Operation Global Media Domination: the psychic cost of famewhoredom

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TIABoredom and aesthetic revulsion.

I mean look at this site! Those social bookmarking links work like a charm; not only have I gotten Digged (Dug?) and Stumbled several times (gee, sounds like  typical Saturday night round these parts, actually) I’ve gotten on several news services I ain’t never heered of. Of which I ain’t never heered.

We’re extremely correct here on the ol’ raincoaster blog, yo.

But as I was saying, those blogs are a PIA to format and paste in every damn time, easily adding 15 tedious minutes to the posting process, 15 minutes that could be better spent leaving snarky comments asking whether the Gawker Twin Hermiones really think tedious didacticism is the future of blogging, or whether Boris Johnson is ever going to answer my question…despite the meaninglessness of those activities, they’re still more laden with numinosity than formatting social bookmark links.

Besides which, I’m not sure they all work. Do let me know; what’s the point of famewhoring inefficiently?

At some point I suppose I’ll become technologically sophisticated enough to steal some buttons for the links, but until that happy day this blog is going to look like a desperate, clawing catfight of text-based famewhoring. I’m not sure even I think that’s worth it.

pic o’ the day: say hello to Mr Blobby!

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Ain’t he a charmer? You can see he takes after his daddy. I wonder if it’s true what they say about noses and…

Mr Blobby!

The pic was taken by Kerryn Parkinson of the NORFANZ expedition by the Australian Museum. Mr Blobby is a Fathead (guess where they got the name?) or Psychrolute, and he is obviously loved for his warm personality. Or his staggering wealth; he’s no uglier than Aristotle Onassis, come to think of it.

Mr Blobby rolls with a posse, yo!Hmmm, is he single?

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Dana Carvey and Stephen Colbert: skinheads from Maine

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In the fine tradition of Dave Chappelle’s Clayton Bigsby, Black White Supremacist comes Carvey and Colbert’s Skinheads from Maine. Ayuh.

“What ya whittlin’ theayah?”

“Hate stick fuh beatin’ on the Spaniahds.”

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the return of the whistler in darkness

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from the Archive, and you should read THIS first. I mean, you can go ahead and read this one first instead, but that’s probably only your best option if you enjoy being confused and experiencing the futility of busted and ersatz suspense. In which case you should be reading Ionesco and leaving me the hell alone.

I have cracked the mystery of Screamer, Screamer 2.0, Yeller and Whoo!It’s all the fault of indie music. That rock an’ roll gits the blood ta boilin’ and the youngun’s git up ta all kinda mischief.Pat’s Pub in the Patricia Hotel now features the few local bands who do not actually suck. They’ve even made it into the Georgia Straight, twice. That’s lovely. Vancouver needs good local music groups. Vancouver does not need groups of incoherent yet voluble and active drunks spilling out onto the street at 2am. Face it, if they’re loud enough that the locals in this locale are complaining, they’re just too damn loud.

Patricia, sweetie darling, could you maybe get them a room or something? You always prided yourself on being the only respectable hotel on the Downtown EastSide, so why not live up to that? How about having your bouncers follow them and smack them around a little bit when they start with the Whoo, Scream, Scream, and Yell? Is that too much to ask? Wait, let me help you…

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the whistler in darkness

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from the Archive

The first few nights I thought he was trying to flag a cab. Then I thought he was trying to flag a hooker. Then I thought he was keeping six, and this was a more subtle form of yelling “Cheez it!” when the cops turned up. Still don’t know, but it’s damn annoying.

There’s a whistler in this town, and he comes out after midnight. If this were the Scottish moors he could call a collie a mile away; this is the kind of whistle that passes through stone and steel and my bedroom window as if they weren’t there. He sounds off about once every 90 seconds, for couple of hours, and downpours do not deter him. Sometimes there are bursts of whistles, sometimes just one. The bursts are not musical, just the same rising note, a nonverbal questionmark. I wonder what the question is.

The screamers are back. Tonight, there were two: a man and a woman, and a yeller, all going at once, having, to all appearances or accoustances, a grand old time, screaming and screaming and yelling. Yeller isn’t angry, just loud enough that I can hear him a block over, and he yells alot. Some day instead of tuning him out I’m going to listen to it. I’ll either be bored or forced to testify: guess which is more likely!

And then there is Whoo! Whoo! (not to be confused with John Woo, the Hong Kong phenom of film) Whoo! is a guy whose vocabulary has been reduced to a single word, the aforementioned “Whoo!” and a single volume setting, maximum. Foreigner was playing in town recently, and Supertramp is coming, so maybe he’s just reliving the glory days of rock, when your Bic lighter and your Black Sabbath T-shirt were all you needed for a party. It’s nice to hear someone having such a good time in the neighborhood, but if I get him in a dark alley I’m going to…tell the junkies the cops might investigate all that noise…and then I’ll just walk away. No fingerprints.

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