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The website for The Living Dead 2 is live! There are a ton of goodies on the site, including early reviews and a series of author interviews.

I have a story in this one, and it's one of eight stories available on the site as a preview.

"And the Next, and the Next" takes place on Coney Island, home of the Warriors and the Wonder Wheel, and a place about which it's almost impossible not to have feelings of some kind. (Unless you're a zombie, I guess - and even then...)

Anyway, take a look around the site: I'm really excited to be a part of this anthology!

(Thanks to my sister for this picture. I'd dedicate the story to her, too, since she was the person who visited Coney Island with me the first time I ever went, but it seems kind of mean to be like, "So I wrote a story about the mindless, doomed hordes - and I dedicated it to you!" That'll give somebody a complex.)
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This is not actually about the mechanics of elevators; I have no idea how elevators work-work. However, I feel like some people might need a primer on how elevators Work - taking the invisible, unspoken social contract of personal space and making some cartoons out of it because people in elevators are starting to really confuse me.

So, here's an elevator with one person in it. We'll call this person Bill.

Having an elevator to yourself is a dream come true! Spread your arms wide, twirl, relish your tiny, ascending luxury apartment. Do the Mashed Potato if you want!

As more people enter the elevator, things obviously get more cramped and more complicated (now if you want to dance you'll probably have to partner up, and that gets awkward, and it's a whole thing.)

But in general, the rule of thumb for anyone with the common sense of a pigeon would be to maintain some kind of equilibrium in the space between people, while trying to avoid blocking the doors until it can't be helped any more.

So, as the elevator fills up, it looks like any combination of these:

In each of these, people are attempting to give each other a little cushion of space. Bill is fine with this. This is how elevators work. Everyone's doing a very good job of elevatoring.

(In one of those elevators, we're actually ready for a game of Simon.)

Sometimes people know each other and are talking (usually at 50 decibels, about something awkward like state secrets or baby poop), and things go off-balance a little. That's okay! We're still fine:

Sometimes there is just nothing for it, and you are in an elevator during rush hour, and it's like this:

And that's also fine! It's an elevator, not a park. You try to avoid the guy who's bringing his bike up with him, and you get out of the elevator, and you live your life.

This, on the other hand, is the one I have been experiencing a lot recently:

I mean, I am pretty sure that unless someone is translucent, there is no reason for this configuration to happen. And yet, it has happened to me so often that I'm turning into that jerk who stands right near the button panels even if the place is mostly empty. But what can I do? Crime begets crime!

I guess the rule of thumb is this: if you are close enough to someone to perform dental work on them, and there is space available elsewhere, maybe consider sidling a few inches. Enjoy your stay in the elevator!


Aug. 21st, 2010 03:09 pm
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I am sacrificing some writing time this weekend to do a hardcore apartment clean-out. I do this on a semi-regular basis, and am relatively good at not keeping things around because of sentimental value, and yet am always astonished at things that have managed to elude me between one purge and the next. (Mix CDs from my sophomore year of college, I am looking at you. Notes from people in high school, I am studiously not looking at you, since I don't want to die of embarrassment before I discreetly shred you.)

A side effect of all this cleaning should be that, when I finally sit down to write, I will be so sick of cleaning that even recreating the Lost 7K of 2010 should be a pleasure.

That's if I ever make it through the cleaning to begin with. If I never emerge from this pile of old ConEd bills, think well of me!
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
Last weekend I visited my parents. They live in a suburbia that I have been in the position to know for a few years, leave for many, come back to for a few years, leave for many, and then return to every once in a while for trips where I stick my head out the window a lot and marvel that there are trees right alongside the road like nature just exists wherever it feels like. (New York City: where mold is considered a houseplant.)

One thing that has changed remarkably little from my childhood is the strip mall a few miles away from my house, which still has the same ice cream chain, pizza chain, and grocery chain as it did when I was seven. It also has the dance studio where I spent one memorable year. Only one. You'll see why.

The year? 1988. The class? Miss Somebody's Pretend Jazz Dance For Mildy-Uncoordinated Young Ladies. Your writer? A GIANT. (No joke, in the picture of us in our recital costumes I'm about three inches taller than everyone else, which makes me look like I was held back three times for being an Exceptionally-Uncoordinated Young Lady.)

The recital number: "I Think We're Alone Now," by Tiffany. Hell yes it was. It was 1988.

