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Started by ~, February 22, 2010, 02:37:23 PM

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Jenne

Quote from: Triple Zero on March 31, 2010, 07:00:15 AM
Wait isn't Hairspray that musical comedy remake of some musical comedy?

000 still doesn't know either who John Waters is.

I could wikipedia it but it sounds like some celeb or something and I don't look most of those up either for the simple reason of that not knowing them causes them to be less famous, which theoretically reduces the amount of celebrities, which also solves the problem of not knowing them, in a way. AKA the "some problems really do go away if you ignore them" solution.

Plus, if "Hairspray" is really that comedy movie I'm thinking of ... well it was okay for a movie of that type, I guess but why should I care who directed it? (assuming he's the director) Same for "Serial Mom" isn't that another comedy movie? I don't know the other titles though.

He's primarily a movie director of some note for his work with the gay/bi/lesbian/tranny set.  He opened wide a world that audiences only saw in the darkest corners of society, and had hidden from in general.  His work is pretty seminal in mainstreaming (to some extent) through comedy and a strange mixture of sadness and tragedy as well the lives and times of the fabulous.

He's an artist.

And "Hairspray" was a Broadway musical before they redone it as a movie.

LMNO

Day 23:

Wettest month on record, or so they tell me.  Dams are breaching, bridges are collapsing, cars are literally getting washed away, and the general attitude of people are getting surlier.  Didn't matter though, because my band was heading into the studio to cut some tracks.  I was kind of excited.  It had been a while since I had the luxury of a single role in situations like this.  Usually, since I was the "recording guy," it was up to me to set up the mics, get level checks, monitor the performance, and worry about playing it, too.  It's kind of hard to get a decent take when you're not just concerned about what you're doing, but you have to keep an eye on everyone else.  Just recording is fine, and just playing is fine, but when you have to do both at the same time, it get's kind of complicated. 

The studio wasn't the best, but it was affordable, and in a dedicated space, not just a makeshift basement with mold creeping across the floor, or a rehearsal space where the noise of other bands constantly bled through the walls.  It was located in a corner of an industrial park, next to a bus station; at least, that's what we were told over the phone, and I tried to make out the building numbers as my car's high beams fought their way through the pouring rain.  There it was.  I eased through a gate to get to the loading dock, and realized I was smack dab in the middle of a six-inch puddle.  The sound guy came out, a hoodie pulled up over his head, and introduced himself as Ryan.  He told me that, because of the rain, I needed to pull around to the side, and we'd load in through there.  With a shrug, I drove over to where he was pointing, and began to pull my drums out of the trunk.

He led me through a small door, and down a makeshift zigzagging corridor consisting of a series of two-by-fours and plasterboard.  This opened into a larger room, poorly lit, with trunks half open in the corner, and a few hastily built steps leading up to a riser at the far end, and another door.  There was an old beat-up crib in the corner, and some other kid's toys scattered around.  Ryan pointed me through the door, which turned out to be the studio proper.  Four soundproofed rooms with glass walls, a 32-channel board, a rack of computer gear, and a cabinet full of microphones.  I set up my drums in the largest of the rooms, and we got to work setting up mics.

The rest of the guys got there a half an hour later, and we made quick work of the basic tracks.  Ryan knew what he was doing, and everything went smoothly.  After a couple of hours, we were ready to start overdubs and vocals, which meant my job was pretty much done, save for offering advice and encouragement to the rest of the guys.  I decided we'd be more comfortable and relaxed if we had something to eat, and maybe some beer, so I made my way out the back to see what I could rustle up. 

There was a convenience store still open a block up, so I grabbed what I could, and headed back to the studio.  The rain had slowed to a drizzle, so I made it back relatively unscathed.  I got buzzed in through the side door and worked my way back through the corridor, and across the loft space, up the steps to the studio door, when I heard a sound behind me.  I was pretty sure I had closed the side door firmly behind me, so I turned to see what it was.  In the dim light, I saw a toddler crawling towards me.  It was dressed in a dirty robe, or a pullover, or maybe just a sheet with a hole in it for the head.  Then it stopped, and I saw one of the trunk's lids shift, and then another infant crawled out, dressed much in the same way.  It started moving towards the first baby, a determined look on its face.

