Chriswren

... Because blogging is really no different than talking to yourself.

cwwren@gmail.com
Feb 06
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The problem with medical diagnostic sites is that they rarely ever give you a percentage of probability. Right now it’s equally as likely that I’m breaking out in hives or or my liver is failing…. wait… ok thats true.

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Problem:

My heater sounds like “the little engine that could”. Except, this time, he cant… and im going to freeze.

Feb 02
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poirpom:
Never forget… - via

poirpom:

Never forget… - via
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brainland:
When I was little I had this recurring nightmare about Prince.  Now I don’t mean I was a precocious urban ironist who totally “got” the music and his presence would occasionally seep along my dreamscapes in which I’d already be dining with Turgenev and Steve Perry and then Aquinas would burst in and be all like, “Where are my puddings?  Who ate all my extra puddings?” and then we’d laugh and listen to “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake because even in my dream body there’s not one sincere bone. Fuck no.  When I was seven, I didn’t know what irony was and my only interests were eating my boogers and watching Freakazoid.  So, I had this recurring nightmare about Prince.  Basically, I grew up on a cul-de-sac and my house had a steep driveway, and I remember standing in my garage looking down the driveway and hearing music and laughter and having this terrible urge to flee.  The odor of evil could carry even on that brisk wine country breeze.  Then the chase would commence, in the way you know events as they unfold in dreams because pervasive dread informs you.  And I would be on my tricycle, peddling desperately for the entrance of the cul-de-sac, little handlebar streamers flying.  Then the perspective would shift and behind me he would rise: Prince, on a colossal tricycle of his own making, purple and embellished to resemble a grand parade float, on which his minions danced and fornicated in the tissue blossoms.  And all I could do was urgently peddle and the dream would end just as Prince was upon me.  I had this nightmare about six or seven times until I hit age twelve and got really into Prince.  I mention because last night I had a dream about sleeping with Prince, and it actually wasn’t weird.  Well, I mean it was obviously weird once I woke up and thought about it, but while it was happening it seemed reasonable.
She’s not lying. Brainland actually lives her life with these thoughts swirling around her mind.

brainland:

When I was little I had this recurring nightmare about Prince. Now I don’t mean I was a precocious urban ironist who totally “got” the music and his presence would occasionally seep along my dreamscapes in which I’d already be dining with Turgenev and Steve Perry and then Aquinas would burst in and be all like, “Where are my puddings? Who ate all my extra puddings?” and then we’d laugh and listen to “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake because even in my dream body there’s not one sincere bone.

Fuck no. When I was seven, I didn’t know what irony was and my only interests were eating my boogers and watching Freakazoid. So, I had this recurring nightmare about Prince. Basically, I grew up on a cul-de-sac and my house had a steep driveway, and I remember standing in my garage looking down the driveway and hearing music and laughter and having this terrible urge to flee. The odor of evil could carry even on that brisk wine country breeze.

Then the chase would commence, in the way you know events as they unfold in dreams because pervasive dread informs you. And I would be on my tricycle, peddling desperately for the entrance of the cul-de-sac, little handlebar streamers flying. Then the perspective would shift and behind me he would rise: Prince, on a colossal tricycle of his own making, purple and embellished to resemble a grand parade float, on which his minions danced and fornicated in the tissue blossoms. And all I could do was urgently peddle and the dream would end just as Prince was upon me.

I had this nightmare about six or seven times until I hit age twelve and got really into Prince. I mention because last night I had a dream about sleeping with Prince, and it actually wasn’t weird. Well, I mean it was obviously weird once I woke up and thought about it, but while it was happening it seemed reasonable.

She’s not lying. Brainland actually lives her life with these thoughts swirling around her mind.

Feb 01
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tanya77:

winstonwolfe:

jimrock:
Bacon Marys at superbowl
Someday I imagine St. Peter to greet me at the Gates of Heaven with one of these in one hand and a Padron Anniversario in the other.

BaconBaconBacon!

tanya77:

winstonwolfe:

jimrock:

Bacon Marys at superbowl

Someday I imagine St. Peter to greet me at the Gates of Heaven with one of these in one hand and a Padron Anniversario in the other.

BaconBaconBacon!

Jan 28
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Apparently the entire tumblrverse goes silent whenever lost is on.

Jan 22
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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Hedwig and the Angry Inch- Origin of Love

This one goes out to Emily who is presently writing on the symposium… and love

Jan 21
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No longer relevant.

Just saw a commercial for a Landline. Ya know, that thing I havent had in 6 years.

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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

brainland:

Because Val Kilmer’s hot bone is broken and probably dead, I’ve written this poem as a eulogy and I’ve included musical accompaniment. Please be respectful of Brainland’s privacy during this difficult time.

Val, you didn’t always make the best choices
Even diehard fans like me couldn’t watch
At First Sight with Mira Sorvino.
But, Val, you were special, you were more than a man, you were like
A MiG 28 soaring through the firmament

When you were good, you were the sum of childhood wonderment,
You were Madmartigan in Willow
When you were very good, you were the treasure of emfeebled nerds,
You were Doc Holliday in Tombstone
When you were awful, it wasn’t your fault
Frankly Oliver Stone is a hack, and that project was doomed from day one
Who really likes the Doors anyway?