The outfits: black camisole leotards with diagonal rows of hot pink sequins and fringe, as if Barbie had become a demented flapper. Plus, one of those hot pink sequin headbands that gave you migraines and left a sparkly residue on your forehead for weeks.

How long it took to put the routine together: one billion years. Stars were born and died before a room full of 7-year-olds had figured out how to get through this dance.

What I remember of the routine: a lot of repeat foot-taps on each side to fill time. A bastardized version of the Running Man, to be used during all relevant lyrics. Turning our backs to the audience and hugging ourselves for the "put your arms around me" lyric. Lying on the floor and lifting our pelvises into the air. (I don't know what to tell you. Apparently this is an okay thing for seven-year-olds to do in a dance recital. They were more innocent times, I guess.) Doing The Lawn Sprinkler. A big leap near the end.

How I was: PISSED. I was one of three girls who had memorized the whole thing (this is before my memory turned to pudding). They put one of us in the first row, center, and the other two in the back row, on the edges. "To anchor the other girls," they said. I was so far off to the side of the stage that I spent most of the routine behind a trellis.

This is actually, as it turns out, the ideal way for me to perform anything. The next time I got in front of an audience for debate or something in middle school, there was no trellis, and I had an attack of nerves that ended with me turning around and walking offstage and bombing that grade. (Whoops.)

However, at the time I was really proud of being one of three people who could memorize The Entire Thing, and I was not happy about being unable to prove it to anyone. In the VHS recording my dad took of it, you could occasionally catch a glimpse of my face through the trellis, absolutely fuming, looking like I was waiting to be alone with the song's object so I could murder them without witnesses. ("The beating of our hearts is the only sound...soon to be singular.")

That video has vanished into the mists of time, because the internet wasn't popular yet (THANK YOU GOD), but as I drove past that strip mall last weekend, I got a memory rush of the entire thing, and realized I could remember more of that dance routine than I could of almost anything else that has actually happened to me in my life.

This is either a testament to the power of music, or proof that my brain is allocated as follows:

You make the call!
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Last day of Launchpad. My brain is still completely full, but I wanted to at least take the time to commemorate me performing some kind of physical activity besides giving someone a judgemental glare:

Believe it or not, I'm there, behind some of the foliage, a few hundred feet up Vedauwoo. (Thanks to Marjorie for the picture!)

Shortly after this photo was taken, we were attacked by ground squirrels, who tried desperately to look cute so we'd feed them. When we wouldn't, they started staking out our bags in case we made the critical strategic error of wandering away from them for a moment. (We didn't. They were bummed.)

Home tomorrow, where I will see Inception (FINALLY, THE LAST PERSON IN THE WORLD TO SEE IT), and start to catch up on the appalling amount of work that has piled up while I was furiously taking notes about spectrometry and dark matter.
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
They're not just narratives; they're snapshots in time, moments of pure joy.

Just like this scene from The Lost Boys, which came out in July of 1987. This means that they probably filmed in 1986, that moment when the 80s were just realizing what they could really become. It was a time of innocence and wonder; a time when a man needed only purple tights, leather underwear, and some chains to be fully dressed; a time when Jami Gertz had a promising career. (Remember Quicksilver? Anyone?...anyone?)

Full disclosure: this actually takes me back to a time when I was in high school and taking Photography. This was back when you had to know how to wind the film on the spokes in the dark and then pour in the developer and shake the canister, and if you did one thing wrong you ended up with a bunch of underdeveloped splotches and chemical burns on your hands, and then you had to develop each of the prints by hand using a series of complicated machines that they use for background props in movies like Splice now.

With the hours and hours of after-school work necessary to take that photo of your parents' backyard and make it into something you could pass off as your "Garden" assignment (because your photos of the Botanical Gardens looked like a thin black plate with some cottage cheese on it), you had to have something to listen to as you stumbled around in the darkroom accidentally bleaching the crap out of your clothes. And for whatever reason, the soundtrack to The Lost Boys did the trick, and I must have spent about 800 man-hours that year with it on repeat on my Discman (FOR CDs - WOW, this was long ago).

That is to say: this clip is cheesy and dorky and hilarious, and I am fully implicated in it, because I have heard this song about a bajillion times in my youth, and I probably loved it every time.
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This weekend, I found myself on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island, despite having been pretty apprehensive the last time. (I have no answers; I just suddenly appeared on the Wonder Wheel again, like it was a dream and I was escaping a chemistry test by flapping my arms really fast and that's just what happened.)

