After the jump — Eli’s review of the film
After the jump — Eli’s review of the film
Hmmmm, Ctutu feeling pleasant today. Fermented masticated yucca root drinks last night really hit spot, and Ctutu think Mwewete really coming around on idea of second bone in Ctutu nose.
Maybe this afternoon, before go hunting with Rwutu, Ctutu take short walk around encampment. Maybe pray to Axlxyyz for less rain during monkey hunt next week.
Huh? What that noise? Sound like Mwewete snoring but louder and up in sky where Axlxyyz live… getting louder.
Hmmm. Probably nothing. Ctutu just hearing things again. Maybe tomorrow see medicine man for…
WHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE FUCK IS THAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!!!
[Running back to camp]
Rwutu, wake up! Giant screaming bird circles encampment!! Quick! Grab blowgun and bow and arrow!!
What is it? It fly like bird and sound like loud snoring. Blowdarts not hitting it! Arrows not reaching!! Shoot more arrow Rwutu!!! MORE ARROW! MORE BLOW!!!!
Phew. It gone. Ctutu need fermented masticated yucca drink, pronto. Make it double.
You may remember when Pax Arcana brought you the pretty-cool video of twisted purple water nymph Prince performing Radiohead’s “Creep” at the Coachella music festival. Well don’t bother clicking that link this time, because the lavender leprechaun had his lawyers go and remove it from the Internets.
Which struck Radiohead’s Thom Yorke as pretty strange, considering it’s his fucking song:
“Really? He’s blocked it?” asked Yorke, who figured it was their song to block or not. “Surely we should block it. Hang on a moment.”
Yorke added: “Well, tell him to unblock it. It’s our … song.”
Which pretty much sums up my thoughts on Prince:
Million dollar talent + ten cent head.
On to the songs:
Communist Daughter — Neutral Milk Hotel
Flip Your Wig — Husker Du
All the Rage — Cary Brothers
Moonlight — Bob Dylan
Karma Police — Radiohead
A97 I Was A Lover — TV on the Radio
Springer Show — The Asskickers
Stacy’s Mom — Fountains of Wayne
All My Friends — LCD Soundsystem
Moby Octopad — Yo La Tengo
No One Knows — Queens of the Stone Age, Live at Reading
The Rules: The Friday Random 10 is exactly that — random. We open up our iTunes, set the thing on shuffle, and listen to 10 songs. We are not permitted to skip any out of embarrassment or fear of redundancy. Commenters are encouraged to post their own.
Leon Kass served three years as President Bush’s top bioethics advisor, during which time he adroitly counseled the commander in chief on the nuances of reproductive ethics and the philosophical underpinnings of modern theories of morality and dignity — while the president, who nicknamed him “Gassy Kassy,” played Boggle against himself under his Oval Office desk.
But Kass is no mere toothless pontificator. Not content to wage war on the immoral forces of Godless liberalism that seek to force all of us into gay marriage and even gayer public schools, Kass is one of the very few brave enough to take on the anti-American frozen dairy treat cabal and its associated network of hand-held low-temperature snack pushers.
From his 1994 book, The Hungry Soul:
Worst of all from this point of view are those more uncivilized forms of eating, like licking an ice cream cone –a catlike activity that has been made acceptable in informal America but that still offends those who know eating in public is offensive. I fear I may by this remark lose the sympathy of many readers, people who will condescendingly regard as quaint or even priggish the view that eating in the street is for dogs… This doglike feeding, if one must engage in it, ought to be kept from public view, where, even if WE feel no shame, others are compelled to witness our shameful behavior.
In fact it’s not just ice cream, and the vulgar “cones” in which it is so often served, that should be shunned. All forms of outside ingestion — from hot dogs to falafel — should be frowned upon by dignified society.
We should be embarrassed even to sneeze, as it demonstrates a lack of bodily self-control that will inevitably lead to hard drugs, white slavery, and more ice cream eating:
Not just the uneducated rustic but children of the cultural elite are now regularly seen yawning openly in public (not so much brazenly or forgetfully as indifferently and “naturally”), unaware that it is an embarrassment to human self-command to be caught in the grip of involuntary bodily movements (like sneezing, belching, and hiccuping and even the involuntary bodily display of embarrassment itself, blushing).
