Friday, February 26, 2010
Griz - results are in
She's about 5.
She's fixed. And IS indeed a she.
She was chipped at some point.
She needs to have a couple of teefs out, which may help with the standoffishness.
When properly medicine-addled post-doctor visit, she can be quite sweet and loving.
Cat therapist believes she can and will be re-acclimatized to people, because she will look at other stuff (like laser pens) and not just stare into nearby humans' eyes, as a feral cat will (waiting for their human overlords to betray a moment's letting down of guard, allowing WolfCat to STRIKE!).
It will be at least ten years now before the new owners can get a couple of sweet kittens that are, y'know, nice.
Still, yay for Griz!
Desconstruction Depot
Hey! A D_____ thing that doesn't entirely suck! Miracle!
We are going to get all sort of beams'n'shit from here for our raised garden beds (both ours and a community one), and this new place:
is supposedly stuffed to the gills with old items gutted from houses that are being knocked down to make way for more CVS's. ANYway, we can build a garden with, like, fancy rosettes and such on the corners, which can then rot over the years like ships' masts. Needless to add, the whole thing will be so self-consciously pretentious, faux-rustic and Clientele-like that it actually just moved a little.
Ready to pheesh
12 song New Order Best-Of
Thursday, February 25, 2010
This album has owned my afternoon
"Shouldna took that dare."
(AP) - Bonnie, a cow, was in a game of truth or dare with her friend Linda.
"She said 'I dare you to walk across the pond.' I said, the hell I won't. I was just glad them humans come and got me out."
Linda, amused, said "I was asking her a 'truth' about somethin' happened when we was back in cow college. She shoulda just answered."
That was tough
Par-tay
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Somewhere, over the shitheap
"Doubt"
Did not know dem tings, mon
Griz a la hotel dieu
Readers of this organ have been stopping me in the streets to ask about Griz, the Chicago street cat with the heart of tungsten, and whether she is okay.
Just this morning, Old Grizelda has gone to the doctor to see if she is fixed, chipped, how old, even capable of being brought back from the cusp of near-feralness...we should know all soon!
Pray, if that's your bag.
Just this morning, Old Grizelda has gone to the doctor to see if she is fixed, chipped, how old, even capable of being brought back from the cusp of near-feralness...we should know all soon!
Pray, if that's your bag.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
HATE this
These new Ohio plates (which the .com's tell me are not mandatory, thank Jim Rhodes's Ghost) - first, they look like a package of butter from 1992. Second, they suck:
The panoramic "city-to-country, it's ALL Ohio!" vibe. Yuk!
It would be hot if there was text at the bottom: From the crackhouses to the meth labs!
According to news stories, they pressed a million of these pups before someone said it was unfair to expect Buckeyes to cough up an extra 2.50 a plate during a recession. Surely that money could be better spent on a can of Steel Reserve and some jalapeno Combos.
But I shouldn't bitch about the reasoning because I still hate these and am glad that I shan't have to screw 'em on our various conveyances!
Curse of the misshapen
"Fried"
No one you care about really gives a shit about Julian Cope, BUT this remains one of the best LP covers, like, ever:
I mean, a turtle shell on his back and a toy truck that says "FRIED" on it. Result!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Nick Eddy Repents, Part the Second
Nick Eddy Repents, Part the First
I said something in a post last week from which one could infer that All the Sad Young Literary Men by Keith Gessen does not, in fact, blow. It does.
I have read about a third and cordially hate it. But, half-heartedness never got the dishes done, so I will try to finish it. Fortunately, I found time to read a whole Lester Bangs compendium yesterday while this piece o' shit languished. So shed no tears for me!
I do stand by Roberta Flack's "The Ballad of Sad Young Men," though.
1994 - so much to answer for...
Back in the 90's we had a sorta metal band called Nest. Our noms du rock were:
Gabe Hendryx - gtr, vox
Romeo Hendryx - gtr, vox
Gabe Haggar - bass
Chikki Stixx - the drums
According to the attendant bigger-than-life mythmaking, Gabes Hendryx and Haggar were brothers, the "Hendryx" last name being mere coincidence.
Anyway, we practiced and partied in Gabe Haggar's parents' basement. Therein there was a promo poster for some band with a "hot chick" thereon that was, at the time (I was going through a breakup), painful to look at.
So, yesterday, for the first time in at least, what, twelve years, I remembered this picture, yet could not, with force of all my will, remember what the hell the band was...I assumed it was some sort of greasy Monster Magnet-like, Supersuckers-y precursor to Fu Manchu. Argh. This Internet you hear about turned up nothing.
I emailed "Gabe Haggar" and he blackberried back that it was now driving HIM crazy, too.
Well, it turned out to be this:
"Your Ice Cream's Dirty"?
I mean, yes, hot, but all in all and in hindsight, probably some girl they found on Dave Navarro's lawn one morning, shaking bits of grass from her mane and mumbling in a Dutch accent.
