Category Archives: Allegory

Operation Global Media Domination: raincoaster the drama queen

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total information awareness

Ladies and gentlemen, I have joined a rare sorority indeed. Up in the Cloud-Cuckoo Land inhabited by the likes of Xeni, Atrios, Matt and Robert, one is issued with one’s very own Stanford-grad intern and Technorati fluffers upon entry.

I, my friends, have ascended.

I have my own tag.

Now, the eagle-eyed among you will have already noticed that if you check Technorati for blog entries associated with the tag “Operation Global Media Domination” that I have pretty much a complete hegemony on all OGMD-related posts. This is no accident; indeed, I put the fix in early and often for that one, and to, obviously, great effect.

But as every self-aggrandizer knows, the true laurels are those which come to you when you least expect them, from strangers.

An unknown (and possibly unknowable) WordPress member has bestowed upon me my very own tag.

“raincoaster the drama queen“

*wipes away a tear* 

Alas, Dr Mike has proactively deleted it; now not only do I look histrionic, I look like I’m hallucinating as well! A screencap, a screencap, my Slithering Reptile TLB Ranking for a screencap!

Canada-US relations

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Heartlessly stolen from The Infomaniac, and saying what oft was felt, but ne’er so well expressed.

I'm with Stupid

kiwi!

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poem o’ the day: They Feed They Lion

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from which my friend they lion takes the name of said blog.

They Feed They Lion
by Philip Levine

Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow.

Out of the gray hills
Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride,
West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties,
Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps,
Out of the bones’ need to sharpen and the muscles’ to stretch,
They Lion grow.

Earth is eating trees, fence posts,
Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones,
“Come home, Come home!” From pig balls,
From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness,
From the furred ear and the full jowl come
The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose
They Lion grow.

From the sweet glues of the trotters
Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower
Of the hams the thorax of caves,
From “Bow Down” come “Rise Up,”
Come they Lion from the reeds of shovels,
The grained arm that pulls the hands,
They Lion grow.

From my five arms and all my hands,
From all my white sins forgiven, they feed,
From my car passing under the stars,
They Lion, from my children inherit,
From the oak turned to a wall, they Lion,
From they sack and they belly opened
And all that was hidden burning on the oil-stained earth
They feed they Lion and he comes.

the biggest, bestest Bond Girl of all

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kiss kiss bang bang 

And with the best chest, if you ask me.

In the realm of carnal beauty there is no shortage of icons. From Helen of Troy to Brigitte Bardot to Carmen Electra, the competition has always been brutal and the loser taken hindmost…or, wait…you know what I mean.

At the very pinnacle of sexual desirability are the Bond Girls. From the blonde, slinky Honey Ryder to the brunette, slinky Vesper Lynd, Bond Girls have always been seen as the very definition of female hotness, driving men cooler than Bond into raging hormone frenzies and irrationally long wait times at NetFlix. Their faces and bodies have launched a million suavetés, convincing Red State palookas and sub-Arctic lumberjacks alike that all they need to do is look good in the monkey suit and drink Martinis and the ladies will come swarming.

Bond and girlsAnd we will, you know.

I was at the Urban Mixer West End Martini Tour, along with a hundred perfect, and perfectly friendly, strangers, and quite a variety of garb was on display; we had some people in jeans, we had many in suits and cocktail dresses, and we had one man in a tuxedo.

And he was surrounded by women, all night. Are you taking notes, boys?

For the record, my Bond Girl name is Faith Mountain. Dayum, I could do better than that; lessee, um, uh, well, how about Jeanine Tonique? Butter Tartt? Pandora Box?

In any case, I ran across this on the Guardian site, and it’s one of the funniest things I’ve read in ages. As always with Jeanette Winterson, I’m not sure I agree but I do enjoy. It’s well-written, it’s witty, and it is very well-informed. The research must have been gruelling, poor thing.

And as anyone ’round these parts could tell you, if you want an honest evaluation of girls, ask a lesbian.

The Biggest Bond Girl of All:

My mission, and I chose to accept it, was to watch Bond movies and summon up some firepower on the Bond women. I could gun down the pathetic sexism of early Bond, or the patronising raised eyebrow of mid-Bond, and we could detonate the tortured hero of Brosnan Bond, and, guess what? I will. But first, let’s agree that Bond movies are fabulous fun.

I don’t know which I enjoy more – the cars or the girls. I didn’t buy my 3-litre BMW because I saw Goldeneye, but I was very upset when Bond got the Z8 in The World Is Not Enough. Why? I can’t afford to spend £80,000 on a car, even though I long for a champagne cooler under the handbrake. Driving round Cheltenham without one is a mini-roundabout too far. If I knew there was a Dom Perignon ’53 ready to drink on touchdown in the multistorey car park, I would feel less like machine-gunning Burger King, as I pass it for the 20th time in a traffic labyrinth that could have been devised by Dr No…