Oh, it looks easy (okay, it looks impossible) but the amount of work this shot actually took is truly mind-boggling, most particularly when you realize there were cats involved. Yes, cats: Chihuahuas in alter form, fanged knick-knacks, short-tempered, incontinent attention sinkholes (huh, maybe they`re Mickey Rourke in alter form) in the shape of naked mole rats. Evil to the core.
It`s amazing to me nobody was killed during the shoot.
Dali and flying cats takes one through six. DUCK!
Then, undoubtedly, he killed the secretary and made her into a light fixture for a dinner party with the Duchess of Windsor. And the cats, too.
And now, speaking of viciousness and fanged, clawed, and bad-tempered things, let`s get to some gossip links:
When I asked Swifter if I could repurpose this from the crosstalk thread he replied:
Sure, as long as you tell people that I say it’s where he belongs. You may add whatever other commentary you wish from your own viewpoint, of course.
To which I replied, quite naturally, that my own thoughts on this image were far too kinky to post on a nice, family-friendly blog like mine. And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s difficult to type with no hands free…
Julian is feeling a little blue today. Won't you cheer him up?
Yes, the world contains wonders. The latest marvel is this perfect gem of a book, the Julian Assange Coloring Book. Just a smidge too late for Christmas, dagnabbit! That’s the bad news: the good news is that this exists and it’s free! Download away! Or you can colour them right on the site with their charmingly primitive digital tools. If you want, you can even email your finished artwork back to the website as JPG attachments and they’ll post them in the gallery. How exciting for you, when Julian himself (oh, are we dreaming? Is it too much to imagine him at the end of a work day, exhausted, pale, just surfing the interwebs for a little entertainment on a long, lonely night in a ten-bedroom mansion in the snow-covered English countryside?
Where was I?
Right, closing the parenthetical, so here you go) when Julian Himself, I say, stumbles across your humble effort. His tired eyes open wide in surprise. He starts in his chair. A Spode cup with the dregs of cocoa in it crashes to the floor. Is this a threat? Is this a joke? Is this a ploy of some kind? but then he relaxes as he realizes that, no, there’s nothing hostile here. A smile plays across his lips, at first tenative, then coy, then satisfied, happy, in on the gentle jest. Ah, that’s better, isn’t it Julian?
Meerkats. Behind every conspiracy theory of the last two thousand years. Fucking meerkats.
Yes, I’m in a bit of a mood, and my internal editor who whispers “perhaps you could rephrase that in a more positive way, perhaps by deleting the word ‘motherfucker'” is AWOL until I get my strength back, and yes, I’ve been insulting people’s cats left and right (I don’t think they mind, actually, but HELLYEAH the people sure do, even though I’m pretty sure cats can’t read, except Abyssinians), but even so I’m not sure I have enough bitter gall within me (impacted or not) to do justice to the following video.
This is the Christmas song for people who consider Enya “bad*ss.” And spell it that way.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is “The Christmas Shoes“. Apparently there’s also a tv special, and what they put in it to stretch it out to an hour is anyone’s guess, because basically what you’ve got here is dumbed-down O. Henry run through a White, Middle-Class American Who Admires Black People Especially Oprah and That Other One, Oh Yeah, the President, filter. Production values by Vaseline, Inc.
Yes, that sentence parses, by the way.
I suppose, now that I’ve pondered awhile and self-medicated with repeated viewings of Christmas in Hollis, I suppose I can find it in my worldview to picture a meaningful, even beneficent, role for this song: as an emetic, to bring sweet release and relief after a toxically-enthusiastic consumption of holiday treats. To that end, I present the lyrics, downloaded from (where else?) CowboyLyrics.com.
It was almost Christmas time
There I stood in another line
Trying to buy that last gift or two
Not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me
Was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing around like little boys do
And in his hands he held
A pair of shoes
And his clothes were worn and old
He was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn’t believe what I heard him say
Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus, tonight.
He counted pennies for what seem like years
And cashier says son there’s not enough here
He searched his pockets franticly
And he turned and he looked at me
He said Momma made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir
What am I gonna do?
Some how I’ve got to buy her these Christmas shoes
So I layed the money down
I just had to help him out
And I’ll never forget
The look on his face
When he said Momma’s gonna look so great.
Sir I wanna buy these shoes, for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful,
If Momma meets Jesus tonight.
I knew I caught a glimpse of heavens love as he thanked me and ran out.
I know that God had sent that little boy to remind me
What Christmas is all about
Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight
I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight
raincoaster 