At night, Coney Island is packed and filthy and loud. (I would say it changed how I feel about Coney Island, but anyone who reads "And the Next, and the Next" in the Living Dead 2 is going to get an idea of how I feel about Coney Island.)

However, from the Wonder Wheel, there's something very melancholy about it:

The blackness isn't just my questionable camera; it really is a blaze of lights and then the huge, sapping darkness.

I walked across the empty beach and into the water, which was so dark that when the waves came in over my knees, it looked like tar. (I guess it still might, soon.)

The next day was the Natural History Museum, which has one of my favorite things in the world, the Wall of Completely Overwhelming BioDiversity:

And speaking of overwhelming, the IMAX Hubble movie talked casually about the 90-trillion-mile-wide Orion nebula, which is a birthplace for stars and galaxies:

It confirmed two things: the universe is an amazing place, and I am completely unprepared for Launchpad next week. (I did, however, pick up a lot of fun facts about marine life, so we'll see if that comes in handy at any point.)

There's no outward connection between the two days, but somehow I feel as if there was; as if I was reminded how lonely the world is, before I was reminded how teeming it is, before I was reminded how insignificant it is.

(And, oddly, how much the universe looks like Coney Island at night.)
glvalentine: (omg no)
It's not that I mind getting the blood drawn. It's just that I look like this for three days afterward:

Just in case, let's cut for the extremely squeamish. )

Go to the doctor, look like a tiny boxer punched you right in the elbow; it's just one of life's unspoken trades.
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When I worked for the event planner, back in 1874, we did a lot of serious parties. Usually they were weddings, but there were a surprising number of dream birthdays as well. Those parties were generally a lot fancier than I could have imagined. (You think Gossip Girl is completely fake and impossible, but I assure you, I only ever looked at those parties and thought, "They've understaffed." It's all reaaaaal!)

I am not a huge party person, but those parties still seemed a little empty, because very few of them were based on movies. Specifically, the best party of all time:

I have thought for years and continue to think this is the best party idea of all time. (Except for the threats-from-violent-gangs part and the running-from-the-cops part and the 1/3-of-your-guests-will-perish-and/or-get-picked-up-by-the-cops part, but no party is perfect, and this is still better than some of the parties I've been to.)

The problem with that party is logistics. All of them.

It's hard to ask people to haul ass as high as 100th St (where the movie's first chase scenes were filmed), wander casually down to 72nd street, get into a fight with baseball bats, hang out in Union Square for several hours, then hop the train down to Coney Island at dawn (before anything is open). Even if you are actually planning a party and not being a hopeless smartass, there's no reason to do this; it's long and exhausting, and by the time you get to Coney, even if things were open at 7am, everyone's too tired to hit the Wonder Wheel or anything.

I even tried to schedule this party once, before I realized it was impossible for anyone with a day job or a circadian rhythm or anything. And yet, every summer I get a brief, flickering urge to do it, because if done right, it would be the best party in the world, ever.

(This post brought to you by trying to think of ways to make my sister suffer in the name of my birthday. I was THISCLOSE to getting her to sit through the midnight show of Eclipse. SO CLOSE.)
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It's official: I'll be a performer at the Steampunk World's Fair this weekend in Piscataway!

Don't worry, I'm not actually doing anything that requires physical dexterity. I will, however, be reading from my novel Mechanique: A Tale of the Circus Tresaulti for the first time, about which I am pretty excited.

Bonus: I'm reading at 10pm, so my chances of being awake and alert are actually pretty good.

They have really pulled out all the stops, it looks like (Black Tape for a Blue Girl, you say? Where do I sign?), and should be a pretty awesome weekend. Hope to see some of you there!
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On Friday, I went to Alaya Dawn Johnson's launch party for her 1920s vampire novel Moonshine. It was a flapper party. I was not missing that.

It was a great party - live music, performances, people complaining about their suits at length. But the best part about it was that the gallery was so far on the West Side that hipsters piling onto the street from out of nowhere just looked as though they had crawled out of the slime of the River, adjusted their ironic 80s fashions, and then set out their shamble across the city. I am not exaggerating when I say that literally hundreds of hipsters passed us, on this non-major cross-street at the far edge of the city, over the course of the evening. I still don't understand where they all came from. Eventually partygoers gave me possible transportation options like "magical bridge" and "dirigible," and I believed them all, because THEY JUST KEPT COMING.

