the worst: RIP vaclav havel and christopher hitchens. if i could revise my answer from earlier this week regarding, “who is your dream dinner guest?”, i’d change it from cameron crowe to vaclav havel. the guardian does a solid, worthwhile obituary.
and on a lighter note … some of the best of aspen (extreme)
DM [upon arrival at the hotel]: so what do you guys want to do now? sit ups?
DM: i’m gonna go show the other girls [this revolutionary idea of wearing a tunic as a dress]. i bet they won’t even know what to do. they’re probably going to poop.
CD:’ bone bruise’? say ‘contusion’, sounds much more serious.
more serious that these shorts i had to wear to get that contusion diagnosed? impossible. so i failed to juxtapose a pen or something to emphasize the size below, but note what these shorts are sitting on. the medical bed. they cover more than the width of a medical bed.
UCLA student Chris Jeon bought a one-way ticket to Cairo two weeks ago, telling his parents he was going on a tame little vaycay. Then — like a man on a motherfucking mission — Jeon made his way to the heart of foreign unrest: He’s currently in a town called An Nawfaliyah, on the road to Tripoli.
Apparently the UC Regents budget-cut walkouts weren’t cutting it for Jeon, on the rebellion meter: “It is the end of my summer vacation, so I thought it would be cool to join the rebels,” he told an Australian reporter from The National, clearly floored to find an Asian-American dude in an L.A. basketball jersey out in the middle of the desert…
“How do you fire this thing?” he asked on Wednesday as a bearded rebel handed him an AK-47. Locating the trigger of the assault rifle and switching off the safety, Mr Jeon fired it in the air in two short bursts.
“I want to fight in Sirte!” he proclaimed, using hand gestures and pointing west towards Sirte.
Whether the rebels understood him was far from clear. “It’s hard to communicate. I don’t really speak any Arabic,” he said.
Oh, and here’s the reason Jeon didn’t buy a return ticket (though he does still plan to graduate in May, being the shruggishly optimistic dude he is): “If I get captured or something, I don’t want to waste another $800.”
:: via ::
forget all serious commentary on the implied price-to-book of an $800 one-way ticket to death, on the restless generation, on why gen y can’t stop won’t stop fabricating causes and cares, on the pure crazytown that is this kid. instead let’s focus on what he is wearing (fashion over function till i die):
just Look at this Fucking Hoopster. i suppose it ventilates well, but boy does he stick out like bright blue hoopster on an otherwise khaki horizon.
pre-random walk: holy land. armed to the teeth. hummus & falafel. bombs. boundaries. beards. birth right.
all day // 37 degrees in celsius times 9/5+ 32 is… seven times 9 divided by five carry the one is uhhh f’king hot in fahrenheit. the most awkward moment in joke-telling history: M’s interjection of ‘I’M SO HORNY’ in the midst of his own. our petra guide takes a donkey ride back to the entrance while we sweat out the 40 minute stroll. found: worst job in the world — horse poop sweeper at petra. 40? 14. ONE FOUR. we are your allies; we give you weapons. it is what it is. since you made us late. thx. choiceless choice. what is your jerusalem? free shots, free hookah, free girls. hitching taxi rider. guns & moses. jesus christ…oh hey! trying on five outfits to find one that covers the knees yet maximizes ventilation…hey does amazon have four-hour shipping? two people per ATV? is this travelmba’s rogue operation? the ear-devouring couple couched at the toy club in jerusalem. uncomfortably warm dead sea float. is something burning? J said it is because you are dirty. this israeli kebab appears remarkably similar to your order of meatballs. stray skeletal cats. are you trying to pronounce something in hebrew or snotting /clearing your throat? wakey wakey. here’s the situation you know my motivation given my reputation. a canvas bag of hat and map: the gift that kept on giving (us fits). there’s wifi here? this conversation just ended. finding somewhere, anywhere to sit — be it planter, stray concrete block, window ledge — during the old city tour. airport security imagining a a sonicare toothbrush used to detonate a series of carefully placed iPads in plane cabins. the pat[&]down. would it be too nerdy to start a count off? mcshits and shoddy chinese mall food. who parks a massive bus in a winding mall parking lot? should i bring these chips? but then i have to share. no american rejects an offer of chex mix. < 25 hours of sleep (in beds, i.e. not counting that achieved on transportation or while standing with shades down as our guide spoke / insulted passersby). the couple that joined the holocaust museum tour and answered J’s questions. crying kids, thermostat at freezing plus one, and u cant touch this asymptotes on the plane ride back. lev said good morning?! he must be drunk. holy land. armed to the teeth. hummus & falafel. bombs. boundaries. beards. birth right // all night
below, better than ambien — the soundtrack that lulled me to sleep on every bus ride:
girl talk – triple double
radiohead – reckoner
the national – patterns of fairytales
the xx – intro
the velvet underground – all tomorrow’s parties
lotions, bomb juices, “I silently name the big one Pat and the even bigger one Down”, shimmy, shimmy shitballs, i’m calling it early: this is the greatest email ever.
