You know, I used to get annoyed at those friends who’d delete their Facebook accounts.
Only to re-friend request me a week later.
To be fair, I had a right to. Most of the time – for them – it was preceded by a whole long status update tantamount to a social media “Goodbye Cruel World” note. (“So long! I’m off to the infinite abyss of not sharing my life online! It looks a lot like 2003! Or whenever Zuck met the Captain America Row clones”)
But now, I’m kinda seeing the appeal in rebooting your whole profile every so often. There’s admittedly a kind of nostalgia that I get whenever I start looking through the memories I’ve made through the years. The partying I used to do. The friends I’ve drifted away from. Holidays. Selfies I don’t recall taking. And it seems like too much work to filter that – or my old posts with thoughts I don’t still believe or venting I had no idea would eventually vex my future self. But I'm starting to get how all'a that's not worth the pleasure that might come from throwing a Molotov cocktail at your online profile.
Especially when yet another creepy Facebook feature’s coming up:
Not just for leisurely stalking old interactions with ease, this feature will make for an excellent “he said-she said” tool during relationship arguments and cyclical online debates which go absolutely nowhere except an infinite derisive vacuum with no victor. That “graph” thing is bad enough – and I was kinda waiting for the day this would happen. But the idea that even the things on which you’ve tapped a “like” button can be made accessible is unsettling, also. I mindlessly do that. If it made me laugh – however dark or morbid it was – you, sir, will likely get a like from me in the form of an iconic thumbs-up.
Right before I have to go explain myself to a prospective employer like a kid sent to the principle’s office, totally not expecting to get pinned for throwing wads of wet toilet tissue at the ceiling of the girls toilet. The rebuttal I hear to this is, “Lots of complaints about a FREE service, here.” Yeah, it’s a free service. No monetary charge. But money isn’t the only currency there is. I prefer the level of privacy I mistakenly thought I was being granted when I signed up. Me making that mistake was built into the fine print, I suppose. But if I have to sacrifice privacy right down to the “like” button is it really free?
A rhetorical inquiry which begs the self-directed one - why do I keep it, then?
So, who'll re-add me when I blow up my profile Durden style and start over?
If you've heard of "holographic universe" theory, it may've left you a bit...
Honestly, I didn't quite "get" this Matrix-y idea the first time around and it's still a bit vague for my little brain. But, simplified, it's this complicated theory about the concept that black holes might keep information they suck in (not destroy it) and how our whole reality is being projected back out at us from the edge of the universe. Like virtual reality. On a mystical level, this is something I resonate with – the whole “reality is an illusion” thing. You can’t define what you have to perceive. So, perception’s never “real” in the “still exists when you’re not looking at it” way. Like – how something’s not “red” unless your eyeballs play photon ping pong and send it to your brain. This is the perception illusion. And I’m fine with it - when science isn’t making progress that'd maybe allow them to hack it like a computer.
But that’s exactly what they’re attempting - trying to determine if all our universal blueprints are just shoved into itty bitty packets across two dimensions. In other words, the theory is that we’re all just pixels looking at pixels from far enough away that the whole image looks like HD instead of amateur porn filmed on a flip phone. If you get close enough to the screen, though, you can see those pixels close up – and those little boxes of light are meant to represent space.
Just how close would I have to get to the “screen”, though?
Um, well you know how small an atom is?
The “pixel size” of space is thought to be 10 trillion trillion times smaller than that.
Hard to conceive of a scale so small.
So hard, that I assume that's why they called it the Planck scale - because specializing in this realm of physics is like walking the plank off your enjoy-life-while-you’re-part-of-it ship. It takes a special kind of man to spend his nine to five being perpetually on the verge of cracking the code to reality – and then going home to enjoy the simplicity of driving cross country with the family or enjoying a sunset unhindered by an anxiety filter of existential ruminations.
Says Craig Hogan, of Fermilab’s Center for Particle Astrophysics, “We want to find out whether space-time is a quantum system just like matter is.” Hogan, who also came up with the whole holographic noise theory added, “If we see something, it will completely change ideas about space we’ve used for thousands of years.”
So, of all the “what are the implications?” and “how do we hack reality?” questions, what everyone really wants to know about is the thing that drives us to do anything while alive – fear of the old inevitable expiration date? What happens when my info-bits kick the bucket in this holographic universe? Everyone else seems to wonder this as well – in fact I read some very interesting commentary about holographic heaven, hell, purgatory, and so on. But if perception is the only reality we get, that means I get to decide - right? So, I'd much prefer reaching holographic moksha where I'm just floating in nothingness bliss than either of those options. Still - just in case there's no spiritual holy element to my screen-light's demise - I've got a two-point back up plan:
1. Go to the "free download" section of Black Hole Google.
2. Reinstall me for free.
Depressed about summer vacation being over?
