“I’m in the computer animation department,” Shu said.
“So what does that mean – just drawings?”
“Yeah drawings,” Shu said. “Programming.”
“That’s very interesting,” Tan-Lin said. “They should make a movie about that. All those animators, those offices with all those young men. I’m sure there are a lot of dramas. Don’t they do animation in Singapore, California?”
“Nothing happens,” said Shu. He had spent, he told them, six months animating a thirty second video of a cat which he had posted to his sister’s facebook wall and then, you know, never heard anything.
“A cat?” Tan-lin said. “That’s fabulous. Do you know cats are the smartest animals on earth?”
“I thought dolphins were,” said Xiao Fei.
“Cats are healers,” Tan-lin said. “They’re mind readers.”
John Titor is the name used on several bulletin boards during 2000 and 2001 by a poster claiming to be a time traveler from the year 2036. In these posts he made numerous predictions (a number of them vague, some quite specific) about events in the near future, starting with…
Whenever someone mentions Olivia Wilde — you know, that most beautiful woman in the world — I think of the cartoonishness of childhood, of being on the bus to tennis practice behind her and Zoe in the eighth grade and listening to her coach another girl — Sidney, maybe — about the right height on your back to wear bra straps. I can see only my feet, at this instance — too large, ungainly in the bright new shoes my mother bought at the outlet mall. I don’t make the team that year — or I get put as a number three doubles and anyway, I quit. And I quit everything else that would ever make you into the person that she becomes. I try and tell myself that all of those other girls are married cosmetic counter saleswomen but then… there’s Tron. And you wonder. And you hate yourself. And it’s back to the bus with you, to that plastic smell of sweaty seating and self-pity, those suburban graveyards of Virginia at sunset as you’re driving back from Episcopal toward your silent family and the math homework and your Ikea desk and the cats and all of that dumb life that fills the edges of things and has nothing to do with square jawlines, sundance, tron.
Hengdian World Studios is the largest film studio in the world. It is located in Hengdian, a village of Dongyang county in Zhejiang Province. The movie studio is operated by the privately-owned Hengdian Group founded by a farmer turned millionaire Xu Wenrong. Sometimes called “Chinawood”, Xu turned acres of farmland in central Zhejiang into one of the largest movie studio in Asia. Construction began in the mid 1990’s and have been ongoing ever since with the possible recent addition of the replica of the Old Summer Palace.
The studio consists of 13 shooting bases with a total area of up to 330 ha. and building areas of 49,5995 square meters. In addition to its huge scale, the studio also has several records which includes:
Largest Indoor Buddha Figure in China.
Largest Scale Indoor Studio.
Most number of Films and Teleplay Shoots as of 2005.
I had a dream that we met with Lorrie Moore and she showed us around. “These are my slaughterhouse novels,” she said, grazing a finger along a shelf. I asked Kate what the hell those were and she explained, “They’re all terrible. For the imprint Slaughterhouse. They killed the writers who didn’t perform.” It seems Moore survived but that she didn’t do well under pressure.
"Oh," I said.
All the novels had Western cowboy covers: Dude Ranch signs, tumbleweeds.
University of Minnesota Alumni Association <email@example.com>hide details 6:59 PM (3 hours ago)
Thursday, October 28, 2010 - RSVP by October 21
5:00 p.m. Registration 5:30 - 7:30 p.m. Program & Dinner McNamara Alumni Center, Memorial Hall
Do you know which fork is for your salad? Where do you place your napkin when leaving the table? Should you tell someone they have food in their teeth?
Join students and alumni to enjoy a three-course meal by D’Amico while learning how to professionally handle any dining situation. Space is limited. Register by Thursday, October 21 at www.MinnesotaAlumni.org/etiquette.