I would like to take this one step further and ban yawning altogether, along with farting and pooping. And blinking. I mean, honestly, who are you trying to attract with all that sexually reckless eyelid batting, young man? I am a happily married man uncomfortable with the sight of children licking ice cream cones, what makes you think I want to take you on a weekend retreat to Vermont, where we can get all hot and sweaty protesting outside of Ben and Jerry’s? It might be warm up there, so bring a tank top.
Leon Kass [Wikipedia]
Mrs. Ellis and I have been married exactly one year now, and it’s been one hell of a ride. We planned a wedding, canceled it, and planned it again. We bought a house, got hitched, threw a killer bash, weathered some ups and downs, and we’ll be parents in about a month. I wouldn’t change a single damn thing.
I love you, Sweet Pea. Happy Anniversary.
That whooshing sound you just heard was the Paxman bolting for the door on his way to Chi-town (H/T Pitchfork):
“Finally, Liz Phair is bringing Exile in Guyville back to Guyville…almost. On June 24, Phair will perform her classic debut album in its entirety at Chicago’s Vic Theatre.”
Warning: May cause hyperventilation in Pax Arcana. [Ed Note: Obviously fake picture fixed for fear of ending up on the wrong end of Google’s tagging robots]
And just because we’re fond of the Scandinavian Doofus:
I recognize this is sexist because it presents Hillary Clinton without a golden halo about her beatific aura, but still I found it pretty funny.
Send letters to firstname.lastname@example.org.
In their ongoing effort to hasten an apocalypse full of blunt-force trauma and split brain pans, scientists in Denmark say they have successfully extracted 1,000-year-old DNA from a group of Vikings “buried” on a remote island.
I put “buried” in quotes because it implies that these Vikings did not intentionally crawl underground simply to lay in wait for a thousand years.
Anyway, these researchers say the Viking samples gave them an opportunity to try new techniques for preserving and capturing ancient DNA samples:
To recover the Viking samples, the researchers took extra-special care. Before removing the last layer of dirt from the skeletons, they donned full-body biohazard gear — and this was merely the first step through a gauntlet of sterility that might have been invented by a demented Mr. Clean. Afterwards they compared the recovered DNA to a database of present-day DNA types, just to make sure it didn’t come from anyone born this side of the Dark Ages — and it didn’t.
Finally, to quantify what sort of contamination is produced by standard operating procedures, they had eight samples taken according to current (less stringent) handling practices. Four of these picked up stray DNA, underscoring the importance of cleanliness in studying ancient genetic material.
Wired reports that the DNA is not terribly interesting in terms of population genetics. I report that the hipster glasses-wearing techno-geeks at Wired will be the first to be cleft in twain by the reanimated corpses of the awakened zombie Vikings.
As for the rest of you — you guys are fucked, too.
Me? I’ve got a fridge full of smoked salmon and pickled herring in dill cream sauce, and I speak at least 15 words of Norwegian. Ambassador Arcana. I like the sound of that!
I could have sworn I’d written about this already, but then again I may be confusing this blog with the Paris Review, Lingua Franca, The Journal of Computational Physics, or one of the other highbrow periodicals to which I regularly contribute.
Anyway, the New York Times has a nifty rundown on miracle fruit, a mildly tangy sweet fruit that pulls some serious hijinks on your taste buds. In short, eating one tiny miracle fruit makes everything you eat for the next hour taste much sweeter.
Limes taste like candy. Hot sauce tastes like doughnut glaze. Vinegar tastes like apple juice. The acrid bitterness of a loveless relationship tastes — well that tastes the same actually.
The miracle fruit, Synsepalum dulcificum, is native to West Africa and has been known to Westerners since the 18th century. The cause of the reaction is a protein called miraculin, which binds with the taste buds and acts as a sweetness inducer when it comes in contact with acids, according to a scientist who has studied the fruit, Linda Bartoshuk at the University of Florida’s Center for Smell and Taste. Dr. Bartoshuk said she did not know of any dangers associated with eating miracle fruit.
Of course sweeter isn’t always better. Experts say combining miracle fruit with chocolate, candy, wine, or other sweet or balanced flavors produces an overly-sweet taste sensation.
Still, it is intriguing. I’ll have to pick some up next time I find myself at a table full of fermented shark meat.
A Tiny Fruit That Tricks the Tongue [NY Times]
Remember when the USA for Africa charity got together and recorded “We Are the World” and then everyone in Africa had enough to eat?
Now imagine what we could have accomplished had we used Japanese celebrity impersonators in blackface. Man, we could have bought so many burritos with all that extra Africa money!