Friday Ephemera (737)
At last, a walking coffee table. And how to build your own. || Incoming. || Close enough, buddy. || Close enough 2. || 70s cop show. || Tongue action. || Nommy nommy nom. || Attention, peasants, I bring thee art. || Rob Henderson on wokeness, the media, and luxury beliefs. || Hey, it’s a job. || Hey, it’s a job 2. || A pressing question from 1981: Who are the New Romantics? || The progressive retail experience, parts 578, 579, 580, 581, and 582. || Paid $136,000. || Another professor struggles with logic and reality. || A project for the weekend. || Hot water. || Hey, you wanted it immersive. || It’s raining men. || This is one of these. || Fifth wheel for tight parking. || ‘Fess up, it was the first thing you noticed. || And finally, a tale of harvesting psychedelic frog secretions, parts 1 and 2 and 3.
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Maybe if they had called it a “hyper-masculine fanny pack”.
“[It] was part of the hip-hop culture. We didn’t see nothin’ wrong with it until Bill Cosby got in trouble.”
I was the only Black person in attendance.
Nice headlights.
Where’s Wat Tyler when you need him?
AI ‘hallucinations’ aren’t that appalling.
That was disappointing.
“I think it’s a boy.”
This man makes a good point. I used to support more public transit as an unalloyed good, until I realized that public transit brought disorderly people and criminals to previously safe and pleasant places. Now I largely support more public transit only if we can seriously crack down on lowlifes.
“It’s raining men.“
You get to ignore biology, but not gravity….
“At last, a walking coffee table.”
Terry Pratchett’s estate is no doubt consulting lawyers as we speak….
“Jean Cocteau as Huggy Bear.”
Morning, all.
Yes, that was what swayed me.
[ Slurps coffee. ]
When people avoid a particular neighbourhood or some form of public transport, what generally informs that decision is the kind of people they feel they’d be likely to encounter. They may know that they’re not supposed to say that bit out loud, at least in certain circles, but it is nonetheless the case.
They’re not avoiding the litter or some slightly uncomfortable seating. They’re avoiding the low-class scumbags.
For instance.
And those who have little choice but to mingle with said scumbags will sometimes dance on pinheads in order to avoid acknowledging the realities of the situation.
[ Slurps coffee. ]
“We have officially run out of food but fortunately a child offers to kill a chicken for us”
That was some nasty looking chicken…
Yes, it’s hard to tell whether the excursion could be regarded as a triumph. Mosquitoes, vomiting and chicken-strangling aren’t usually high on the holiday must-do list.
Above, fun times being had.
I have a high tolerance for the weird in art. All the same, one would wish for the artists to keep their latest aesthetic brainfarts away from the old and charming and beautiful, National Trust buildings and the like. Sure, art relies for effect not just upon its effective rendition by the artist, but on the environment (artificial or natural) in which it is situated, but one would wish that anything in this Trust building pictured here be tasteful, respectful of the style already built. Not what we have here, a rather juvenile artwork with no great point to make.
Apparently, the art is “responding” to the house. The fact that it resembles an intrusion of enormous turds was, I suspect, deemed vastly amusing.
They’re the keepers of our heritage, you know.
Big-ass snake.
Headlines of the modern world.
When a tram system was introduced in Dublin one of the two lines started in Tallaght – a bad area, and went straight to the centre of town while passing the courts and two large police stations. One of the running jokes at the time was that it would make life much easier for criminals to get to the wealthy, easier pickings of town. An alternate version held that car thieves could commute in and drive out.
Only if the coffee table will viciously kick visitors.
I fear this morning is going to be an extra coffee morning.
[ Gazes blearily at screen. ]
Respect seems to be extremely rare in the world of intellectuals. Also gratitude.
AVOID EYE CONTACT.
Not just the art world intellectuals but the entire ruling class.
As I recall reading, Chicago’s subway and elevated train lines were originally laid out to terminate in the Loop (downtown). Only later, and gradually, was that plan modified. Thus, today, criminals can ride from the ultra-high-crime South Side to Evanston on the North Side without changing trains. And they do.
In other art world news, a new Fourth Plinth at Trafalgar Square has been unveiled, because what London needs is a protest against transmisogyny and transfemicide in (cleans screen) Mexico.
Think I’d pick the bees.
We’re going to need a bigger Scorpion Pit.
