Grafitti the Ghost has decided to plant a home office in Uganda and Kenya for a month, and your intrepid foreign correspondant G-Train will be there carving a path throughout the dark continent so that you don't have to.
I'll be doing the usual stuff one does in Africa - driving a land rover around the Serengeti with a talking gorilla solving mysteries, hunting down big game with my trusty elephant gun to raise awareness for endangered species, and ironically naming native tribes I discover after 80's hair-metal bands. Same old same old.
So screw the Discovery Channel, change that channel from Planet Earth and cancel your subscription to Blue - you've got G-Train now, and I've got a continent to conquer. Godspeed to you all, check in once in a while for maybe an interesting 5 minutes, and I'll see you in a few weeks.
P.S. If you're lucky I'll bring you back some malaria as a gift.
To anyone who has not seen the last episode of Heroes, please read no further.
For everyone else, this is a major geek alert.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am the geekiest of geeks when it comes to comic books. I even watched that piece of trash Fantastic Four movie even though I knew it would suck. So a weekly series about super heroes had me slapping my geek vein pretty hard and getting ready for a major nerd fix.
Imagine my disappointment as I watched these “heroes” bitch, complain and moan every week like a group of dysfunctional namby pambys in a therapist’s waiting room. Save the Cheerleader?! Look back at the episode true believers – it was the bad guys that took Sylar down on that one, not any of the heroes. My frustration would build with every episode as they would run around and basically do nothing but complain! Any time a hero would encounter the evil Sylar, they would fuck up royally and get their ass kicked. Think about it: there’s a guy who can stop time and he can’t manage to lop someone’s head off. Here’s an idea – Stop time. Go get a cup of coffee. Have a doughnut or two. Walk back to bad guy and chop his head off. Do some laundry or something, then, turn time back on. Badda bing.
The only hero with some cajones was that bad-ass Jessica broad who actually would take it downtown on the hoodlums in a serious way. But even with her we had to wade through the weepy Nikki until she decided to look in a mirror from time to time.
Now let’s get to Peter, the lead Hero. The first time he meets Sylar, he turns invisible and then walks about two feet away from the evil dude. One would think that he would try to get behind him, smack him in the face, or even run out the door, but no – he just stands two feet away from certain death and gets a well-deserved shard of glass in his skull.
It was that episode that turned me. Rather than watch week after douche-chilling week for the Heroes to shut up and do something, I decided I was rooting for Sylar. Sure he kills a few people and all, but at least he is getting off his ass and doing something. He’s a real go-getter who won’t take no for an answer. Of course there’s the added bonus that he is not terminally stupid. I actually began to enjoy the show as he would outwit all these heroes and their sidekicks all the while kicking ass and taking names. So he eats brains every once in a while. A small price to pay for getting to watch someone do something and not scream at the screen in frustration as yet another hero did something incredibly dumb in the face of conflict.
So imagine my disappointment in the final episode when I watched the little time-stopper (who looks like he is trying to drop a deuce every time he uses his power) get a few hours of training with Lieutenant Sulu and suddenly he can stab the only bad-ass on the show. Not that I hold it against Sylar, I mean he was outnumbered and trying to drop the whimpy little Peter who was about to kill all of New York because he couldn’t even mange to control his Extreme Exploding Fireball Action Hands ™.
But I should have known better. That Sylar’s got moxie and he managed to crawl away into the sewers to fight another day. Yup. Right under the noses of half a dozen heroes and stabbed through the chest, he got away clean. What a guy. So on the scoreboard at the end of the season: Sylar – about 12, Heroes – 0.
I can’t wait for the next season of heroes. Maybe Sylar will eat the brains of that Indian doctor guy and gain the power of Overly Effeminate Pseudo-British Action™.
This past weekend I was a volunteer re-fashionista at Make magazine's Maker Faire in San Mateo. While the bulk of the Faire consisted of more techy or "build-y" projects, like a giant electric giraffe or the Neverwas Haul, I worked at the Swap-o-rama-rama, where people brought bags of clothes to donate, grabbed other people's castoffs, then came to the likes of me for assistance in re-constructing them into renewed wearables.