They were silent, not making a sound as they faced each other, getting closer, close enough they were almost touching.  With a chuffing noise, one of them reached up and quickly stuck its fingers in the other's eye.  With a choking cry, it fell back, and the first one moved over it, jabbing at its eye again.  The tiny, chubby fingers shoved in deeper, and with a soft squishy pop, buried his hand up to the wrist in the other baby's skull.  It let out a happy gurgle, and drove in deeper, half way up the forearm.  It started crawling towards the decrepit crib, slowly dragging the wounded infant who was no longer moving on its own, smearing a trail of blood to mark its progress.  It was then I noticed the crib wasn't empty, there was something else in it, something with eyes that glinted in the low light, and there were more eyes than there should have been.  I quickly opened the studio door, and shut it behind me, hard. 

"Hey, he brought beer!  Awesome!  Check it out; John just used his tuning pedal as a guitar slide.  You've got to hear this."

Freeky


LMNO

Day 24:

Took the day off.  It was an imperative, really.  The sun had finally come out, and was burning away the emotional haze the rain had brought to the city.  Honestly, there were songbirds outside my window this morning, and I had been able to leave it open overnight without fear of waking up with hypothermia.  So it was only to be expected that I wasn't going to make it into work.  Plus, an old friend had come in from out of town, so we made plans to meet in the arboretum. 

I always like that place when the seasons are shifting around.  I know that you're supposed to go there when things are in bloom, or for the special occasions like the when the cherry blossoms open up, or during the week or two when the tulips are going full bore.  But I've always been partial to seeing the place during the in-between states, when you can see the layout of the land, and the skeletal structures behind all the flashy petals and leaves. 

Today was one of the perfect times for me.  The rains had led to massive flooding in town, and the arboretum also got its share.  The topology was fairly mixed.  One hill dominated the place, but there were rolling rises of land that dropped gently into shallow basins all around, and various footpaths crisscrossed the landscape, carefully planned to present the various plant species in their best light.  The rain had changed the game however, because now some of those paths led straight into a foot of water, and with buds still forming, the trees in some of those valleys made the place look like a southern swamp.  The illusion didn't last long, because if you turned around, you could see the pine trees and carefully constructed rose gardens.

I walked down the main avenue that split the arboretum in half and then circled up the main hill, mainly because it was paved.  The other paths and walkways were simply well-worn dirt tracks that had mostly dried up by now, but were still a bit soft in one or two places, and I didn't want to risk it.  Besides, those paths were in the trees, and I wanted to be out in the open, and feel the sun on my skin.  A few others had the same idea. There were mothers pushing strollers, some college kids and a ubiquitous Frisbee, and—

"Well, you tell that bitch to get her ass in gear and do it right!" a gruff voiced barked behind me, and I turned to see a track-suited dictionary definition of "douchebag" jogging towards me.  He was wearing pristine white running shoes, matching red velour pants and top, overly large sunglasses, and a Bluetooth Borg-like earpiece, into which he was shouting, oblivious of everything around him.  "I don't care if her basement has a foot of water in it!  She's in my office by ten, or she doesn't show up!  ...No, no, no. That is completely unacceptable!  My demands are simple.  Her entire existence revolves around me, or she's out on her ass.  She's lucky I'm even giving her minimum wage.  I bet I could get some illegal over here that would do it for a new pair of shoes!"

He brushed by me and turned off onto a side path that skirted one of the residual puddles/lakes that the rain had left behind, his voice still carrying through the air, cracking the idyll of the day.  "Don't make me come down there and show you how to do your job, asshole!  You're lucky that I – Oh, goddamn it!"  Down the trail, his foot had hit a soft patch of mud, soiling his clean shoe.  "Listen, I gotta call you back..." He lifted his leg, and some sort of slime dripped form his sneaker to the ground, like mucous.  It was a greenish black, thick and nasty.  He stepped back, trailing strands of the stuff as he started scraping his shoe against a large rock. 

His back was to the water, which began to ripple and boil.  From the water's edge, dozens of things started crawling out onto the bank.  They looked like a frog mixed with a lizard, bulging eyes and a slick body, with a long tail and a gaping mouth filled with sharp teeth.  They slithered and scrambled up the bank and towards the jogger, who was still dealing with the slime on his shoe.  One of the frog things leapt onto the back of his right calf, digging the talons of its front legs into his leg, and taking a bite out of the back of his knee. 