As a nation, a culture, with a not entirely unimpressive history, you’d think we could do better than some banal plaster casts of the faces of Mexican prostitutes. You’d think that, between us, we might even manage to make something attractive, possibly resonant, with a discernible aesthetic. Instead of the seemingly obligatory unattractive crap. The kind of crap that, in order to justify its existence, relies on the word marginalised.
Marginalised is the new problematic.
[ Shakes bowl of chili-flavoured toenail clippings, thereby hiding fragment of tooth, slides bowl to svh. ]
…some banal plaster casts of the faces of Mexican prostitutes…
Plaster casts with skin cells and hair and which will dissolve into an amorphous mess in the rain. Only a total right wing reactionary fascist transphobe would fail to see the beauty and profundity of that.
“You’ve just f*cking assaulted me.”
Not hard enough.
Yes, quite. I think it’s fair to assume that madam’s continued existence is, for pretty much everyone else, an entirely negative phenomenon.
Though it might be entertaining to have her move in with the Observer‘s Martha Gill or the Guardian‘s Owen Jones.
Again, I see the makings of a reality TV show.
I miss the concept of shame.
Still, could be worse.
And in exotic-dancer news.
And retribution.
Via Ace, a headline of note.
Band name.
Think I’ll stick with the occasional whisky.
It does seem a bit much, trekking all the way to the Amazon, living in bug-infested squalor and strangling chickens, just for a weekend bender.
Doesn’t it seem odd the ‘artist’ has created a modern tzompantli?
The quinine in David’s gin and tonics may reduce COVID symptoms. It’s therapeutic!
Rather like the gay New Yorker who said that he traveled all the way to Greece because he had heard it was a good place for gay sex hookups. Wasn’t the gay hookup life in New York enough for him? What sort of obsession did his story imply?
But then, I have known dopers who spent a disturbingly large amount of time talking about dope.
Claymation?
[ Starts licking random objects in case they have psychedelic properties. ]
I’d avoid @pst314.
Nothing so far.
[ Looks at light switch, sofa cushions. ]
The quinine in David’s gin and tonics may reduce COVID symptoms. It’s therapeutic!
No, malaria, and the lime prevents scurvy. G&T is a health drink.
Nice headlights.
“Come back here, I wasn’t finished looking at those.”
I’m assuming a lady’s, um, décolletage doesn’t usually light up?
[ Updates files. ]
‘s what you call a ‘mettyfor’.
Hey, they produce food for tiny humans. Who knows what other crazy shit they can do?
I read an essay recently (maybe linked here?) about cultural norms. Over most of history, there were norms of dress, marriage, behavior, religion which held a society together. This meant that people could go about their lives. Now, however, everything must be renegotiated minute by minute, even if men are women and can get into female-only spaces, what is a crime, everything. Even norms in politics are gone so that the US dems seem to have no shame going after the leading pres candidate to put him in jail. All this creates incredible daily friction.
Snakes don’t have asses. Or maybe they do now in this era when people don’t know what a woman is and the internet can do fantastic things.
What, no chicken-choking jokes yet? Tsk-tsk.
Today’s word is shipworms.
What, no chicken-choking jokes yet? Tsk-tsk.
I’m exercising a remarkable amount of restraint.
The weather’s turning and I’m going to need every jacket I own.
Bloody hell. For a second I thought it was a puppet.
Naked clams?
Learned something new.
Where she’s gone, there ain’t no coming back.
Where she’s gone, there ain’t no coming back.
You have to wonder what she sees when she looks in the mirror.
Cure vs. disease.
Worth it.
I’m a lowlander. I’m totally calling it a fanny pack from now on. Possibly not to people’s faces.
It is always the eyes.
From here at Not The Bee.
It is always the eyes.
As that becomes more of a meme, maybe the crazies will learn to keep their eyes in check while on camera.
But then maybe they can’t. Maybe it’s completely involuntary.
This is sounding better and better.
New Mozart just dropped.
“Today’s word is shipworms.“
They look rather similar to razor clams, which are delicious.
I forget that Julia spent many years at sea, among drunken, bawdy sailors.
Snakes don’t have asses.
But they do have arseholes.
So lets all get together down at the river and wash our clothes by beating them with rocks.
I paraphrase slightly and don’t have the Twitters, so follow along here* while you make a snack in the communal kitchen if someone hasn’t helped himself to your sandwich.
*(ad blocker or VPN highly recommended, safe site but ad crazy)
Warm up the big helicopter.