Making Auntie Anne’s organic mac & cheese with soy milk is REALLY FUCKED UP
I once started making it and realized that I had no milk at all, so I mixed the juice/oil from a small jar of artichoke hearts (and the hearts themselves) with the pasta and cheese powder. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t mac & cheese.
interesting. i feel like we tried to think outside the box while making something that came in a box, and for that we should be lauded. for me, the cheese powder just lumped in the watery milk and never truly combined. i added butter and it was a little better — but the butter was just like a halfway house for the powder and the powder and the butter floated in their sad little safetyzones through the hardscrabble city of the soy milk. i ended up draining it and putting some olive oil & garlic.
I saw this band open for Pavement on Sunday night. And maybe it’s just tough to open for Pavement. But they were lacking. It was like there was a German dude in a high button-up on synths, a grunge dude from the ’90s on guitar, and the frontman from ’08s hot Muslims / Soft Pack on drums. Everyone kept trying to dance to it but it was just too gurgly — like when you mix all the watercolors in the paintbox thinking you’ll get jet black but instead it’s poopy green.
I am the most annoying person on Tumblr right now because I’m not in New York, and either:
A. Everything I write is like, a justification of why I left New York and I come off as defensive
B. People in New York don’t like to admit that other places have fun cool things and I come off braggy
C. I post really long boring fiction excerpts that are like, the thing I just wrote for a structure/plot/subtext class.
… But anyway, I feel like my tumblr is just like, innapropriate now that I don’t go on Google Reader everyday.
This is all a segue to the fact that I really wanted to post an example of how kickass my MFA program is. Today we made a Facebook page for a dead fish that the department tried to serve us in social hour. This is the kind of zany, grass-roots, no-good-reason, no-competition creativity that I had been lacking in my adult life and anyway, yeah, I felt embarrassed telling China stories about how fish, heads on, are served there, plated with parsley and writhing.
Elise knew of the Burnett’s Tree Farm only what she had seen from Glenbourne road. During the summer, the place was no more than a dry scratch of red fencing around a forest. Where the land sloped down to meet the road, you could watch the trees ticking off, row-after-row, as you drove by. There was a weathered shed – painted in candy-stripe – and she remembered standing there in line with her father who had only let go of her mitten to pay the man. Years went by when they did not buy a Christmas tree – her mother had become economical, had bought a plastic one which smelled dully of windex and nylon stockings – and so she did not go back until just after her father had died. It was the last week of November. His sister — a shrill, thin woman who Elise could not remember being silent until now – had pulled Elise along to her rental car to run a few errands and get the anxious, prying girl out of the house. The aunt pulled over at the farm, nearly missing the exit – spraying gravel as she tried to make the turn too tightly. The place was quiet. There had been a lanky boy behind the register, reading a novel, and she had said nothing but stared at the swirl of purple writing on the cover: The Magic Kingdom. “Do you have anything like wreaths?” the aunt said, as she dug through her purse for a cigarette. “Well, we have wreaths,” said the boy, still holding his book. “Those are like wreaths.” They went home with a wreath, studded with white flowers. It took up nearly the whole backseat and made the car smell so strongly that the aunt had said, “I don’t think the rental Nazis will smell this.” She lit a cigarette with one hand as she drove with the other. She had meant to bring the wreath to the cemetery, to lie it on the coffin, but she had left it behind. And so it hung on Elise and her mother’s apartment door at the wake, and for days after, and for weeks after until it turned yellow in the February sun and the wood of the branches dried and dropped their needles all over the front stoop, and Mr. Shirley from next door swept them off while Elise watched from her bedroom window, ducking when he looked up.
inspiring quotes for my multicultural lit students!
Just lesson plannin’!
"I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone."
— Rainer Maria Rilke
"The function of freedom is to free someone else."
— Toni Morrison
"You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive."
Minneapolis has a book club where everyone gets drunk called Books & Bars, and the authors that are visiting this semester are Joan Didion, James Salter, Ian Frazier, Antonya Nelson, Dan Chaon, Gary Shteyngart, and less big names. Just bragging.
