November 30th, 2011

Clay. Bill...Clay.

"Ho...ho...ho." Still appropriate to quote.

Aaron Mesh, writer and movie reviewer for the weekly paper Willamette Week, thinks this and makes me wonder why I didn't think of it first:


Hans Gruber is Santa Claus. This should be obvious even to those disadvantaged souls who didn't grow up with Die Hard on TV as the family yule log. Consider: both have murky European origins, both promise punishment to those who do not obey their edicts, and both bring annual delight to the world by plunging out of the sky. They also share terrific beards, though Hans is more fastidious about trimming. Alan Rickman even spent the better part of the past decade playing another fearsome children's character, as if unable to let go.


Yet another post in anticipation of Die Hard showing at the Bagdad as the latest Cort and Fatboy Midnight Movie, a mere two days from now. Preceded by What Could Possibly Go Wrong?, the second annual Cort & Fatboy live show with most of their regular podcast guests. Bagdad doors at 8:30 that night, live show at 9:00, the short C&F documentary Welcome to That Whole Thing at 10:30, David Walker and Matt Haley's short Blackstar Warrior (three words: blaxploitation Star Wars), and Die Hard at 11:00.
Flavored Calories.

"Den-Idol," the LJ Idol Home Game, Week Six: Primordial Soup

Oo, strong talk. At least a little more strong talk than usual from me...

This time that was, before me or you or the great-great-grandfolks of your great-great-grand-folks were gettin' fucked into being -- a while ago, I'm sayin' -- back before we figured out how to make walls out of air or how to slice water or how to safely eat batteries (which solved everyone's lethargy), things were hella simpler, or at least the complicated parts of the world were ready to be safely forgotten by people of the future like you and me and those great-grand-folks I mentioned, but...

...people still needed to, y'know, EAT. There was nothing fancy to eat, though, that far back, so they ate what they could find. Or tried. They tried eating grass, they tried eating rocks, they tried eating lips -- their own -- but nothing satisfied. They even tried eating clouds, but those never got close enough. So they thought clouds must be TASTY. ("Soup In The Clouds" could be the name of a Charles Fort-themed cookbook. "From the Super-Sargasso far above comes the damned, unexplainably delicious!") The forbidden fruit of fog is the most forbidden fruit...or something...

But, one day, from out of those clouds came water. It collected in a hollow on top of a rock. The rock was near a cliff. Rain beat a bit of grass-laden sod off of the cliff. The grass splashed into the hollow. More water collected around it. The cloud emitted rumbles, then a lightning bolt. The bolt speared the water, instantly boiling it at 50,000 degrees, cooking the grass, and getting all of the surrounding human and animal life really high because apparently it was that kind of grass. (That far back, all grass was that kind of grass. Because the only way you'd want to live through that part of the past was while high.)

And people braved the smell coming from that hollow, touched the concoction that was rippling in it, recoiled, blew on their fingers, inadvertently blew on the water and cooled it down, and finally, curious about what had happened and hungry and enjoying being high but also hurting from how long it was taking for what was left of their lips to heal, they slurped up some of what was in it. And the world's first stew was born. And eaten. And enjoyed. And improved upon, because that kind of stew could stand A LOT of improving.

The story is wrong. You don't get "stone from a soup" THAT way. You got it THIS way. Remember.


And that is my home-game entry in therealljidol for this week's topic, "Food Memory." I'm not entirely sure where the hell that entry came from.