With a scream, he toppled over, just as the rest of the things pounced.  They began to tear chunks out of him, swarming over the red velour track suit with their muddy, slimy bodies, biting indiscriminately wherever they could.  His cries bubbled to a whisper as they bit into his face and throat, tearing off his nose and ripping out his esophagus.  With several of them grabbing his shoulders in their wide mouths, they slowly began to pull his twitching body back into the pond, while a few of them kept skittering over his body, sinking their teeth into whatever soft parts they could find.  A minute later, the body had been completely submerged, with nothing left but a trail of greenish-black slime, which would dry up in a day or two under the new season's sun.  I checked my watch.  I was going to be late meeting my friend.  I had better get a move on.

Doktor Howl

Molon Lube

LMNO

I just realized I had doubled up on a few weekends, and the finish line is now 4 days further on.

LMNO

Day 25:

As I entered the elevator to get up to my office this morning, I noticed Karen was wearing a pair of jeans, with a smug look on her face.  She was talking to Betsy about how she donated five dollars to the Jimmy Fund, because the company was offering a deal where you could wear jeans if you did.  I couldn't tell what she was more pleased with herself about: That she gave money to a charity, or that she was able to "break the rules" for a day.  We have a pretty strict dress code for the office, straight up business attire, and business casual on Friday, which just means you don't have to wear a tie.

Not that Karen was actually breaking the rules, of course, because the company was allowing her to wear jeans, as either a bribe, or a thank you, depending on your perspective.  The problem here though, was that Karen didn't really look good in jeans.  Or at least what she was wearing wasn't the right cut for her.  They were loose where they should be tight, tight where they should be loose, and the whole thing just looked... off.

I guess I've never been upset or daunted by the prospect of "dressing up".  Not that I'm any stranger to jeans and a T-Shirt; that's my default look.  But even when I was a little kid, I liked putting on a suit.  It was like a costume, it made people look at you like a different person.  Just by adding a sport jacket, or even a tie, people treated you differently.  My dad used to say, "You can get in anywhere if you're wearing a tie," and he's mostly right.  It's like a badge, or a signifier.  You're "that kind of person". 

Plus, as far as men's fashion goes, suits and dress shirts are pretty much the only easily available clothes that are actually made to fit you well.  A decent suit can make you look ten pounds thinner, just by the way its cut.  And contrary to popular belief, they're usually made to be comfortable.  Anyone you see who complains about "dressing up" usually has made poor decisions while shopping.  Either that or they're wrapped up in what a suit "means".

I get the feeling that some people rail against button-down shirts and ties out of some misplaced rebellion.  They see "The Man" wearing a tie, being all business-y, and generally behaving like a douchebag, and they want to reject that.  So, they wear $200 jeans with a hole in the knee, a "Smash the State" shirt that's a size too small, and they think they're making a statement.  Or, they were forced to wear a uniform at school, and have associated the clothing with the experience, forever ruining the chances of enjoying a well-tailored suit. 

Of course, you could also be like Jerry, who walked up to my desk just as I was putting my bag away.  Jerry thought he understood the purpose of a suit, but he really didn't get it.  If he were a sheriff in the Old West, he'd be the kind of guy who has a tin star far larger than it should be, and polished to a blinding shine.  His clothes were expensive, but he didn't know how to wear them.  The pants were a tasteful chalk stripe, but about two inches too short in the leg, and far too tight in the waist, which cinched in his ample gut.  That in turn caused his French-cuffed salmon button down to balloon over his belt like he was smuggling a watermelon, which in turn made his tie end up only halfway down his torso—a tie that was, incidentally, wrapped around a collar that was throttling him and looking like a breaching dam of neck fat. 

He stopped about five feet from my desk, looked at me, and said, "Nuh."

"What's that, Jerry?"

"Nuh."  His face was ruddy and flushed.  He hooked one finger under the knot of his tie, and pulled, causing the top button on his shirt to pop open.  His eyes softened a bit.  "Nuh."

