When I log onto blogspot, I am demanded to procure my username and password. Slumping next to 'password', shoulders hunched, rests a question mark. As in, "What's a password?"
Yeah, so this isn't really going anywhere. Blame it on the anesthesia for yet another toe surgery I was subjected to on Monday. This would be a better excuse if I wrote this on Tuesday. Here's the secret: I started writing this on Tuesday, but had to save it as a draft or risk being late to...something. I don't remember, presently. But the password question mark thingy just struck me as really funny. I guess its for people who've, like, never seen the Internet before.
Or for people who ask the kind of questions like, "Where does the Internet go when you're not using it?"
Ummm....it doesn't go anywhere. It's not even an it. Believe it or not, someone asked me this once. There's an almost mystical wonderment at the idea that this person believed that I was the chosen one; the person who could craft a pearl of the barnacled murk that stands at the intersection of computer science, theology, esoterics, and complete bullshit to satisfactorily answer the question that is so stupid it cannot be answered. And I know lots of things can't be answered, and that doesn't mean they're stupid. But...where does it go? As David Sedaris would say, that's fucked up.
About five times this week, such events have occurred which I desired to commit to the blogosphere. Unfortunately, I have forgotten all of them because I have been too busy to weed them all out. Some of them were worthy of Bridget Jones, too.
Well, we talked about Kerenski again in film. Anyone, anyone? Kerenski? No?
The peacock's ass?
Knew you'd remember that. If you're still like, WTFFF? I'll provide a refresher.
Kerenski is the head of Russia's provisional government. It's 19somethingorother, and we're in the movie October. Yeah, you and I. Okay, I know you'd rather be stuck in a successful revolution, never mind a successful movie, but c'mon, it's Eisenstein. I'd rather be in an Eisenstein movie, even one that's kinda crappy, excessive, and overly ambiguous, than in a horror movie (note: read How to Survive a Horror Movie if you find that I've lucked out with Eisenstein and am now living comfortably on the Russian steppes and you're stuck...in a log cabin in Montana). And the montage is fun to be a part of, you just have to make sure you're not on the edge of the frame or you'll get spliced. So we're in October, yes we are. Do you see that short, effeminate man climbing the stairs over and over and over and over and over? That's Kerenski. Now watch, there's a mechanical peacock. And look...he just walked into its ass. Through the suggestion of editing, of course. And it's supposed to show that he's arrogant. And Eisenstein is really proud of this montage, too, but that's not the point. Yesterday, we watched Rules of the Game in film. One of the characters, the Marquis de Chesnaye, collects mechanical music boxes. It's pretty neat...of course, it's used for different effects in Rules of the Game. Am I going to go into them? No. I'm going to finish writing so I can eat a piece of chocolate and concentrate on solving the enigma of evolution so we can all develop sticky tongues.