Bonus: that party also ruined my impression of New York as a place where hipsters are obsessed with being seen in superhip exclusive nightclubs with five bouncers, which I carried over from my time working for an event planner. Turns out this is wrong! People in New York will, in fact, enter any venue where lights are on and sound is coming out, much like moths, or nightgown-wearing young ladies vacationing in remote locales. A good two dozen people walked into this party off the street, saw that 95% of attendees were dressed like a silent movie, AND WENT WITH IT. Twenty minutes later, they would wander out again, looking confusedly at the book they had somehow bought. Meanwhile, all the costumed partygoers were sipping drinks and giving them the side-eye. It was glorious.

There is photographic evidence of this nice party, but this photo in particular captures the mood of the room:

Photo: Ellen B. Wright |

It catches that sense of fun that was going around all night, with Alaya soaking up the good vibes, AND a pair of party-crashers doing the Charleston in the foreground. Dance away, participatory hipsters! (SERIOUSLY, WHERE DID YOU COME FROM.)
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
So, I promise I have a Cookson and everything lined up for next week, but this week I am slammed with work on all fronts and my blog posts look like a Tumblr. I know! I'm sorry!

Two things.

1. Pre-emptive apology: If this CSI Miami intro-pun thing is not funny anymore and I am totally behind the times, somebody should tell me, because I laugh every time I run across it, no matter what. I feel suspiciously like I am that person who was the VERY LAST PERSON to give up laughing at the "WAZZZAAAAP" beer commercial.

(Note: I never actually laughed at that, because I hated it and everyone in it, but I am always wary of being the last person in the room to be like, "Have I got an amazing cutting-edge cultural reference!" and then I do a Fonzie impression and everyone's quiet for three thousand years until the building crumbles because of tectonic plate shift and I fall gratefully into an abyss.*)

via [ profile] d_princesses

2. Speaking of really dark fairy tales that can easily become more horrifying, this week I wrote up a steampunk remake of Hansel and Gretel that's in the works for next year.

In theory, I approve (steampunk and dark fairy tales and incesty overtones, what's not to like?). However, the news that they're trolling the cast of Twilight like a suspicious old man at a Kinder Kare has me worried, because I don't know if you have noticed this, but that crew is not necessarily made up of the best actors in the world. (Or in their fifty-foot radius.) I know that movie is popular, and I understand that casting Jackson Rathbone sounds like a wise move, but I urge you to actually watch one of those movies and re-evaulate, because for real.

Launch Pad!

May. 1st, 2010 07:51 pm
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It's official - I'll be attending Launch Pad this year!

I'm incredibly excited about this, and seriously cannot wait for July. Stars! (I live in New York; if you ever see a decent night sky in New York City, something is horribly wrong and you should try to leave that parallel universe immediately.)
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
(You know, out of context, that title sounds like something Gilgamesh would say, and not a way to instantly get me to quote that film in its entirety.)

A week ago, I passed a little hobby shop that had Galaxy Quest miniatures in the window. I did a double-take, walked back, pressed my face to the grate until my face looked like a waffle iron, and generally pined for them. It took me a week to get back there at a time when they were actually open. But I did, and now I own this:

Box is labeled "Standard Thermian Issue." APPROVED.

You'd think that owning this, and being able to take it out of the packaging any time I want, would be the best thing ever. (Collectors, please put down your mint-in-box weapons - the bottom of this box is so damaged there's no point in keeping it pristine. It's seen better days; it might as well live out its life being carried around on a belt loop as I cosplay as Brandon-at-home-just-as-Jason-calls-him or something.) However, it turns out that this is NOT, in fact the best thing ever, because as I went looking for pictures of this thing, I found a website that has this on it:

Found on The Questerian.

I don't care if this is the real Japanese poster, or a fan graphic, or a total hoax, because whatever this is, it is the best thing ever. (That gun is shooting "Never Give Up, Never Surrender," you guys. YOU GUYS.)

My mom's reaction when I told her I'd bought Thermian away-team gear: "Well, you're outside." (This nerd apple did not fall far from the tree.)


Apr. 16th, 2010 05:13 pm
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
I went home last weekend to visit the family, and as usual, I tried to clean up a little of the driftwood of my young life that remains in the house, so that eventually it will stop looking like a teenager with no social skills lives in their house. (Now she lives in New York, where no one even notices social skills because they're too busy avoiding being hit by cars. Upgrade!)

There are some really telling things in that house, some of which indicate I had taste (a silk kimono owned by my great-grandmother) and some of which indicate I had, well, questionable taste. (Uh, no comment.)

The thing I took back from this trip was my box of comics.