Why not book a vacay to Switzerland – and kill yourself? #twofer
Indeed, Swiss assisted suicide’s been legal since the 40’s and then they made it a whole business around the 1998 when a company in Zurich called Dignitas was formed. And while there are a few states here in my home country that allow it (Oregon, Vermont, New Mexico, and Washington) and in other countries intrigued in other-side traveling, they’re a little more relaxed about their rules over there.
Thus, an onslaught of “suicide tourism” (sounds like some weird museum the Smithsonian would set up here in D.C.), led people into the welcoming arms of Dignitas who helped the folk get dead if they liked. Here at home, we do that picture up above - a tongue-in-cheek, aptly named method called EXIT but you really have to jump through hoops of red tape to pass their criteria. People inhale helium from a drawn sac wrapped round their head and go permanent night night, sans panic.
(Looks like Jimmy got some bad shit in his kit.)
But if that’s not your bag (#zing), you might try the foreign way – which is ingesting sodium pentobarbital.
Mmmkay. Two, very obvious points on a-Swiss-ted suicide:
First, of course I want the barbituates if I’m gonna die anyway. Duh.
Second, of course of-course I wanna do it in Switzerland. Why die in the same old place that made you wanna die?
You know, I get this practice completely. It’s easy to finger point at the depressed or pain-riddled alike if you’ve never suffered the kind of misery that wakes you up in the middle of the night to a straightjacket of panic, pain, or both. In these moments, “worth living for” seems like such a faraway, fantastical living-in-a-black-hole-outside-my-universe style inaccessible concept, that yes – death seems like the only option. For someone who experiences this not as fleeting sad moments but a baton pass of punishment every second they’re awake, that’s far worse. I may not be able to sympathize what it’s like going through a terminal illness, perpetual agony, and a life where moments of relief and consciousness are mutually exclusive experiences – but I understand enough to say “to each his own.”
That said, this does bring to mind that movie "The Guitar" - where a woman diagnosed with terminal illness throws the finger at a stringent and structured life, maxes out her credit cards, eats like a queen, and buys a nice guitar to start making music - all in the solitude of her apartment. In the end, her terminal disease magically disappears. It's just as Hollywood as Hepburn, but we've all heard these miracle tales come true, haven't we?
So, I wonder how many people who’ve never traveled overseas (Hi ) before their auto-destruct program started running, go and book their one way ticket, land at their “final” destination, notice how fcking beautiful the rest of the world is, and say “Eff this, I’mma steal as much oxygen of this this planet as I can before I’m evicted.”
("Wait - this was part of the package?
Can I reschedule my appointment with Dr. Kevorkian?
What's that? $50 cancellation fee?
Oh, alright... I'll come on in...")
BTW - I'm totes gonna start saying, "Time for a Swiss holiday!" whenever life sucks.
'cause laughing at my own jokes always reminds me how hilarious and needed here I am.
Anyone else ever see the “Solaris” remake?
I’m going to hope-assume you all did. 'cause this:
Although this film's in my top faves, every time I see it, I think:
1: This soundtrack is awesome.
2: How (while orbiting a conscious planet with psychic powers) does George Clooney maintain the perfect amount of mug fuzz?
3: I suppose I could have used his other outer space flick “Gravity” to introduce this topic. But I didn’t. Because its soundtrack wasn’t nearly as good. Moving on.
Apparently I’m not the only one who wonders how our courageous cosmonauts keep it sexy while suspended in the darker parts of the infinite vacuum in which we reside. Because when I consulted my information guru, Google, I came up with the following:
Somehow, this didn’t fulfill the masculine montage of chiseled-chin fantasy that was previously unraveling in my head.
Instead, it just spurred a more insatiable need to pry into all the other little details of their lives while levitating. It’s that whole “One does not simply send a sexy text photo” rule. I’m going to need the full dick pic-esque ablution rundown routine from you guys, recorded and beamed back to me, cam to cam style. From toe nail clipping to barber shopping and face scrubbing, I’m having to imagine Pennywise engulfed in a space suit, holding a bobbing balloon he blew up himself (because non-gravity, duh) and saying “UP heeeere, they allll float.” Maybe that's because it is kinda terrifying.
Can you imagine breathing in someone’s nutsack follicles while you sleep?