Big deal!
AttackSlut
How much you do not need the new Gorillaz
I cannot put into words*. Unless, in the spirit of Rock Band and video game crapola, it comes with a special program/contest that allows you to cut your own unnecessary two and a half minutes from each song.
Bring on Parklife II, for cry yi.
* single's not bad, in a "wistful Damon melody"/Good, Bad and the Queen sort of way, with 1992 drum machine...
Easy, Tiger
Was just picking up a couple of (fantastic) Sicilian squares, and so happened to see the end of Tiger's mea culpa conference. Something occurred to me: what if he really is sorry? Not just that he was caught and all that, but maybe his rapacity for intimacy stems from, I dunno, hating golf, hating being trotted out on Johnny Carson at age zygote-plus, secretly wishing he was a nobody, just playing bass in a ski-lodge cover band in Colorado or managing a small municipal airport.
I mean, who knows?
Marc!
Was cleaning away unused icons and streamlining the ol' desktop (to better serve YOU!) when I came across this pic of Marc! He's my parents' cat DC (nee Polar Bear)'s brother!
YOUR news source
Is Nick Eddy Relents your main source of news? If so, we're flattered. But, really, there is a whole world of happenings out there, besides what ephemera filters down for mention here.
So, while we appreciate the stalwart patronage, just know that the stuff discussed here isn't terribly important, compared to real news.
One can get lost in the catacombs of trivia around here and miss out on the important things (meals, eg).
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Taxi Wizard
I didn't read anything other than headlines about it, but Scorcese and DeNiro want to remake Taxi Driver or something? Sure, Jason Schwartzman would make a good Andy the Gun Salesman, but otherwise, meh. Unless! Unless, unless...DeNiro, now 2100 years old, wants to play the part of the Wizard! And the whole thing is told from this standpoint! Like, the Wizard's boring day, then going home and heating up a can of soup on a hot plate in his crappy apartment while some neighbors fight in Spanish. Then when the Javier Bardem Bickle goes nuts, they can interview DeNiro Wizard and he can mumble "I barely knoo the guyee...he kept to himselph..."
Smart metal, ironically
"Ryan"
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Maybe I should?
Shouldn't I buy Abbey Road studio as an HQ for the blog? And, when inspired to craft pop gems, as I do sometimes, I can just pop in to 2A or wherever and lay them down? I think it would be extra-prestigious to run into dickweeds from high school and be able to tell them, "Yeah , I own Abbey Road, but mostly I just blog from there."
Friday, February 12, 2010
Okay, okay
I read two different reviews/articles about the new Don DeLillo book Point Omega where they mention an artist Douglas Gordon and his work 24-Hour Psycho, which is, in toto, showing the Hitchcock movie at such a slow rate that it takes a full twenty-four hours to show the whole thing. Which I love, because it's ingenious while being pointless, as any habitues of this blog will know puts the lead in my pencil. BUT I couldn't tell until I looked this Douglas Gordon up whether he was real or whether he was so Don DeLillo-ish that DeLillo made him up or maybe just maybe one of DeLillo's characters was writing this blog post. ?
Anyway, look him (Gordon) up I did and was I ever glad, because check this:
It's called: Self Portrait as Kurt Cobain, as Andy Warhol, as Myra Hindley, as Marilyn Monroe
!!!
Anyway, look him (Gordon) up I did and was I ever glad, because check this:
It's called: Self Portrait as Kurt Cobain, as Andy Warhol, as Myra Hindley, as Marilyn Monroe
!!!
Can't we all just face it?
Silence of the Lambs is terrible. Why? Because it makes no sense.
When Lecter kills that cop and strings him up on the cage in the time it takes an elevator to get upstairs, and arranges a "Janie's Got a Gun"-video's worth of spooky lighting, I say bullshit! And the whole "suspense" scene where the FBI pro's are busting into the house in Illinois while Clarice is at the real killer's house - what? And Clarice making the intuitive leap that said goon is "making a dress of women" because she sees the dress with the tape-diamonds on it and then realizes that it must be the neighbor...oh, whatever, fuck it, it sucks. Sucks.
I do like Scott Glenn, though. He's good and it gives me an idea (he wrote) for a new, new genre of picture: take two actors in roles one likes and put the characters together in a movie with a new plot. Like, Scott Glenn's FBI dude and Chris Cooper's cop from Lone Star and have them doing something, like, I dunno, going in together on a minor league baseball team franchise. Or James Mason as Van Damm in North by Northwest in a chess tournament against Charles Grodin's doctor from Rosemary's Baby. I'd watch that. Sure, James Mason is dead. So what? Use a computer.
Anyway, SotL came out on Valentine's Day 1991, meaning it's nineteen years old, so I should not care to remind myself how much I hate it, but I must. I must.
Also sweet
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