Okay, so the artist’s name for it is Termithulhu. I think that makes it sound like some sort of horrible, amphibious mutant carpenter ant or sumpin’, so I just up and changed it, cuz that’s how I roll, yo. Besides, for sneaky technical reasons I didn’t want to use the same title in case WordPress’s mighty Google Juice made this outrank his post on searches for his own art. Kinda sorta mortifying when that happens.
via Urban Vancouver
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An instant classic. Now, Tay Zonday aficionados and Star Wars fanboys can come together and enjoy their favorite music in a big, happy, zero-gravity hyperwarp planet of luv!
Your basic Tay Zonday original:
and the updated, Star Wars version by Chad Vader, Day Shift Manager.
via StarWarsBlog via Defamer
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It takes guts. It takes heart. It takes hard work. It takes a blog that knocks the socks (if any) or tiny ankle hairs (if any) right off the reader. It takes the ability to discard relics of meatspace like financial ambition. And it takes, apparently, a job application that looks like this (illustrations added for blog-illustrative purposes only; do not take internally or mix with other liquids):
Greetings to the illustrious Manolo, whose growing empire rivals those of the Ottomans and Romanovs, except better-dressed and without the bloody revolution part.
To say that I was excited by the blog job opening at Teeny Manolo would be to understate the case to a near-criminal degree. I am a longtime acolyte of the Manolo (and grateful recipient of the Manolo‘s linkie luv) as well as a highly experienced blogger, blogging instructor and consultant, and former nanny and retailer of clothes for teenies. During my time in the totwear trade, I was sometimes delighted by clever, practical, and attractive clothes, but more often (it must be confessed) I was appalled and shocked into bitter sarcasm by the vast tide of bogswill being passed off as proper clothing for youngsters, boys in particular.
What did little boys ever do to get stuck with SAILOR SUITS for Tinky Winky‘s sake? And cheap, shiny nylon sailor suits with scratchy seams that make the baby Jesus cry, or would, if he had to wear those instead of the lovely robes that Mary picked out for him on that trip to Jerusalem.
Please accept this application for the position of Teeny Manolo Blogger. Currently I have three active blogs: raincoaster, for my bitter ravings; running through rainthe Shebeen Club for students of my courses on blogging for personal growth; and , for my literary group (who would love to host the Manolo for an evening, should he pass through Vancouver). I average between four and twelve posts a day, and yes, I can modulate the snark at will.
I hope to hear from you soon: if you need an old-skool resume, just let me know. You can also check out my profile on LinkedIn.
Now, this application got me the job. That is all ye know, all ye need to know. But I’m going to take it around to a few of the job hunting agencies anyway and see what they have to say about it, A) because it will be payback for a lot of fascist, pointless make-work that they put me through for no other reason than that they had to do something with me and didn’t particularly care what it was (see the Operation Orwell tag) and B) it will probably give me something amusing with which to feed the blog. If you think I should feel guilty about wasting their time, I refer you back to A.
So far, the most perceptive comment comes from Mistress Cowfish, herself rather senior in the bureaucracy, who takes great delight in recognizing we are very, very 21st Century lately, in that a winning job application may now contain the expression “old-skool.“
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Eat them up, yum.
Well, this is a weird one. People always look at me funny when I talk about avant garde art in LA, but I tell ya, there are a lot of former art and fine art grads out there with soul killing nine-to-fivers, money to toss at their dreams, and memberships at Beyond Baroque. They’ve got to do something with their spare time.
Say hello to Barnes & Barnes. You get a sense of just how far out these guys really are when you realize that Dr Demento plays the straight man.
How are my darling little Spazchow heads? Fine? That’s swell! It’s 2007. Time is passing us by quickly. We’re getting older. One day we’ll all die and go to heaven. Or perhaps hell. You never can be too sure…Ya know, the internet is a wondrous thing. It makes me wanna say TOOMP!…
Man, is it ever a great time to be a B & B fan, or what?! And be nice to Billy Mumy, he’s really not a bad fellow. I mean it was touch and go there for awhile, but he got through it and now he’s just fine! Make sure to shout out a Down Hetta Hetta to him every once in awhile. Be sure to eat your vegetables and change your socks. Wash your hands after using the toilet and don’t leave the seat up. And fellows, when you drip, clean the rim, will ya?
Thanks and be sure to stay in touch and try to patronize Mr. Mumy and buy his music. He needs cash real bad.
Your extra special pal,
the ever reclusive Artie Barnes….
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As promised, here is max‘s biography. Consider biographization to be a meme if you enjoy such things.
Warning: your mileage may vary. We assume no liability. No warranty implied. Before beginning this or any exercise plan, consult your physician. Not intended as a replacement for the advice of a competent professional.
Which, if I’d had access to, would probably have resulted in something a lot less interesting.
max adams: the Pinkertons dossier
Editor’s note: In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things appear as they do only be virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns as madness the flashes of supersight which penetrate the common veil of obvious empiricism.
max adams is such a phenomenon.
In creating this dossier we have been in constant contact with our offices in St. Petersburg, Istanbul, Silverlake, Ponape, Zurich, Area 51, Abu Simbel, Great Zimbabwe, and of course, Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump. Although facts are few, and expensively won, we have been able to assemble the following biographical sketch.
max adams is the laboratory-created daughter of the frozen sperm of Errol Flynn and pioneering biologist Nicolette Tesla (granddaughter of the famous physicist) who, deprived by the relentless progress of Glasnost of a ready supply of involuntary subjects, was forced to experiment upon herself.
Succeeding beyond her wildest dreams, she gave birth to max, whom she named Erriol in an epidural trance, during which she recited the entirety of The Tempest, with different voices and everything, pausing only to berate the attending doula for her hopelessly provincial dress sense.
max was raised in Tesla‘s mountain fortress to the age of four, when she was taken away by agents of the state to undertake the gruelling process of being schooled for the Olympic ice dancing team.
During a particularly contentious international competition in Bakersfield, California, max defected to the West and since that time has denied all knowledge of the former European Ice Dancing Championship team of Erriol Tesla and Sergey Brin.
She currently lives a quiet life as a night custodian and DJ at Slim Jim’s Crematorium and Rib House hidden deep in the bowels of the the new CAA headquarters, while maintaining a small scientific consulting practice with an exclusive clientele including MIT’s jet propulsion laboratory, Chicago’s Slam Poetry Championship, and Burger King.
~end~
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raincoaster 