Luckily, our brave men and women predicted my intrigue needs ahead of time (obviously because I donate to space causes like telescopes), and thusly directed a series of videos to serve as celestial yes-ands to the above clip on clipping your face fur.
Like hair washing:
(Glad to see Nurse Jackie found a new way to get high #zing #shelooksjustlikeher.)
Or crying yourself to sleep when you’re alone with your thoughts and regretting ever having watched Sagan as a kid because if you hadn’t you wouldn’t be up here in a floating prison questioning your entire existence and slowly descending into madness.
I think I was wondering more, "will my tear duct explode in the process?"
But A+ for nice end-line of “tears don’t fall”. What else you got, shawty?
Oooh… Guitar? Clooney or not, having a musician around while catching a case of cosmo cabin fever would probably result in some bow chicka wow-... Okay. I can't keep up this facade of pretending to be attracted to Sam Elliot or his 'stache (even though NASA status does automatically land you sexy points). But sex (not buttsex - too messy) in microgravity was something I also tried to hunt down footage of long ago, and came up short. So far, it's been mostly speculation about whether it happens (duh, of course it does – where do you think the brand “AstroGlide” came from?)
What I did find, though, was this excrement hoover:
Ahem… Interesting. Sorry, but even Clooney couldn’t make toilet sitting be cute or sexy or-
I can admit when I'm wrong:
A. I think I'll go watch the Hollywood lie version again so I can pretend I never saw these.
B. WaterCloset-gate was in 2008? I had to check the video date twice.
C. Jesus, I'm old.
A 56-year-old Indian woman? Fighting off an attacking leopard? With a sickle?
(Yes. That's a tiger. Well done, nitpick Nancy.)
As much as I love animals, I adore a good story about self-defense ass kicking.
I immediately thought of Dorothy cuffing Tinman’s axe and slaying all the lions, tigers, and bears closing in on them like Uma Thurman with the Crazy 88 – culminating in an end-scene, final warrior pose in a pool of blood, an audience of her three stunned friends and dog, and no sound but the adrenalized breath coming in waves through her flared nostrils.
(Right? We all share my very specific Walter Mitty fantasy version here?)
Homegirl (formal name Kamal Devi) was already pretty kick-ass in that she was a widowed mom in her fifties, working hard in the fields to feed what was left of her family. She had no way of knowing that in the middle of carrying some water home, her mundane daily labor-slaving would suddenly morph into a leopard-slaying fight to the death that lasted (for around the same length as an actual Tarantino battle scene) half a fluffing hour. Are you kidding? In this real life Tom and Jerry standoff, she kept hatcheting away at the bastard with her sickle and it kept coming on after her, refusing to surrender its kill, until she finally got enough of an upper hand to take him down.
“I thought I was dead but I did not lose patience and courage,” she told reporters from the hospital bed where she was being treated for multiple bites and fractures.
In the end, this supermom landed herself two fractures on one of her hands, a break in the other, and about one stitch for every year she’s spent alive – but not before smashing the motherclucker’s chompers out and bloodily limping to the next village to seek a bit of help for her eventful morning's war wounds.
But there’s one comment of information from a villager I feel to be the most relevant in this tale: “It was around 10 in the morning when she went to the field. A leopard pounced on her.”
Morning? Ah, suddenly this showdown becomes far more relatable and believable. Bish was going on that old familiar pre-caffeinated wrath fuel. I give zero fckks if you’re a grizzly bear or a telemarketer – if it’s my-coffee-hasn’t-kicked-in-yet o’clock and I’ve got to go to work and ya come at me, bro… you’re gonna have a bad time. And by bad time, I mean leave this fight minus a few body parts that I’ll later drape around my neck like gory Yurman warning signs just daring anyone else to try the same.
"No, really! I mean it. Gotta replace this one anyway. Starting to smell."
Still - thirty minutes? On no coffee? I so wouldn't last.
In the end, I kinda feel the same way about the Indian badass chick as I did with that video of the guy interfering with that real-time NatGeo mantis trying to kill a hummingbird. By excessively porking eachother, we've overpopulated and encroached on things like leopard land. That sucks and needs to change 'cause they were there first. But the thing is, most of us didn't sign up to be born - but we do kinda wanna avoid dying when the threat's real. So things like "I'd like not to be eaten" tend to trump "what a lovely creature who deserves to live more than I" when the playing field's suddenly equal and you're in the ring with a wild beast. The apex predator wins. The winner gets to live. This leopard didn't win.