On the long, yellow couch, Mrs. Burnett was sitting up straight, like a dark exclamation mark, when Elise came in. It was late afternoon. Light edged around the living room shades. Beneath the blare of the cartoons playing on the old television set, you could hear the wash of the highway through the trees. She could always go back.
“You’re looking for Todd?” Mrs. Burnett asked. Her voice seemed impossibly small. The old woman had a face made of drooping circles: paunchy cheeks, the swish of a gullet beneath her chin, and bags under her eyes as if coal had smudged there. Her hair was pulled into a taut bun, and her black dress had a high, tight collar with a gently scalloped edge. Her hands were clasped around her black skirt – pulling at eachother – but she pulled them apart, as though about to rise.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Elise said, scraping her dish off into the bin.
“You would have to give up some things though,” her mother said. “Some of those – some of your clubs.”
“They don’t matter,” Elise said. “I’d rather work.”
“You don’t like the kids much at your school anyway,” her mother said. “I mean – think of it as an excuse to get away.”
“I will,” she said, looking up at the reflection of her mother’s face in the window. Night had turned the kitchen window to a mirror. They both stood, very close together at the sink, their elbows grazing lightly. She saw how her mother looked down into a clean plate – her dull, absent gaze as she searched for spots.
She knew of the Burnetts only what she had seen from Glenbourne road, which bi-sected the farm whose wooden arch was inscribed with their name. During the summer, it was just a dry scratch of red fencing that ran around a forest. Where the land sloped down to meet the road, you could watch the trees ticking off, row-after-row as you drove by. There was a weathered shed – painted in candy-stripe – and she remembered standing there in line with her father who only let go of her mitten to pay the man.
Years went by when they did not buy a Christmas tree – her mother had become economical, had bought a plastic one from K-Mart, which smelled dully of windex and nylon stockings – and so she did not go back until her father had died.
He died in November and his his sister — a shrill, thin woman who Elise could not remember being silent until now – had pulled Elise to come with her in her rental car, to run a few errands and get the girl out of the house. The aunt pulled over at the farm, nearly missing the exit – spraying gravel as she tried to make the turn too tightly. It was just after Thanksgiving and the place was quiet. There had been a lanky boy behind the register, reading a novel. The name of the book, she remembered had been The Magic Kingdom, and she had said nothing but stared at the swirl of purple writing on the cover.
“Do you have any thing like wreaths?” the aunt said, as she dug through her purse for a cigarette.
“Well, we have wreaths,” said the boy, still holding his book. “Those are like wreaths.”
They went home with a wreath, studded with white flowers. It took up nearly the whole backseat and made the rental car smell so strongly that the aunt said, “I don’t think the rental Nazis will smell this,” and lit a cigarette with one hand as she drove with another. She had meant to bring the wreath to the cemetery, to throw it on the coffin, but she had left it behind. And so it hung on her and her mother’s apartment door at the wake, and for the days after, and for the weeks after until it turned yellow in the February sun and the wood of the wound branches dried and dropped their needles all over the front stoop, and Mr. Shirley from next door swept them off while Elise watched from her bedroom window, ducking when he looked up.
"The kind of criteria or ideal I set up as writing was that for anybody who fanned through the book and put their finger down on a single word, every word is concrete. Concrete nouns and verbs. No abstract language. Everything that was abstract in the novel had to be embodied concretely. That was the only way I would be able to write in to abstract subjects and not have the book turn into pseudo-philosophical essay expository prose. It’s still a novel, it has to be dramatically presented. There had to be a tangibility to it." — Harding
I just sobbed at the end of Tinkers. An uncontrollable two minute sob.
They were re-paving some streets in Bushwick — around the intersection of George & Wilson streets, where my boyfriend (and Ted Gordon) live.
A roomate asked a city worker why they were repaving — it had been pothole scarred for years. Was it federal stimulus funding? Nope. “There’s a Zooey Deschanel movie filming around here, the guy said.”
NEW YORK IS REPAVING ITS STREETS FOR THE INDIE QUEEN.