last night there was some confusion so i wanted to quickly clarify. “the three billy goats gruff: what really happened.” ask yourself – do you know the fable? the tale as old as time? three billy goats are trying to cross the bridge to greener pastures but there’s a troll who wants to eat them. the first goat, the smallest, is like “troll, my friends are fatter, you should eat them and let me cross. i’ll taste gross.” so the troll says fine. then the second goat comes, same thing. then the third goat comes, fat and mighty, and hoists the troll up with his billy goat horns and tosses him into the stream. it’s not a deep stream but the pebbles are sharp and the troll dies. so the fat one crosses and they all eat grass.
Little rats on the track, get back!
You’ll give a mom one heart attack
You’ll berate the gods, you’ll give them flack!
and guess what, guys? Alack!
Like the freighted calls of the Baroness
Make mince meat of this party pie!
Posies sprinkled over lanes
to guild the scent of ghoulish blight
brought by scampering furrowing bees
pecking at Venice like cheddar cheese.
But there, I feel, I see it true!
The train now comes to flatten you!
With cheeks so full and a tail too tight
You’ll squint your eyes and fade to night!
At night I peel off socks
I sprinkle pine nuts over noodles
Small thing, I forget.
Greetings from the apocalypse! The end is here indeed. A cloud balloon has been bobbing over my head all day. Lionel Richie is taking tea in a kimono in my kitchen. My family appears to have left me with him. They’ve gone on vacation. Tiny Pixar men are coming out of the woodwork to burrow into our ornamental acorn squashes, screaming microscopic chants: “Bring back the Peach! Bring back the Peach!” My toy poodle has been humping a furry brown pillow like there’s no tomorrow because in fact there isn’t. Two Jahova’s witnesses just introduced themselves at our door as “Zin” and “Norlox” and left tubes of space food in their wake. Lionel won’t stop eating them! And last night, a haloed, jelly-slippered Ryan Seacrest appeared to me in a dream and whispered, “find the lack, take the lack, make the lack a lack.”
I think it was his Norewegian alter ego mispronouncing “lake.” But even then… what? I really don’t get it. What am I supposed to do? I’ve been hoarding airplane safety manuals, take out menus, and hotel fire escape plaques for over a year now. And for what?! It’s safe to say the Mayan alphabet can tell me nothing. It’s safe to say I think we’re all a little confused. The best we can come up with is this translation?
|tzuhtzjo:m uy-u:xlaju:n pik
chan ajaw u:x uni:w
ye’ni/ye:n bolon yokte’
ta chak joyaj
|It will be completed the 13th b’ak’tun.
It is 4 Ajaw 3 K’ank’in
and it will happen a ‘seeing'[?].
It is the display of B’olon-Yokte’
in a great “investiture”.
I’m not satisfied with that! What does “investiture” even mean?! That’s some King James shit right there, not Mayan. Bolon Yokte, their war God/ Armageddon/ doomsayer is scary looking, so, yes… if I see him on the street I’ll call 311 stat. Perhaps we could assuage his wrath by offering him the esteemed honor of a spot on the Today Show or as Ryan Seacrest’s Kiss FM co-host?! I know it’s not great, Bolon, but it’s the best we’ve got.
Ugh. Well… I’d take my news from Bolon. At least he’s got good credentials.
…ugh, so corny. But here:
If we have not style, then we have nothing. –Lord Grantham.
If you can think of a more awkward way to start a post than a syntactically outdated Lord Grantham quote, holler@me. Nevertheless, he hit me with his best shot he did, the Lord Grantham in sayin’ this! exit hunched beggar with cloth-sack-on-a-stick.
Wait so… what? I liked this quote. Notable Quoteable. A year and a half out of college and my English degree has already been reduced to notable quoteables. Ugh. Whatever. I liked it because I have a style complex, as of late, but Lord Grantham may have cured it. CURED ME(at). I started thinking about style—the polycephalus monster that haunts New York with sequined claws and a Anna Wintour bob (or wait, that’s just Anna Wintour. Read: sole defense against evil fashion legend is poorly executed analogy to her being a mythical serpent). And then I realized that style isn’t the oppressive other, it’s more than fashion, more than money… it’s a mode of being that keeps me (and all y’all!) afloat. And not to get too washy (but I will!)… style makes us human, and gives us purpose. By PLAYING THE GAME, floppin’ in the fake and fancy, we assure ourselves that we are more than p**ping bipeds. Lord G wasn’t just talking about style as in cufflinks and cerulean knits— he was heralding Downton as a beacon of English decorum. Humans need turtle soup, monocles, perambulators, opiates, canary prints—Catherine Earnshaw’s loverlorn whimpers echoing o’er the bluffs— to mask our cruel existential struggle. We need to create an alternate reality in which we are purposeful, mighty beings that can capture things (canaries!) and put them in cages! Scientifically speaking, here’s the logic: turtle soup = plain old atoms, but in the context of cultural norms (monocles, opiates, etc.), turtle soup = atoms = SO MUCH MORE. That is to say, our lusterless atomic colonies are nothing without creating hierarchies for them. The Creation of Adam! The sound and the fury! The malaise!
That’s the credo of Downton. The frilly vestiges of Victorian society are more than just artifice— they serve a vital purpose in maintaining order in the chaos of post-war, atheistic world. Much like the role of God in the Middle Ages… the Dowager Countess is a pillar (if saggy) of truth.
This post makes no sense.
On the topic of saggy pillars!… I wanted to address the fact that there needs to be a word, which is NOT zeitgeist though I have tried to make it so, that = déjà vu + availability bias + zeitgeist. It would explain how ideas or objects suddenly appear everywhere after you’ve mentioned them once. Not that I haven’t mentioned salt before, but last weekend my mom read my blog for the first time (we all did weird things out of #desperation #Sandy), and that night, while walking Dash, happened upon the Northern Lights of NaCl! This is the picture she texted me, no explanation, just a spectre described by the word which has not yet been made…
IAN CURTIS. you’re an itsy bitsy playmobile… these days. you’ve joined the posthumous ranks of tiny toy gods!!! in a damp basement somewhere in dusseldorf, a 37-year old, leather chap wearing, german toy fetishist/ punk rocker/ ex con raised your tiny u-shaped hands in exaltation and took thousands, and thousands, of pictures of you to make this video for his loyal niche of playmobile+joy division zealots. ian, your hair is very accurate indeed. as is rapturous rate at which stephen morris drums by tiny arms. dance dance dance! dance dance dance!!! DANCE DANCE DANCE.
bedtimes cobbled loosely around
stories involving pirates
make kids cry.
bonjour chatons ferrell. ma petite soeur et ses amis ont fait une vidéo qui fera vibrer vos chaussettes de laine. elle l’a fait sur son titillant “gawp yah” dans un programme d’immersion française au Pomona College cet été. regarder comme elle fait semblant d’être abusés par un escroc français! oh mon dieu! la terreur!
hello ferrell kittens. my little sister and her friends made a video that will rock your woolen socks. she made it on her titillating gawp yah in an immersive french program at pomona college this summer. watch as she pretends to be abused by a french rogue! oh my god! the terror!