Which leaves us with only one question.
When is Katy Perry going to reenact this for us live? Like the video?
I always love a good Frank Abernathy story.
Ya know - the dude who impersonated pilots? And doctors? And got lotsa arse?
(Does he really say "Pam" in the movie?)
Either way, Frank fortunately had a penchant for the kinda girls who don't care what the difference between a "Pam" or "Pan" American flight is - and was equally smooth enough to slide by colleagues unnoticed. I suppose that idea of slipping into another identity and being able to fool everyone around you was made appealing to me when Christina Applegate’s “Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead” character did it. So, seeing little news tales hither and thither about people being exposed after doing major life fakeouts that get ‘em in trouble, always brings a slight smile to my face.
If it's well done and if there’s a meaningful motive behind it.
When there’s not, it just ends up making me feel sad inside for humanity (unless they fail and die in the process, of course #genepoolcleanup). But we all make stupid decisions sometimes, right? So in the spirit of setting the “here’s what not to do” examples, let’s look at some faker folks who shot a bit lower than manning iron birds through the clouds or cutting stuff outta people with zero credentials.
Like the runaway groom, for instance.
Dude fakes his own death pre-wedding in a "Don't Tell Mom" scheme of his own - where he pretended he'd perished to get out of marriage. But he should've told mom, because when his ex-fiance called the family to offer condolences and see when the funeral was, she had a total descending horn womp-womp moment hearing from his parents he was alive and well. Embarrassing - although I suppose it'd be better to give up the fib than spending the rest of your life hiding out and dodging ex-y when you see her.
Plus the cold feet/cold shoulder debacle wasn't nearly as embarrassing as it was for another dude - also in the UK - who told his girlfriend he'd been kidnapped. The aim? To carry on partying with his pals. What's going on, Englishmen? To be fair, I hear the weather over there tends to be dismal. That's gotta affect your sanity and relationships little bit, right? (#reaching). Plus, in the dude's defense, the lie itself was poorly done because he was drunk - the worst time to fabricate effectively. But since alcohol was the reason for the lie (he wanted to keep going), he had limited wits with which to work. And when he told the fib to his girlfriend about “being kidnapped” and that the kidnappers “wanted a 50 pound ransom” for him to come home, she called the cops. I feel like this one may have been retaliation from a girlfriend who knew it was a lie and wanted to get back at him by involving the fuzz.
And speaking of money, some Taco Bell counterfeiters back here in 'murca proved that however bad the English are at something, we'll find a way to beat them by making it rain god-awful-ery.
The fast food supervisors from Manhattan did try to cover their lie unlike these other two dudes. But after putting horribly made fake cash in the register, they failed miserably at convincing their employee to keep using it. I always say “have a plan B” ready – but theirs must have been improvised because it involved impersonating under cover cops… who champion fake money schemes and threaten 17-year-old register workers with jail if they don’t cooperate in the crooked business of fast food. Amateurs. Sure the money motive isn’t bad, but you already own a business. Just work harder. Or get a passive income side gig.
Whether food’s fast or slow, however, is irrelevant when the food itself is the motive. Which is why we’ll end today's tale with someone who gets the thumbs up:
This bish faked having a bun in the oven… to get more buns from an actual oven: “They also receive more buns, fruits and bamboo, so some clever pandas have used this to their advantage to improve their quality of life,” a panda expert listed along with all the other round-the-clock, Four Seasons style air conditioned special care mamas-to-be get to enjoy.
Creative Spitball Sidebar: The fact that she was scheduled to “star” in a live birth makes this feel like Pixar fodder for a story about a single bear panda who’s envious of all the PTA moms and desperate zoo-wives around her popping out kids. But she isn’t ready to have kids yet, so she fakes it and everyone starts gushing and pampering her and preparing her for the big daunting live birth she can’t fake. And then, toward the end, some guru lemur character that’s been friends with her all along, suggests she get f'real knocked up and that she's being selfish staying mom-less because the species is dying out. And in a spin of events, she realizes after a montage of remembered interactions with the nice, wise single zoo-keeper who protects her from the cruel sadistic one (parallel side story), that it's not selfish because she's self-actualized and understands that kids just aren't for her during this life. Anyone wanna collab? Or just… ya know… steal my idea and give me none of the money? That's cool. I just want someone to make it and find places for Scarlett Jo-hottie and Helen Mirren's voices.