Pagers for Paedos?
The problem, I think, is that this kind of practised mental flatulence is regarded as conferring in-group status. And as long as it does, people will mouth it, and demand that others submit, regardless of the contradictions, and regardless of the departure from reality.
In Mr Joshi’s case, and doubtless many others, it doesn’t seem to be about internal consistency, or the facts of the matter, or some basic familiarity with modern washing machines. He isn’t saying these things because his reasoning is solid and unassailable, as revealed by the obvious rebuttals in the replies.
It’s much more about how Mr Joshi wishes to seem. And it’s difficult to interrupt that motive with facts and logic alone. Prolonged, public embarrassment is required.
The milk of status has to be soured.
Not entirely unrelated, these items in the previous thread.
There is something perverse about those who’ve rarely, if ever, done hard physical labour telling others it’s no different than a 30 minute workout at an air conditioned gym.
And it’s a dead certainty this Aashis Joshi wouldn’t be caught dead beating his boxers down at the streambank. That’s what serfs are for.
in totally crazy news, it seems the Israelis set up shell companies to hide a pager manufacturer (supposedly in Hungary) and Hezbollah PAID them for the pagers. hahahah
In spite of married women with children and a more traditional marriage being the happiest, feminism has shrieked that marriage is slavery for so long in every woman’s magazine that a lot of women believe it and make choices that end up making them miserable. A lot of the Left’s goals end up making people do things against their own best interests.
Warm up the big helicopter.
Why not a Lun class ekranoplan?
…wouldn’t be caught dead beating his boxers down at the streambank.
Unless that is an euphemism not necessarily involving serfs…
Don’t see any hatches to facilitate egress.
Besides, I suspect helicopters are more fuel-efficient.
That’s for the proles: Being a member of the nomenklatura, Joshi’s time is far too precious for such activities. It would be a disservice to the people for him to wash his own clothes when he should be supervising the collective.
from the link:
IIRC, in a prior-year Friday Ephemera David linked to an item about pre-war England when working class neighborhoods had communal laundry facilities–large washing machines, boilers, wringers, and drying racks. It was indeed a social center as the women would converse as they washed their clothes. But nonetheless those women got their own washing machines and dryers when it became affordable, showing that their personal priorities were a slap in the face to this socialist’s fantasies.
In Mr Joshi’s case, and doubtless many others…
In Mr Joshi’s caste (Joshi being a Brahmin name), and doubtless many others, one hasn’t been put on this earth to do the washing.
Barbara Ehrenreich researched her book Nickel and Dimed by working minimum wage jobs including being a cleaner. The owner of a house she was cleaning remarked, like Mr Joshi, that this kind of manual labor was as good as a gym workout…
Washing clothes in the river: the elite keep trying to take away our cars, dryers, vacuums, or make them less useful. For example, in the EU new vacuums to be “efficient” barely suck up dirt, so you have to go over and over the carpet–allergies? too bad. To meet the US efficiency standards my dishwasher and washing machine both have idle time where they do nothing. Not great if you have lots to wash. The demand that washers be water efficient also makes them more expensive.
Sure you can take the bus, but what is the first thing people do when they get a decent job? Buy a car.
[ Drags bag of laundry down to stream at bottom of neighbours’ garden. ]
[ Keeps watch for bears. ]
[ Neighbours start banging on window, gesturing. ]
The neighbors are trying to tell you they’ve got more toenail clippings for you.
[ Opens notebook. Starts new page “Dicentra’s crimes”. ]
[ Commotion, sirens, flashing blue lights. ]
Speak Romanian?
Today’s K-Mart special…
It’s the awful AWFL’s again: “Give us back our steak frites!” Paris mayor Anne Hidalgo under fire for ordering city employee canteens to serve only vegetarian meals.
Another case of ‘We didn’t mean for us!’.
There was me, that is Alex, and my thiee
droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim
being really dim, and we sat in the Korova
Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what
to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard
though dry The Korova Milkbar was a milk-plus mesto,
and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what these
mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days and
everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read
much neither. Well, what they sold there was milk plus
something else They had no hcence for selling hquor, but
there was no law yet against prodding some of the new
veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so
you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom
or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice
quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admirmg Bog And All
His Holy Angels And Saints in your left shoe with lights
bursting all over your mozg. Or you could peet milk with
knives in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you
up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one,
and that was what we were peering this evening I’m start-
ing off the story with.