When I was, oh, 11-ish, I got into the X-Men in a major way. I read up on Uncanny, I devoured X-Men, and my passion for them lasted until one of those impossible crossovers a few years later where I was trying to get hold of 15 books a week just to find out who won the Shi'ar gladiatorial games when some mutants were kidnapped and something something Savage Land something and Genosha whatever and five THOUSAND people got involved. I was young, and I had no money. Eventually you just cannot cross over one more time, you know? EVEN IF ROGUE IS INVOLVED. (Sorry, Rogue. Nobody loved you more than me, I promise!)

To be fair, though, my comic-book habit was greatly aided and abetted by my dad, who tended to swing by the comic shop on a regular basis and bring home a comic for me. (At the time I assumed it was because of my grades, but looking back on my childhood I think he just wanted to prevent me from going outside and hurting myself, which is also good parenting, so, well done Dad!)

He knew X-Men was my book, and he knew I loved Rogue, so he was always on the lookout for her. Unfortunately, he never quite grokked what exactly Rogue looked like (the ever-changing costumes probably did not help), so my white storage box is about 70% X-Men comics and other random comics featuring Rogue, and about 30% old X-Men reprints that featured Kitty Pryde, in whom I had no interest, but about whom I ended up knowing quite a bit, just by accident! (Brunette X-Men Unite, I guess!)

I had forgotten the Kitty Pryde books, but when I got home there they were, filed quietly in the back of the box, bearing the evidence of one read before they were taped back in their sleeves and hidden away. I saved them even then, because I thought my dad was pretty cool for supporting my comic book habit, and when I opened the box, it was confirmed.

Uh, in other news, I will be carving out time this weekend to slap some Roxette on the tape player, shove my hair into a scrunchie, and read some comics.
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
So, doubtless ill-advisedly, I've started a Tumblr: Questionable Taste Theatre!

No worries about cross-posting; as with my Twitter, I try to limit overlap. On the other hand, this Tumblr will probably have stuff like one-off movie costume commentary QTT movies I abandon (like the one I tried where Alec "Maud'Dib" Newman is a stockbroker-slash-jazz-pianist and Amy Adams stands on the street corner and sings with him every night even though They Are Strangers and He Must Find Her and I just couldn't, you guys, seriously), which this LJ probably won't have. So, if you're dying for a picture of that movie that I scribbled all over in MS Paint, tune in to Tumblr! (It deserved it. It was awful.)

In other news I couldn't discuss until now, I got called up for jury duty! I heard a lot about the importance of being fair and unbiased, and then they piped in Fox News all day long. (Oh, court system, you're a gas!) I didn't get chosen for an actual jury because I had past circumstances that rendered me ineligible, etc. However, I was one of the last called for this jury, so I got to watch the selection process for a good long time. Turns out, you can practically see a Sims diamond appearing over the heads of those who will eventually be chosen.

Unrelated anecdote: I was walking home last night, catching up with my parents, and a cab did an illegal U-turn in the middle of the intersection and nearly hit me (like, "I had to jump backwards to avoid being struck by his rear-view mirror" nearly). I proceeded to give him an incredibly loud and colorful* explanation of pedestrian right-of-way; he sheepishly tried to take his foot off the brake and roll out of the situation (hilariously), but was too nervous to actually hit the gas, so I just walked alongside him until I was finished.

Then I remembered I had been doing the Nun Point with my phone hand, and my parents were still on the line.

* I would like to pretend this was badass-profanity colorful, but it was mostly, "Do you know what a WALK sign looks like? It looks like someone walking! Like I'm walking after you right now because YOU ARE TRYING TO ROLL AWAY FROM ME."
glvalentine: (Default)
So, I saw Alice in Wonderland over the weekend!

Before the showing, there was a line of about 200 people (half of whom bolted when they realized they'd bought tickets to the NOT 3-D showing), and the two teenage girls ahead of me spent a long time on a conversation like this:

Girl 1: I mean, I just have such a crush or whatever on her because she's so, like, different, you know? And it's not just the accent, it's how she's so, like, different. Like, not shallow?

Girl 2: Oh god, I'm so tired of shallow people.

Girl 1: Me, too. (pause) How much do we like my new hair?

Girl 2: We LOVE your new hair.

I thought that was amazing and hysterical, until I realized that it was not a punchline; they were stone serious. Then I didn't know where to look.

That's pretty much how the movie is; every five minutes Burton does something, and you think, "This cannot be serious, there is a twist coming," and then you realize there is no twist coming, and that Burton is stone serious, and then you just don't know where to look.

