice to take Bridget and Shatner for a walk in the morning before it got too hot. Things started off fine; they both pooped, I scooped, we kept walking down a street near my house. About a block down, I saw some folks out in their front yards having a neighborly chat. As soon as the woman nearest caught sight of me, she sprinted back to her front door, but wasn’t fast enough to contain her two giant lab mixes who came bounding down the driveway toward me. I stopped, thinking they just wanted to say hello, but in a flash of fur and growling, the yellow one clamped its jaws into Shatner and refused to let go.

Amidst the yelling of the owner and the yelping of Shatner (a sound I would prefer NEVER to hear again) we managed to pull them apart. Shatner was shaky, but not nearly as shaky as I. After I recovered from the shock of what I had just witnessed, I started sobbing and turning Shatner over and over to check for wounds while the owner of the dog smacked what I assume was the hell out of it and dragged it back inside. She came over to me after, apologizing profusely and held Bridget while I inspected Shatner. Initially it didn’t look too bad; the dog had broken a little skin, but there was no sign of bleeding. The woman gave me her card and offered to go to the vet with me, but I declined and assured her I would bring Shatner by once she had been cleaned up. I then started to walk shakily back to my house. I hardly need say it was one of the longest walks I’ve ever taken.

After putting Bridget away and stiffly smoking a cigarette, I put Shatner in the car and drove the 1.something mile to my usual vet. They said that they had no available appointments, but I could leave her there to see if they could get to her later in the day. I refused and asked for the location of the nearest vet. A few blocks away was the Dearborn Animal Hospital, or as I came to know it, the place of eternal waiting. I signed in and, after sitting for about 10 minutes, noticed that Shatner was dripping blood on the floor. I stepped in front of the line and asked to see someone immediately, and the receptionist showed me to a room at the end of the hall. The time ticked slowly by on the ridiculous dog-shaped ceramic clock on the wall and I began contemplating throwing Shatner up on the stainless steel table and cleaning the wound myself. I mopped up some of the blood off her fur with some wet paper towels, but there were smears of it all over the floor where she had been sitting. An hour and several false doctor alarms later, the vet finally came in and we looked at the wound. It was a fairly significant tear, at least an inch in diameter, flanked by two puncture wounds on the right side. He whisked her into the back, asking me to come back in an hour after they’d cleaned and sutured her up.

I left through the back door, not wanting to show my tear-ridden face in the cramped, crowded waiting room. I drove home and took a shower, which in fact calmed me down. It was in the shower when my legs started stinging that I realized I had two lacerations on the back of my calves, probably from Bridget’s retractable leash cutting into my skin during the incident. Again, I can only assume, as I was completely unaware of anything around me except the shaggy yellow beast trying desperately to maul my poor dog. I got her back from the vet along with some antibiotics and some painkillers and called the dog’s owner to let her know Shatner was okay. I declined any financial help, but thanked her and assured her I fully realized that this wasn’t her fault. I cried yet again on the drive back.

Now I’m at home, and Shatner refuses to lie down. She has seven stitches in her belly and one in each of the puncture wounds. The vet said there was a lot of bruising which probably indicates why Shatner keeps popping up whenever her front paws go down. It’s incredibly distressing to look at her knowing she can’t get comfortable no matter how much she wants to; the look in her eyes is one of utmost misery.

I’ve ordered some delivery and am preparing to settle in for the afternoon with my mangled dog and appropriately, I think, a few seasons of The Shield. I’m relieved that it wasn’t more serious, but it’s a miserable morning to pile on top of a bad week.

Hey, at least the air conditioning is working again.

1 year ago