It turned out to be quite inspiring. Our area was packed with a steady flow of people all day, with at least a hundred people in the room at any given time. People were genuinely excited about the things they making and some had really clever ideas about how to refashion the pieces they'd picked up at the swap. I assisted everyone from an asshole 5-year-old whose mother needed to tell her "NO" a little more frequently, to a guy who had come down from Vancouver just for the Faire, to a shy tween girl who was afraid to use a sewing machine by herself, to a woman who had never sewed before and stuck with me all day learning how to make a skirt. She came back the next day to show me another one she had made at night after she went home from the Faire.
I spent Sunday morning reconstructing an XL Maker Faire 2006 t-shirt. And hey, look who turned up on the Maker Faire blog!
I didn't have a ton of time to see the rest of the Faire, but what I did see was very cool and very inspiring. It was also nice to see some of my favorite Burning Man projects (such as the aforementioned giraffe & Neverwas Haul) not covered in playa dust for once. You could easily spend the entire weekend there, and I highly suggest that everyone check it out at least one day next year.
Ok, now I know that Fergie is known for pushing the boundaries of taste. That's cool. She has lovely lady lumps. Whatever. But this is going too far.
First, Fergie probably ways a buck 5, soaking wet. No way could she steal the car of a guy that can absorb the power of any hero he encounters (including the new Extreme Exploding Fireball Action Hands! TM).
And B, She uses as justification for her cold hearted, ruthless actions the fact that Petrelli met with some questionable dudes, who handed him a little package of mysterious nature. Ok, well let's examine the facts. Peter is a super sweet, all-American hero. The dude saves cheerleaders, for christ's sake. Whatever he was doing with those fellas was indubitably linked to defeating his turncoat douchslut of a brother and saving New York from da bomba (as Hiro would put it). Can we cut the brotha some slack, please?
Not sure what went wrong with their relationship- maybe Peter didn't give her all his icey- but I think our examination of the facts has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fergie was in the wrong. And should really fire her stylist immediately for making her wear that horrible little hat.
But she does, as J-fro points out, mention that she will miss him like a child misses his blanket. That's nice.
PS- Two Hero posts in a row. Wow. That's pushing the geek factor like G-Train and Freylock at a comic book convention. Well, you can at least be glad to know that I couldn't care less who America chooses to be its next idol, top model, dancer with a wooden leg, "it girl", or even sweetheart. So buck up, it could be worse.
But speaking of wooden legs, there is one reality show that I will be following this season. Our friend Azmyth was one of the contestants on this pirate themed reality show from the producer of Survivor. You can see a special preview Sunday at 9pm on CBS. Consider it plugged.
PPS- Stefbot pointed out that this will be our 300th post on GTG. Since we missed our 100th and 200th milestones, I thought it was worth pointing out at least. We'd like to thank our loyal readers, all two of you, for hanging in there through the thin times. We promise to keep polluting the blogosphere with bacon, fat dwarves, zombies and lolkittahs for as long as we have, well, as long as we have the downtime at work, really.
Apparently the uppity short, fat people got themselves organized and now want the same rights as you and me.
I guess this means I'll have to release my pet midget now. That sucks.
I'd drive him to work sometimes like a Tauntaun, riding piggyback and holding on tightly to his back hair while he ran on his stumpy little legs. And whenever my friends and I needed a laugh we'd get him stoned and give him a battleaxe - that Middle Earth shit never gets old.
My dad emailed a quaint story to my mom, brother and I this morning which demonstrated that even as a wee lass, my sense of humor was already operating at a 4th grade level. And it went a little something like this: (hit it dad!)
As I approach old age, I look back at some of my fondest memories. One involved Stefanie at a young age.
One day, I looked at her as her brow was knit in concentration. I wondered what thought was troubling her. Suddenly, a smile lit her face as she proudly announced, 'I blowed de faht!'
Though his appearance was almost overshadowed by a crazy bitch that thought being invited onstage to dance meant she could dry hump the Purple One, the Periwinkle One nevertheless managed to steal the show last week in London. Once the woman was disposed of by a quick-thinking bouncer, Prince got back into his groove and called Towelie out to the stage.
After a couple false starts during which Towelie appeared confused and disoriented, he performed a duet of "Funkytown" with Prince, while lounging directly on Prince's sassy little head.