So the panda wins – selfish or not - and that's not just because of my animal loving proclivities. Or just because I’m selfish too and can empathize. I say it because it further illustrates the point I made in an earlier post about how we keep trying to save the panda species when they obviously don’t want to be here anymore. Faking preggo to eat more food when you’re not even gonna use it to reproduce? Eff yeah, that’s a worthy motive to fake for! She wanted that single unattached life and the income noms of pregnancy. It’s the welfare bear version of Louis Vuitton on zoo gov’ment money. Hell yeah! Have your cake and food stamps too, girl.
Way to bamboo stick it to the man.
So this delicious little dish of Vogue eye candy got arrested for stealing candy.
First, I love the lawyer’s reply to the allegations that go as follows: 1. He said she forgot she had the items (like... chocolate bars?) in her bag when she left Whole Foods. 2. He said the “store detectives” singled her out. #IDon’tKnowHowToLawyer
“While she was about to leave the store … she remembered what she had in her bag. When she turned around, the store detectives were like, ‘We got you,’ ” he told The Post.
Where? Wha-… I don’t even know where to start. I think he’s going with confuse-opposition-into-giving up tactic here because: who puts unpaid-for shiz in their personal purse before reaching checkout? And what the Toblerone is a “store detective”? After you elucidate that for me, I'll need to know two more things: is “store detective” an actual profession? And did you print your degree from the internet?
First, this is funny because her actual lawyer's name is "Sal". But we'd better be better off with the hapless fictional Breaking Bad Saul instead - because at least he'd never come up with a garbage yes-and to the already non-logic above that this guy did: “The complaint states that she attempted to leave — it doesn’t state that she did leave. She’s totally innocent,” he said. Yes. Because being on the exit's threshold isn’t sufficient. Let’s wait until she’s in her car. Speeding away. Wait! Why not send the store detectives after her on their segue scooters? Where’s my popcorn?
I can’t wait to watch the chase on Spike TV later!
No, Sal. That's not why she should be released.
And it's also not that she's scorchingly hot enough to earn a get-outta-jail-free-card in my book. Really it's more about the embarrassment factor here. Yes. It’s mortifying enough being caught red (or dark, dark 100% cacao brown) handed when you have stolen snacks that go against the starvation diet that allows you to fit in editorial fashion clothing. Models aren’t allowed to have anything but baby food in the first place. (The lucky ones get to eat it with a stick of celery, I'm told). But now her humiliating ramifications are two fold - she’s done something illegal and she’s breached the breatharian diet contract Wilhelmina makes every model sign.
No telling what sorta penalties they've written into the fine print.
A nail polish that detects date rape drugs?
That’s what this “Undercover Colors” paint aims to do. After application, the previously invisible-to-the-naked-eye knowledge of whether your drink’s been spiked or not will be right at the tip of your chemical-coated pinkie finger (which you dip inside the libation and stir). The kids who created it say, "Through this nail polish and similar technologies, we hope to make potential perpetrators afraid to spike a woman's drink because there's now a risk that they can get caught."
"In effect, we want to shift the fear from the victims to the perpetrators."
Damn right we got this.
Sounds like the bros and Bundies of the world are gonna hafta up their game.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way. The smart ones will move on to some next level Kuklinski aerosols or powderized scopoloamine. And even though the research being done on this could be promising, it’s being hated on for exactly that reason. Some critics are saying it only “deflects” the advances for that one person - versus stopping the actual crime – and that they’ll just “go rape someone else”. I get that, but I feel like that doesn’t make it a waste-of-money technology like they’re saying because it raises awareness and, well, ya gotta start somewhere when it comes to research. I do feel like it could be a supplemental thing patrons do if bars were to also use the already established technology of coasters that change color when a drop of roofie-colada hits it. (even though they should totally put that technology into cocktail napkins instead which are impossible to not spill your drink on which would be better so you don't have to casually do the mood-killing "I like you but I'm worried you might violently violate my vagina" pinkie stir in front of the dude you're chatting up)
That said, this stuff would still fail with me for two reasons. The first is my implacable urge to chafe off nail polish the moment it dries the way I peel off sun burnt skin, slowly and excitedly – all the while hoping I can get one whole long dermal sheath in one piece that will look like I was just overtaken by a pod person.
Also, the reactions need to be tweaked a little before it’ll be effective for about 90% of college kids. Even though the way it’s supposed to work is by stirring your polish-clad pinkie into the drink in in question, I read some other report that this stuff can get a false positive from other extracurricular stuff being in your system. So I know it wouldn’t have worked on me back in the undergrad era of my life. Shit would’ve turned red and sounded off alarm bells on contact.
