Bar none. Presenting Brandon Irons, porn star extraordinaire, mixing it up with an Eastern European beauty and a huge, menacing, Canadian garter snake. SFW, I might mention.
via Defamer
Someone find this movie, watch it, and tell me that, yes, they DO make a pun about garter snakes at some point.
It was a beautiful Sunday. Not a drop of rain, just enough sun to burn off the moisture from the Seawall, leaving it perfect for skating. A slight sea breeze, keeping it cool enough to be enjoyable and Chinatown fresh enough not to attract too damn many screaming shithawks. My chores were done, my work was done, and I was free.
I checked my email.
Suddenly, it was no longer a perfect Sunday. It was a deeply, irrevocably flawed Sunday.
It was the Sunday on which I found out that the contract which makes up 40% of my income had vanished, Poof, into thin air. The company just stopped paying their bills, it seems. The company for whom I’m subcontracting is going to pay me for my work to this point, but not beyond, so suddenly I find myself with a considerable amount of free time and a considerable hole looming in my bank account.
Naturally, I self-medicated in an entirely irrational fashion. I figure if the universe can be irrational to me, I can be irrational right back. I went on what someone on a budget as tight as mine would call a bender: I went to the Ovaltine for a house burger and diet Coke, $7, then I took myself down to the A&N boutique where I bought two new, lacy bras for $4.98 apiece and three summer tees at 3 for $9.99, and then I went for a long walk down Robson where I saw many, many shoes I now cannot afford and even walked right past the 40% off sale at the Gap without so much as going in or even pining much, and then I went to Dix and bought myself an IPA and a Red Truck Ale and a very nice man heard me out and bought me a conciliatory Red Truck as well, although believe me, when I’m on a vegan diet it doesn’t take much to get me quite entertainingly loopy and I was, and then we talked about El Alamein and Monte Cassino and Ypres and many similarly cheerful topics dating from before we were both born.
And then I came home, thought about working out, thought ah, fuckit tonight because, really, how often can anyone, even me, have a day like this, and decided to work my aggro out watching V for Vendetta yet again. If I’m still aggro-acious in a few hours, I’ll suck down a coffee and go out for a run.
Anybody need a blogger?
Father Adelir Antonio de Carli
There’s no question Father Adelir Antonio de Carli was a good man. There’s no question Father De Carli was a nice man.
There’s no question that Father De Carli was a dumb man.
And now, there’s no question that Father De Carli, last seen in April headed out to sea carried by a bunch of helium-filled party balloons, is a dead man.
Father De Carli (name variously reported as De Capri as well), who was trying to beat the record for staying airborne via party balloons, has been found by the crew of a tugboat, hundreds of miles out in the Atlantic, which is, in a way, poetic: he’d been trying to raise money for a spiritual rest stop for those nomads of the landmass, truckers. Unfortunately, he’d been planning to travel inland, but Nature had other plans for him.
So, why am I being so mean about a nice fellow who took on grave personal risk and ridicule in the pursuit of the service of his god and his fellow man?
Because Father De Carli did not attempt learn to operate the GPS which was to relay his coordinates to trackers on the ground until after he was airborne.
From Gizmodo:
I need to contact someone who can teach me how to operate this GPS, so I can give the latitude and longitude coordinates, which is the only way that people on the ground can know where I am.
Now, as one who has always distrusted such devices on principal, and whose experiences with them have done nothing to dissuade me of my view of them as functionless Yuppie fear-sops and technofaith fetish amulets in the shape of bricks, I must say that even had the device functioned as such devices are known to do, it would have done nothing more useful than electrocute him when he hit the water, which would probably (in brutal retrospect) have been quicker than what ultimately happened.
May Father De Carli rest in peace, and may we all learn never to take off in a lawnchair pulled by a thousand helium balloons without proper preparation.
At least a windsock!
Father De Carli is airborne!
Another rival to the clown crown falls to “natural causes.” So-called “natural causes.”
Larry Harmon as Bozo the Clown
“I felt if I could plant my size 83AAA shoes on this planet,
(people) would never be able to forget those footprints,” he said.
Yes, one of the most prominent clowns in history, Larry Harmon, has died. Harmon, who played Bozo the Clown for most of the latter part of the Twentieth Century and could plausibly said to have been the first person of any description to clone a clown, is only the most recent in a string of mysterious clown deaths.
Larry Harmon, dead at 83.
Marcel Marceau, dead at 84.
Red Skelton, dead at 84.
Nicolai Poliakoff OBE, dead at 74.
Achille Zavatta, dead at 78.
One by one, the most prominent clowns in the world have been picked off, most succumbing to the blandly ubiquitous “natural causes,” and none living much past their 84th birthday.
The world shrugs, sighs, says “these things happen,” ah yes, but why do they always seem to happen to the rivals of one man? One man who is known to associate with hardened criminals. One man who has at his fingertips the very substances of which a heart attack is made?
One man, ladies and gentlemen. One man named Ronald McDonald.
raincoaster 