unfortunately for you, reader, i’ve been listening to shitballs sand shit tons of the dropkick murphys lately (not surprising, given my ability to time travel at the moment). so because i imagined the entire debacle happening to this beantown soundtrack, i interrupt your reading beat with the songs in my head as suggested below.
From: CL (via MR)
Date: Mon, Jul 18, 2011 at 11:07 AM
Subject: The Female
Taking a cab to O’Hare airport worked surprisingly well this morning. However…
Good thing I got here early!
After waiting in the I-need-some-free-bread-in-the-depression-era length security line, I get to stand in the 3-D xray photobooth of awesomeness and Assume The Position. Fun! Well, a little too fun because the second they are done scanning me an entire security SQUAD descends upon me.
“I’m sorry ma’am but we need to have you step aside here while we call the female manager for your pat down.”
When the special women finally arrive I REALLY have to try not to look gleeful. They are massive. Huge. They must bench press sides of beef back there while they wait for pierced Females with moisturized hands to wander unsuspectingly through security. I silently name the big one Pat and the even bigger one Down.
A member of my security squad (we’ll call him Security Sam) heaps my things into his arms (“DO NOT touch your belongings ma’am”) and we trundle off like baby ducks who have been imprinted on two Texas steers.
The small rooms are made of some kind of industrial plexi and the whole section shakes when Pat throws open the door to Room #1 and performs a surprisingly dainty side stepping maneuver through the tiny entrance. I scooch inside after her and Sam follows, placing my things on a mini metal operating table. At this point Down wedges herself partially into the doorway and stops.
“Shitballs” she mumbles, lifting one arm and shimmying a little.
Can we just take a moment here to review the required official procedure for a full private pat-down? Apparently for The Female security risk there must be two female agents in the room, one to do the actual patting and the other to swab the belongings for more bomb juices. There cannot be a male security official in the room.
At least I am assuming this because Sam wants OUT. But it’s clear that he doesn’t know what to do now since Down seems to be really quite well stuck in the little plexi doorway. Sam hasn’t quite caught on to the fact that she’s immobile though, so he makes an ‘oh no, after YOU’ motion towards the inside of The Room. His gesture is pretty futile though as it has become apparent to everyone that all four of us will NOT fit into a cube of this volume at the same time. Down rearranges some guns or flashlights on her massive security belt and finally rockets herself back out into the world. Sam, mortified and relieved, escapes at high velocity as well.
It takes Down the ENTIRE time that Pat is explaining every little detail of the procedure to noisily smash herself all the way in through the tiny opening.
“…on the sensitive areas I will use the backs of my hands…”
She’s in folks! Procedure time! After all that the pat-down goes quickly and smoothly and I take my things and book it out of there. I made it to my gate just in time and I am now on the Tarmac in Boston. Mission accomplished.
I just hope that Pat and Down are not still stuck in that tiny plexi room.
Pierced, moisturized, and fully searched,
Sent from my iPhone.