Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor

Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.

I’m A Little Gallerina.


in Pye in the Face

As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, I love my new gallery. Then why don’t I marry it, you ask? Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind. Anyhew, one of the things that’s been bugging me (besides the fact that there’s way too many pictures of Monster) is that it was necessary for people to go through a boring registration process before leaving comments. I rolled up my sleeves last night and figured out how to turn this requirement off. And also that I need to spend more time on my forearms whilst in the gym.

Now anyone who may be looking at the gallery can enter a nickname and comment right into an existing box below the photo, hit submit and VOILA. Couldn’t be simpler if you paid a ghostwriter to do it for you. You don’t even need to be taken to a new page first like you do when you leave a comment on the blog. So effortless, a rabid squirrel with swollen paws and a drinking problem could do it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy/squirrely.

So if something crosses your mind whilst perusing all the photos of my silly life – by all means, share. I also just added a new album dedicated to photos my friends have sent me of themselves. So if you’ve got a funny snap handy, or you’ve been somewhere cool on vacation, email away and I’ll gladly contribute 0.2 seconds to your 15 minutes of fame.

* Update: Janet has started her own category.

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Homolka Hears A Who!


in

Karla‘s gettin’ out soon, kids. Details of the early 90’s trial and tribulation is forever burned in my memory, and it’s hard to believe that a decade has passed so quickly since she flipped on Paul Bernardo and saved herself from a life of well-deserved incarcerated rug-munching. For my American friends who need to get up to speed, have a gander here – but let’s just say that in addition to the surprise many of you exhibited over the existence of Canuckian biker gangs, we can also lay claim the worst serial killer couple in modern history.

Leslie Mahaffy disappeared literally several hundred feet from my grandmother’s house, and the entire country watched the drama unfold in OJ-esque fascination – from the first inklings of the Scarborough rapist through to the eventual plea bargain and conviction – for nearly 6 years. With her imminent release looming, and plans for a heavily protested movie in the works, the salt’s gettin’ rubbed in a lot of old wounds. Karla plans to move to Montreal where she thinks people are likely more preoccupied with where their next pack of Player’s is coming from than any indiscretions/murders by power tool she may have hidden in her past:

“A 32-year police veteran noted most of the Homolka photos the media are using are at least 12 years old, from before she went to jail. And the handful of photos the public has seen of her behind bars are grainy and don’t clearly show her face. Prison officials and police are expected to take extraordinary steps to avoid letting photographers capture new images when she’s sprung from jail sporting her new look.”

She’s going to have to sand-blast her evil incarnate face to keep from being recognized – even in the think-tank that is Quebec. The original online Homolka Death Pool is long gone due to a court order, but please feel free to add any best wishes here for her here via comments. I don’t like her chances/care whether she’s drawn and quartered by an angry, poutine-reeking, mustached mob.

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Newport Rhode Island Air Show Shennanigans.


in Heartwarming

Cornett (aka Detroit Velvet Smooth) and myself drove down to Newport at the ass crack of dawn yesterday to take in the 2005 Newport Rhode Island National Guard Air Show. Then we displayed further post-show ass crackery whilst jumping off of Harkins’ dock and just generally being ridiculous. When you’re finished abusing yourselves to the sexy photograph below, you can keep the self-inflicted orgasms going strong by viewing the full gallery here.

If you look carefully, you can see a concerned Sam the dog paddling towards us at breakneck speed – eager to rescue the flailing fatties. Chris and Kinger stand watching on the dock to the left just in case we need them to throw us a life-preserver/bottle of Pucker. The best day I’ve had in a long, long time. And by far the worst sunburn.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Don’t Be That Guy.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: What’s one word or phrase that you use a lot?
I use a lot of words from the British vernacular that I picked up when I lived over there, and that I continue to learn from watching far too many UKNova torrents. Some can translate over here, and some just sound completely out of place. It’s not the same as affecting an accent – that’s another kettle of fish of which I was never guilty of. Rather, I find myself saying UK-based words and phrases out of the blue. My favorite is ‘sorted’. Which basically means ‘problem-solved’. I have finally weaned “at the end of the day” out of my system because every time I heard myself say it, I contemplated suicide. It drives me crazy like a Fine Young Cannibal.

Soup: Name something you always seem to put off until the last minute.
There isn’t any one thing. I have productivity spurts and valleys. On a good day, I’ll crank and get every little task/chore done that I can possibly conceive. On a bad day, I may soil myself.

Salad: What was the last great bumper sticker you saw?
If you feel the need to desicrate your car with stupid stickers, then I have no interest in reading them because I’ll already know you’re a gaudy moron. And if you’re still driving around with a Kerry/Edwards sticker on your car, like most of Massachusetts, for God’s sake pull the cock out of your mouth already. But for research’s sake, I ran a few quick searches. I think you’ll agree – this proves my point quite well. But I’m guilty of that level of nerdery myself, sometimes. The other night before the Pixies concert, my sister, myself and some friends were sitting in a pub across the road from Agganis. I didn’t want to be “that guy” in the Pixies tour shirt at the Pixies show – so I was rocking an obscure Frank Black solo T-shirt I didn’t think anyone else would be wearing in a million years. Then, of course, this kid came up to me wearing it too and said “Nice shirt man!” And I realized I was worse than “that guy”. I wasn’t the kid wearing the Star Trek shirt. I was the kid wearing the Deep Space Nine shirt.

Main Course: If you could be invisible for one day, how would you spend it?
I would quietly rob a string of banks, pausing only to hit the odd health club locker room along the way. Was I the only kid whose mother used to take him into the women’s locker room at the public swimming pool? What a fond, unhealthily-advanced childhood memory. I couldn’t tell you the name of my 1st grade teacher, but I can recount to you in explicit detail my weekly afternoons spent eye-level with 2 dozen wookie-bushes at the Nepean Sportsplex.

Dessert: Describe your hair.
It will be sorely missed.

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