"Jerry, you doing ok?"  I took a step towards him, but he stepped back.  With one hand occupied in getting his tie completely off, his other hand grabbed the front of his shirt, ripping it open.  There was a "ping" as one of the buttons bounced off the copy machine.  The skin under his shirt was pasty, undefined, and hairless.  His gut rippled and hung over his pants, which he was now scrabbling at with clawed fingers, pushing them down his skinny legs.  Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing underwear, and I caught a glimpse of his shriveled, limp penis as he ran past me, threw open the door to the main meeting room, and leapt on the table, howling.

In the end, security was called.

Kai

If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water. --Loren Eisley, The Immense Journey

Her Royal Majesty's Chief of Insect Genitalia Dissection
Grand Visser of the Six Legged Class
Chanticleer of the Holometabola Clade Church, Diptera Parish

Freeky


LMNO

Day 26:

One of the drawbacks to working in a large corporate structure is that every so often (once a quarter or so), you get herded into a large conference room, and some top-rung jackass blathers on about how we're all doing great jobs, even if he has no idea what it is we actually do, never mind whether or not we actually are doing a good job.  For some reason, this ritual soothes the higher-ups, and makes them think that they are "connecting" with the cogs and pistons that grease the wheels on Industry.

They've gotten cleverer about it, too.  Whereas they previously got hundreds of people into a lecture hall that was dim enough for those in the back to fiddle with their smartphones, today's meeting was just a few teams, maybe three dozen people, crammed into one of those modular team building mega-cubes, where the bigwig could see everyone, and it was much more difficult to feign paying attention while doing something else.

It turned out that today's diatribe was about Accomplishments and Goals.  This consisted of a hyperactive, self-important, doughy man with a buzz haircut and steel-rimmed glasses telling the rest of us what we did last year, and what we're going to do next year.  Big surprise, Jack: We were there.  We know what we did, and we know how well we did.  And unless you move the entire team to Manila, we know what we're doing next year.  We don't need you to tell us that we've cut our cycle time by 200%, or that our Quality rating is at 97.3%.  We're the ones who are doing that shit.  If you want a suggestion, for free, why don't you skip blowing smoke up our asses and give us bonuses or raises?  That would be a definite way of showing us how much you appreciate the work we've been doing.

Of course, in any of these forced gatherings, there's always one sycophantic twit who thinks that laughing too loudly at the VP's jokes and offering meaningless platitudes will get them "noticed", which is somehow a good thing.  Her name was Debi.  Did she think that Jack would suddenly say, "I like the way you cackled idiotically when I made a ham-handed reference to Mad Men!  You're our new Director of Marketing!"?  I mean, I understand being Teacher's Pet, I used to do it myself.  But I at least was able to get better grades and learn more because of it.  Debi was just... I dunno.  Enthralled by the semblance of power?  To dumb to know any better?  I sighed, and looked around the room at the rest of the crowd.

Stephen was sitting next to me on my right.  His eyes were half-glazed over, and he was slouching deeply in his chair.  Every part of him seemed to sag.  Then I glanced back at Brian, and his face literally was sagging.  The skin was drooping off of his face like it wasn't connected to his cheekbones.  In fact, it looked like his cheekbones had somehow collapsed.  One of his hands slipped out of his lap, and flopped limply at his side, like glove filled with loose Jell-O.  Next to him, Adriana's head slowly deflated and sunk down her neck, sliding down her chest.  Looking to my left, I saw Jon, or what was left of Jon, melting into a flesh-colored heap in his chair, his legs dripping into his shoes.  Patrick and Tina had simply become two flesh puddles spreading across the floor.  You could see where their heads used to be from the patches of hair and the occasional wandering eyeball, which slowly blinked in time with Jack's ceaseless cadence.  I glanced at the clock.  "Just ten more minutes," I thought to myself, as I felt the bones in my shoulders soften.

Cramulus

gadddd I know just how you feel

those fucking corporate pep rallies are the pits. Sarlacc pits.

Freeky

 :x I hope you didn't melt too much, LMNO.

ETA: Actually, that brings up a good question. Is it possible to fap if you're melting?

LMNO


Freeky


Jasper

What made that all the more hilarious was imagining LMNO making a wide-eyed scowl at the sight of those things.  Oh damn, still giggling.

:lulz: