At first I thought this video was all relaxing and stuff...until I realized it was about a rescue mission...
Bathtub IV from Keith Loutit on Vimeo.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Give it to me, I want it now
Thank you, Korean scientists, for making a puppy that GLOWS IN THE FUCKING DARK.
lights on:
lights off:
lights on:
lights off:
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Shouldawouldacoulda
Last night in my screen writing class we were asked, if you could have written any already written screenplay what would it have been? Here are a few:
1. Leaving Las Vegas
2. Anchorman
3. Brokeback Mountain (this goes for the short story, too)
4. Gladiator
5. Can't Hardly Wait
6. Memento
7. Léon
8. Kill Bill
9. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
10. Jerry McGuire
1. Leaving Las Vegas
2. Anchorman
3. Brokeback Mountain (this goes for the short story, too)
4. Gladiator
5. Can't Hardly Wait
6. Memento
7. Léon
8. Kill Bill
9. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
10. Jerry McGuire
Monday, April 13, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Today's best status update
Tina Fey, via twitter:
It's so nice out. It almost makes me want to go for a walk. Almost.
It's so nice out. It almost makes me want to go for a walk. Almost.
Margins
are borders.
are lines.
are edges.
are limits.
are seashores.
are page breaks.
are sunrises.
are sunsets.
are breakups.
are makeups.
are exes.
are boyfriends.
are lonely.
are pain.
are longing.
are regret.
are thresholds. are where you end and I begin.
are lines.
are edges.
are limits.
are seashores.
are page breaks.
are sunrises.
are sunsets.
are breakups.
are makeups.
are exes.
are boyfriends.
are lonely.
are pain.
are longing.
are regret.
are thresholds. are where you end and I begin.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Today's best status update
ann h. lee via Facebook:
is ann.lee@nyu.edu.. not to be confused w/ annlee@nyu.edu, who has an amex card, does volunteer work, went to harvard, and is a professor... i wonder if she wants to trade identities..
is ann.lee@nyu.edu.. not to be confused w/ annlee@nyu.edu, who has an amex card, does volunteer work, went to harvard, and is a professor... i wonder if she wants to trade identities..
Happy Easter
From my mom to me:
The Easter bunny just left you $100.00 that has been placed in your account—spend it wisely (not on shots).
Wise words, dear mother.
The Easter bunny just left you $100.00 that has been placed in your account—spend it wisely (not on shots).
Wise words, dear mother.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Today's best status update
Trista McVey, via Facebook:
Trista McVey can do anything with the right accessories.
amen, sister.
Trista McVey can do anything with the right accessories.
amen, sister.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Today's best status report
Aubrey Sitterson, via Facebook:
"I want to have an upper body that says "I mean business," and a stomach that says "I still like to have a good time"
"I want to have an upper body that says "I mean business," and a stomach that says "I still like to have a good time"
Friday, April 3, 2009
Great Paragraphs
From "Henry Miller on Writing"
When I think of the titanic efforts I made to canalize the hot lava which was bubbling inside me, the efforts I repeated thousands of times to bring the funnel into place and capture a word, a phrase, I think inevitably of the men of the old stone age. A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand years, three hundred thousand years to arrive at the idea of the paleolith. A phantom struggle, because they weren't dreaming of such a thing as the paleolith. It came without effort, born of a second, a miracle you might say, except that everything which happens is miraculous. Things happen or they don't happen, that's all. Nothing is accomplished by sweat and struggle. Nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia, and agony because we've lost the habit of falling asleep. We don't know how to let go. We're like a Jack-in-the-box perched on top of a spring and the more we struggle the harder it is to get back in the box.
I think if I had been crazy I couldn't have hit upon a better scheme to consolidate my anchorage than to install this Neanderthal object in the middle of the parlor. With my feet on the desk, picking up the current, and my spinal column snugly socketed in a thick leather cushion, I was in an ideal relation to the flotsam and jetsam which was whirling about me, and which, because they were crazy and part of the flux, my friends were trying to convince me was life. I remember vividly the first contact with reality that I got through my feet, so to speak. The million words or so which I had written previously, which were intelligible words, mind you, well ordered, well connected, were as nothing to me -- crude ciphers from the old stone age -- because the contact was through the head and the head is a useless appendage unless you're anchored in the mid-channel deep in the mud. Everything I had written before was museum stuff, and most writing is still museum stuff and that's why it doesn't catch fire, doesn't inflame the world. I was only a mouth-piece for the ancestral race which was talking through me; even my dreams were not authentic, not bona fide Henry Miller dreams. To sit still and think one thought which would come up out of me, out of the life-buoy, was a Herculean task. I didn't lack thoughts nor words nor the power of expression -- I lacked something much more important: the lever which would shut off the juice. The bloody machine wouldn't stop, that was the difficulty. I was not only in the middle of the current but the current was running through me and I had no control over it whatsoever.
I remember the day I brought the machine to a dead stop and how the other mechanism, the one that was signed with my own initials and which I had made with my own hands and my own blood slowly began to function. I had gone to the theatre nearby to see a vaudeville show; it was the matinée and I had a ticket for the balcony. Standing on line in the lobby, I already experienced a strange feeling of inconsistency. It was as though I were coagulating, becoming a recognizable consistent mass of jelly. It was like the ultimate stage in the healing of a wound. I was at the height of normality, which is a very abnormal condition. Cholera might come and blow its foul breath in my mouth -- it wouldn't matter. I might bend over and kiss the ulcers of a leprous hand, and no harm could possible come to me. There was not just a balance in this constant warfare between health and disease, which is all that most of us may hope for, but there was a plus integer in the blood which meant that, for a few moments at least, disease was completely routed. If one had the wisdom to take root in such a moment, one would never again be ill or unhappy or even die. But to leap to this conclusion is to make a jump which would take one back farther than the old stone age. At that moment I wasn't even dreaming of taking root; I was experiencing for the first time in my life the meaning of the miraculous. I was so amazed when I heard my own cogs meshing that I was willing to die then and there for the privilege of the experience.
When I think of the titanic efforts I made to canalize the hot lava which was bubbling inside me, the efforts I repeated thousands of times to bring the funnel into place and capture a word, a phrase, I think inevitably of the men of the old stone age. A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand years, three hundred thousand years to arrive at the idea of the paleolith. A phantom struggle, because they weren't dreaming of such a thing as the paleolith. It came without effort, born of a second, a miracle you might say, except that everything which happens is miraculous. Things happen or they don't happen, that's all. Nothing is accomplished by sweat and struggle. Nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia, and agony because we've lost the habit of falling asleep. We don't know how to let go. We're like a Jack-in-the-box perched on top of a spring and the more we struggle the harder it is to get back in the box.
I think if I had been crazy I couldn't have hit upon a better scheme to consolidate my anchorage than to install this Neanderthal object in the middle of the parlor. With my feet on the desk, picking up the current, and my spinal column snugly socketed in a thick leather cushion, I was in an ideal relation to the flotsam and jetsam which was whirling about me, and which, because they were crazy and part of the flux, my friends were trying to convince me was life. I remember vividly the first contact with reality that I got through my feet, so to speak. The million words or so which I had written previously, which were intelligible words, mind you, well ordered, well connected, were as nothing to me -- crude ciphers from the old stone age -- because the contact was through the head and the head is a useless appendage unless you're anchored in the mid-channel deep in the mud. Everything I had written before was museum stuff, and most writing is still museum stuff and that's why it doesn't catch fire, doesn't inflame the world. I was only a mouth-piece for the ancestral race which was talking through me; even my dreams were not authentic, not bona fide Henry Miller dreams. To sit still and think one thought which would come up out of me, out of the life-buoy, was a Herculean task. I didn't lack thoughts nor words nor the power of expression -- I lacked something much more important: the lever which would shut off the juice. The bloody machine wouldn't stop, that was the difficulty. I was not only in the middle of the current but the current was running through me and I had no control over it whatsoever.
I remember the day I brought the machine to a dead stop and how the other mechanism, the one that was signed with my own initials and which I had made with my own hands and my own blood slowly began to function. I had gone to the theatre nearby to see a vaudeville show; it was the matinée and I had a ticket for the balcony. Standing on line in the lobby, I already experienced a strange feeling of inconsistency. It was as though I were coagulating, becoming a recognizable consistent mass of jelly. It was like the ultimate stage in the healing of a wound. I was at the height of normality, which is a very abnormal condition. Cholera might come and blow its foul breath in my mouth -- it wouldn't matter. I might bend over and kiss the ulcers of a leprous hand, and no harm could possible come to me. There was not just a balance in this constant warfare between health and disease, which is all that most of us may hope for, but there was a plus integer in the blood which meant that, for a few moments at least, disease was completely routed. If one had the wisdom to take root in such a moment, one would never again be ill or unhappy or even die. But to leap to this conclusion is to make a jump which would take one back farther than the old stone age. At that moment I wasn't even dreaming of taking root; I was experiencing for the first time in my life the meaning of the miraculous. I was so amazed when I heard my own cogs meshing that I was willing to die then and there for the privilege of the experience.
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