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Jan. 26th, 2007

delused

Comedy // Dane Cook





Website
Retaliaion on YouTube
(if you look under this person's vids they have all of the tracks)
Comedy Central
(they have some videos)
Dane on HBO


Yes, I know everybody already loves him, which is why he needs to be mentioned. BAMF4LIFE.
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delused

Song // Oasis // Lyla

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delused

Game // Cards // Hearts





Hearts!
(play it for free with a msn/hotmail account on zone.com)


Best card game ever. I'll even play you. Invite azethena@hotmail.com. ♥ ♥ ♥
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Jan. 4th, 2007

delused

Promo // Hogwarts Elite










hogwarts_elite xx sorting_elite

Hogwarts Elite is a one of the oldes, most selective Harry Potter rating community on LiveJournal. Though the community has a somewhat harsh reputation and the fact that you can't reapply might seem intimidating, it's definitely worth a shot. This is one of the friendliest, most tight-knit communities on LJ with a ton of activities for members, and active ones at that, that make competitions competitive.
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Jan. 1st, 2007

delused

TV Show // Drama // Nip/Tuck











Sean McNamara and Christian Troy are two plastic surgeons running a partnership in Miami, Florida with different issues to life. Sean is a wishy-washy, weak-kneed, family man who distances himself with work to avoid his dysfunctional home life which includes his needy and spiteful wife Julia, his rebellious teenage son Matt and young daughter Annie. The more slicker Christian is an arrogant, narcissistic, unethical, ladies man who worships wine, women, and the all mighty dollar, and will do just about anything to get what he wants (lie, cheat, steal, blackmail and seduce)and has no qualms about practically anything.


Season One
Season Two
Season Three

Look for Season Four coming out... eventually.
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delused

Book // Bildungsroman (coming of age) // The Catcher in the Rye











Since his debut in 1951 as The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield has been synonymous with "cynical adolescent." Holden narrates the story of a couple of days in his sixteen-year-old life, just after he's been expelled from prep school, in a slang that sounds edgy even today and keeps this novel on banned book lists. It begins,


"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them."


His constant wry observations about what he encounters, from teachers to phonies (the two of course are not mutually exclusive) capture the essence of the eternal teenage experience of alienation.


The Catcher in the Rye

Dec. 31st, 2006

delused

Writer // Poet // T.S. Eliot

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot (1888–1965) Prufrock and Other Observations - 1917


S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
  A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
  Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
  Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
  Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
  Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.





LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.


In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.


In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?


And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
  And how should I presume?


And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…


I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all.”


And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.


I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.


Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.


I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.


We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


(Best poem ever.)
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delused

Artist // Contemporary // Ross Bleckner





Ross Bleckner


(One of the only contemporary artists I admire.)

Dec. 30th, 2006

delused

Artist // Photographer // Michal Chelbin




Michal Chelbin

delused

Editorial // The Washington Post // Fuzzy and Harriet

Before initiating the writing of a newspaper column in which the implementation of a plan of humor is to be effectuated, the prioritization of goal-oriented objectives is warranted so as to rhetorically establish, by effective utilization of satirical example, that Harriet Miers writes this way.


She does. Harriet would have been a very scary Supreme Court justice, but not for the reasons that doomed her. Much was made of her religious convictions, her lightweight constitutional background, and her high regard for George W. Bush -- her admiration of his intellect, her support for his conservative policies, her willingness to do his laundry, etc. But her writing was especially instructive. Did you see it? Her prose makes an apartment lease read like Hemingway. She is windier than Katrina, wordier than Roget, blander than a Perry Como-Barry Manilow duet. In the passive voice are written all her sentences, and they are as convoluted as Einstein's brain. And yet for all this jargonized verbiage, she never quite gets to the, you know.


Here is an actual quote from one of Harriet's legal articles:


"We have to understand and appreciate that achieving justice for all is in jeopardy before a call to arms to assist in obtaining support for the justice system will be effective."


Here's another:


"An organization must also implement programs to fulfill strategies established through its goals and mission . . . With the framework of mission, goals, strategies, programs, and methods for evaluation in place, a meaningful budgeting process can begin."


Now, I'm not saying that you have to be a great writer to be a Supreme Court justice, but clarity helps. Brevity, too. Imagine the decisions that would have been written by a Justice Miers:


Brown v. Board of Education , as written by Chief Justice Earl Warren:


"We conclude that, in the field of public education, the doctrine of 'separate but equal' has no place. Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal."


Brown v. Board of Education , as written by Harriet Miers:


"We conclude that, in the field of public education, it


cannot be contended that what fails to be non-separate can be construed to be not unequal. In facilitating facilities-planning, it is essential that educational institutions that lack un-identical facilities and faculties are inconsistent with what is not undesirable, so help us God."


- - -


This is not unimportant stuff. The fact is, history pivots on clarity. Imagine Nathan Hale, on the gallows, summarizing eloquently and succinctly the emotional commitment that united the colonists in their battle to be recognized as a free and independent state. Imagine how it must have energized the faithful when news of his brave final words spread:


"I regret that I have but one life to give for my country."


Now imagine Harriet, with equal bravery and equally noble intent, on those same gallows:


"It is indeed regrettable, under circumstances such as those in which we find ourselves, that, having been afforded an opportunity to articulate such thoughts, ruminations, postulations and explanatory remarks as might be appropriate considering the exigencies of the gaaack . . ."


I'm sorry the nomination was pulled, because wouldn't it have been great if, in an effort to save her, she got some writing advice from the man whom she declared "brilliant," her mentor, George W. Bush? Whatever his flaws, it can never be argued that George, in his tireless fight against evildoers and enemies of freedom, makes things seem more complicated than they are.


Imagine being a fly on the wall during the instructional sessions:


George: Harriet, your writing needs to more simplificationalized.


Harriet: But, George, sometimes the contextualization that is necessitated by complexities of situational options and nuanced subtleties of interpretation requires modes of expression that are not incompatible with the failure to not communicate with occasional ambiguities.


George: Harriet, Harriet, Harriet. Speaking with clearness and simplitude are one of the most important tenants of a free society. "Tenants" is a word that means "principles."


Harriet: I don't understand. Regarding the things to which I am addressing myself, I fail to discern a lack of precision of language, expression, contention or argument.


George: No, no, no! There you go again, overexplanificating.


-----


P.S. Harriet's withdrawal letter contains this line: "I have decided that seeking my confirmation should yield."


Fuzzy and Harriet by Gene Weingarten, The Washington Post staff. (Perhaps the best editorial in the world.)

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