It's really a shame, because of all the modern filmmakers who could have taken this on, I would have said that Tim Burton was a pretty solid choice, but we've already entered that era where old-Burton would have been a solid choice, and now it's just him cranking a story through his Whimsy Machine and hoping for the best.

For a more coherent review, read the whole thing at Fantasy Magazine.
glvalentine: (Default)
This week, for whatever reason, has been a little bizarre.

Yesterday, a guy assholing his way through the crowd on the way to work cut into foot traffic while adjusting his headphones with his left arm. That means his elbow cracked me right in the face, which sucks, but it happens. However, he also caught my headphones, and he was showing his way through the crowd so hard that in the split-second after he hit me, he had withdrawn his arm and yanked my headphones off my head in the process, and then without stopping or turning around, disentangled himself and threw the headphones into the street.

I would like to insert a story that ends with the cops dragging me off him as he tries to pull the remnants of his designer suit back over his shoulders, but let's face it: I am not fond of real-life violence, and I would never harm a designer suit on purpose. Instead, I delivered what at some point in my life must have been a really venomous retort.


...that'll show him!

At some point I should take a picture of what my headphones look like now. They are a mess, to the point that the pads around the ears have been ripped off and there are bare wires hanging out of the cord; this dude had some serious torque going. I'm just happy he didn't rip my glasses off. (I saw that episode of the Twilight Zone. That is no joke.)

Bonus: this morning, I woke up with a pinched nerve in my arm. Since pinched nerves are annoying by nature, and I have no pain threshold to speak of, whenever I overextend it by accident I gasp and/or hiss. I sound like a Victorian tea party interrupted by snake attack. (Bonus?)

I think this would be a non-issue except that I can't go home and nurse it, since I'm seeing The Wolfman at midnight to review it for The good news is, nothing cures what ails you like Anthony Hopkins gnawing contentedly on some scenery. Can't wait.

Puppy Bowl.

Feb. 8th, 2010 03:55 pm
glvalentine: (nerd alert)
So, while everyone else was watching football (and what sounds from everyone's Twitters like a spectacularly misogynist series of ads), I was watching the Puppy Bowl.

Here is what I like about the Puppy Bowl: it is completely a joke and it knows it, but it still tries to not be boring. This year they had maybe 20 puppies (not at any one time, but over the course of the evening), tailgate-party dogs outside watching, a kitten halftime show, rabbit cheerleaders, and a blimp with hamsters in it. Their audience appeal is already wider than the actual Super Bowl's, you know?

I think my favorite running joke was the cheerleaders. Those rabbits fell asleep five minutes in, so if you were lucky you'd cut to them when one of them had one eye partially open, and the announcer would be like, "The cheerleaders can hardly contain themselves!" It's as hokey as it sounds, but when you realize those rabbits have seriously been asleep through the ruckus the ENTIRE TIME, it gets a little amazing.

(The hamsters spent their cutaways frantically standing on each other and/or gnawing at the control panel of the blimp, as per usual for hamsters.)

Another thing I liked was that it seemed relatively well-supervised; if any of the puppies got in a serious fight, or if they fell asleep, the ref appeared to remove the sleeping/ornery pups and replace them. This makes it feel a little less like the unwilling gladiatorial combat it is and more like going to the Union Square dog run when all the hipster couples are busy with their iPhones and don't notice the enormous and violent Jack-London playdate swelling around them until pack mentality has already sprouted and they have to fight the alpha dog to get their pug back.

Here's an example from the Bowl that shows the other best thing about the Bowl: the huge air-hockey table that was the center logo, and where everyone tended to have their fights. I'm not sure why, unless they knew it was hilarious, in which case, well done!

Wolf moon!

Jan. 29th, 2010 10:02 pm
glvalentine: (valemon)
So, last night I bolted awake because of a bright flashlight in my eyes, which turned out to be the moon, shining through my closed blinds and curtains. The moon: second-pushiest celestial body.

Turns out this website about space agrees with me; tonight is the "wolf moon," the biggest full moon of the year, something something perigee something.

(I'm ashamed how little I know about astronomy; for someone who stays up as late as I do, I should probably look out the window a little more often. Apologies to Heather, who knows all sorts about the moon and is probably ashamed of my ignorance. I promise to learn, Heather!)

Just for kicks, I checked outside earlier. For anyone who was worried, the moon is looking just fine.


glvalentine: (Default)
Genevieve Valentine

September 2010

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