On rumors that the two smoked a joint together before the show, Towelie giggled and replied, "Well, maybe we just got a little high."
When pressed for confirmation, Prince, in his typically enigmatic fashion, responded simply, "You're a towel."
I think taking this online "Which Hero Are You" test should score me at least a 40 right out of the gate. I guess they took points off because I don't speak Klingon, and only a few words of Elvish.
Plus, as anyone who really knows me can attest, my fondness for "bad behavior" is actually one of my best qualities.
Your Score: Eden McCain
You scored 45 Idealism, 58 Nonconformity, 25 Nerdiness
I think you really want a donut.
Congratulations, you're Eden McCain! You've got a colorful past, and your persuasive abilities are second to none. In addition, you're a quick thinker with a solid amount of guts.
Your best quality: The art of persuasion Your worst quality: A fondness for some stereotypically "bad" behavior
Wendy’s restaurants today unveiled an aggressive and controversial marketing campaign targeted at today’s single fathers. While it may seem shocking and downright sad to the uneducated consumer, a spokesperson from the fast food chain had this to say: “The single father is left adrift in a world filled with change, weekend visitations, online porn and lots of alcohol. What better demographic should we be gunning for!?It’s like shooting stoned fish in a barrel of molasses!”
The video, featuring an obviously intoxicated star of stage and small screen and filmed by his 14 year-old daughter is harrowing in its scope. Not only does it bring to bear the fact that Wendy’s is open late night, but it shows that a star of Baywatch remains steadfast to his healthy lifestyle by eating a scrumptious burger without the carb-ridden bun, if only because he can’t manage to function well enough to hold a piece of meat between two pieces of bread and lay on the floor at the same time.
While not airing on national television, Wendy’s feels that the seeds of online marketing will pay off: “We at Wendy’s feel that this whole internet thing is catching on. We are very excited about this viral campaign and expect rapid growth in the drunkard, lush and deadbeat markets. We couldn’t be happier!”
On a real note: thankfully, the Hoff has lost all custody rights to his children pending a court review.
On another note, Neither K.I.T. nor Zima could not be reached to comment.
In perusing the GTG archives, I realized that my two-year bloggerversary just passed a few days ago. And you know, the more things change, the more retarded kitten funsies get.
Thnx to teh sound:boy for introducing me to yet another kitten funsies site today, icanhascheezburger.com. Some repeats, but not so many that I didn't just spend half an hour looking at page after page of lolcats.
No, I'm not talking about the Hidden Paw from the "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats," or this fur-clad bastard. I'm talking about the sad little hole in my toof that's getting filled this afternoon. Apparently you're never too old to get a cavity. Anyone know of a good BYONitrous dentist in the Yay Area?
Lie down motionless in a cool, air-conditioned sensory deprivation tank for about 3 days, and you'll get a pretty good feeling of the exact opposite of what last weekend's supersonic orgy of hot hot hotness, the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, was all about. Sorta like going on a nature hike where all the trees are replaced by bands and DJs.
Most the shows were kickass. Some, not so much. Of Montreal kicked off with some dirty fuzzy distortion rock. We shook our feet really good on LCD Soundsystem's rhythm rug. The Decemberists were reliably pretentious. The Arcade Fire was an epic wall of sound, with Ghostface Killah politely filling in the dead air between songs from his stage next door.
Bjork capped it off with her familiarly unfamiliar blend of rock, electronica and river nymphs, playing a wild sound machine that looked like the kind of baby a poker table and a submarine sonar device would have if they had sex.
Oh, and I'm now convinced that Amy Winehouse is really a 60-year old black woman from a Baptist church in southern Georgia who's soul found a way to possess the bod of a 23-year old white British alcoholic chick with hair like Elvira:
Of course, the concert was only part of the madness. Maxin and Chillaxin by the pool till the breaka breaka marked the first time all 3 Ghosts spilled our Graffitti together outside the blogosphere, successully fighting off a band of roving golf ninjas and penning the raver slasher flick that will sweep the nation, as soon we get around to filming it.
PS I've decided to name my firstborn "!!!" Instead of calling him by name you'll have to wear an expression of surprise/excitement on your face otherwise he won't be sure who you're talking to.