Sidenote 1: Rape-free or not, cocktails with nail polish dipped in 'em can't be healthy.
Sidenote 2: These lab geeks are totally gonna kill my game on slumber party night.
If you’re on social media, you may have seen videos of slightly excessive police force.
I, for one, can’t seem to escape these torrid tales, sandwiched betwixt the endearing dancing dogs and graphic motivational quotes that help exacerbate my online-life induced schizophrenia.
But could a cameras-on-cops requirement be the answer?
There’s been interest in this – especially after the Ferguson case happened and arguments split between “he shouldn’t have been shot – he had no weapon” to “you don’t know what happened because you weren’t there.” (*cough cough* Hannity)
You’re quite right. I’m not there for any of these stories that get broadcasted later on the news. That’s the idea behind watching something you weren’t there for. You try to trust that those delivering it aren't first feeding the information through a fabrication filter. So, maybe I should just stop watching any news. At all. Especially when the suggested irrelevant doesn't-fix-the-problem "solution" they’re offering for a kid being murdered is to instead focus on “black on black crime” (*cough cough* Gutfeld & Friends). First of all, regardless of what the color disparity between law and citizen is here, he had no weapon. And was still killed. By a cop. That’s important and worth not looking away from, right? Secondly, as John Stewart says of this proposed distraction, “Yes! Why all the interest in holding police officers to a higher standard than gangs?!”
IKR? Way too much pressure to carry out your job description!
It’d have been nice if someone had been able to document what happened here.
But in the future, can we trust the boys in blue to record such sadly inevitable altercations?
Meh. They can do what they like, but I tend to think people are smarter than putting their faith in fuzz to film with their frames. When the whole problem’s a battle against police brutality and power abuse, it's akin to putting your butterfly knife down in the middle of a fight to the death and asking your opponent if you can just share his. And if it gains momentum as a mandatory thing, it’ll also be the tech version of “he said/she said” – unless the citizen’s also capturing the interaction with a phone they own. Crooked cops are always covering eachother’s asses.
Yes, there are good cops out there. There are great ones I know and have met who do exactly what they signed on to do - protect and serve the public. Their service, however does unfortunately not cancel out the brutality done by others elsewhere - or bring back senselessly taken lives.
So, is this idea a good thing?
I dunno. On the pro-side, it might be beneficial in making both parties mind their P's and Q's during everyday legal run-ins. But on the con-side, even if this technology is centralized so it can't be manipulated, that in and of itself is a little unsettling in its implications. The thought of uniformed androids rocking Big Brother Goggles and visually documenting my every move in the name of our "mutual safety" induces a nauseatingly exact opposite feeling in me. Just seems a tad too Orwellian, I suppose.
Welp, that's all for today. Gotta go finish updating my Facebook status with the requested deets on everything from where I live to the quality of my most recent bowel movement so that the venerable ZuckerReich has a more accurate census with which to work.
Why were rocks in Death Valley moving around of their own volition?
Especially when there were no human tracks, hurricanes, or tornadoes whipping through?
I didn’t even need to read the "we solved it!" story to know the truth behind this rhetorical headline. It was painfully obvious to me that there was a battle for a babe with a power going on in the Labyrinth. And that giant bipedal shih-tzu with horns and magic stone summoning powers was trying to save the day so that Jennifer Connelly could go on to make a magical junkie flick with Jared Leto.
Speaking of drugs, I wonder how many 80’s kids turned crackheads have asked their dealers “Canst thou summon rocks, sir?” I mean, if I were a dealer, that hilarious line would earn you at least one freebie for making me laugh.
Whether or not there was a war in David Bowie’s maze kingdom, science has done what it always does best by taking a syringe and extracting all the fun out of a story, leaving us with nothing but robotic boring reality – like the fact that the boulders are just sliding on thawed cracking layers of ice after cold conditions. And I suppose the dudes who realized this had shared my crystal ball dreams about unseen fantasy forces - because discoverers Richard and Jim Norris had a sort of bittersweet cocktail of an "aha!" moment followed by the the letdown of "Ludo didn't do it".
They found the playa covered with ice when they went to inspect the instruments last December. The next day, "we were sitting on a mountainside and admiring the view when a light wind kicked up and the ice started cracking," and "suddenly, the whole process unfolded before our eyes," he says.
"There was a side of me that was wistful because the mystery was no more," James says.
They even recorded proof.
Wait, I don’t see any ice! This isn't scientific proof - it's magic capture on film!
They’re headed to the Labyrinth!
♪ Dance granite, DANCE!!!!1