Nobody could be smug snide self-important
And lovably roguish like you
Nobody could look that fucking good in pants
Like you did in Top Secret

Val, my friend was an extra in Willow and said you were really nice
And even though Kiss Kiss Bang Bang wasn’t that great, you stole every scene
Which is hard to do…
Against Robert Downey Jr., who is a known scene-stealer

Val, when you were on, you exploded the sun
When you were off I heard you were pretty nasty,
I knew a guy who worked at the J. Crew in Santa Fe
He said you smelled and had food in your teeth
But some people say The Saint is the greatest spy film ever made
And I personally feel, while your Batman was lacking,
Your Bruce Wayne was impeccable

And I forgive you, forgive you that I had to suppress
The Ghost and the Darkness
Cause that shit was scary

BUT I CAN’T CARE ANYMORE, VAL
Now it’s too late, it’s too late and we’ve lost you
Forever?
Only you, only you, only you
Had the sack power to deride David Mamet for being an asshole
In a commentary for a film
Written by him

You were a rebel, a loner, a rulebreaker
And I’ve still been meaning to check out
Your turn as DeKooning in Pollock,
I just really hate Ed Harris

No matter, Val, ‘tis no matter
Your once immortal visage has risen,
Risen
To the realm of the beautiful sex fairies
Who lounge around all day quoting Top Gun
and wearing their boxers with closing pins like Chris Knight in Real Genius

No, I was wrong, I’m sorry
Take a step forward
Now, take a step back
Step forward
Back

And then we’re cha-cha-ing!

Jan 17
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frangry:

Saatchi & Saatchi’s new T-mobile advert was on air less than 48 hours after being filmed on Jan. 15 at the Liverpool Street Station in London. 350 dancers performed routines as commuters passed through the concourse, while hidden cameras captured their reactions.
Jan 11
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Sometimes, when we’re lying together, I look at her and I feel dizzy with the realization that here is another distinct person from me, who has memories, origins, thoughts, feelings that are different from my own. That tension between familiarity and mystery meshes something strong between us. Even if one builds a life together based on trust, attentiveness and mutual support, I think that’s it’s important that a partner continues to surprise.

Barack Obama, in 1996, about wife Michelle (via everybodycares)(via emilyposts)(via mufti) (via robot-heart)

sorry, im a sentimentalist for awesome people saying awesome things. This is such.

Jan 08
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Brainland's Guide to Getting Reblogged

brainland:

Now that I have followers, I no longer need to post real content, and instead can just sit here and prosthelytize, lazily suffocating in my own BO and nodding along to the latest remix of Rihanna’s much vivisected album, Good Girl Gone Bad, to drown out the noise of my getting fatter. BUT, instead I’ve decided to help you, gentle blogger, on the road to gaining multiple followers yourself. Here are some invaluable, tried-and-true tips to getting reblogged on tumblr. This is all assuming, of course, that you fit a certain standard of quirky, indie cool. Commence:

1. Photo With Words
One of the best ways to get people to reblog your shit is to post a photo with words in it. I don’t mean regular words, though, I mean thoughtful ones; ones that appear initially out of context but trick you into thinking the person who blogged the picture is soulful and elusive. So, like, an unremarkable picture of some mountains through a window on a train, with a sticker on the window that mumbles: “I think without you I’d wish I wasn’t anything,” or some fey shit like that.

2. Bite the Cool
Since you’re not as cool as people who’ve come before you, bite: post a picture of someone very cool (like Lou Reed or Bowie). But unlike #1, it’s absolutely crucial there be no words. You see, the Cool Biting exists in the person (who reblogs) feeling residual cool from recognizing someone cooler by his/her face, not a label. It helps to get a picture that obscures the famous face slightly (like Debbie Harry, but in a hat) and, if you absolutely MUST label the photo, make sure you don’t call the celebrity by his “common” name, but birth name (Iggy Pop = James Newell Osterberg); that way you seem super informed.

3. Picture of a Room You Can’t Afford
This one’s easy. Find a tumblog about apartments, scroll down, randomly select a photo of the interior of an apartment (preferably in SoHO or the Upper West Side), try to get a shot that includes 1) an exposed brick wall, 2) a haphazardly arranged bookshelf and 3) wooden floors bathed impossibly in sunlight, and you are in business. Try to find one at an angle, though, so you look artsy and detail-oriented.

4. Baby Animal
Anything. Fucking anything. As long as it shits itself and relies on adults for sustenance, your post is gonna be huge.

5. Quote From Someone in a Book You Haven’t Read
This one is a self-congratulatory classic. Simply take a book from a well-educated friend (anything French, German or in a language no longer spoken), open up to any page, pick a sentence in the middle of a paragraph, and blog. Don’t worry about explaining it or providing (god forbid) context, the less you say the smarter you seem. Another great way of accomplishing this is buying a book for smart people, getting three pages into the introduction, blogging from there and then never picking the book up again.

6. Warhol
People go fucking crazy for him.

7. The Nostalgia Play
This one trips up a lot of amateurs, because it seems easy. BUT, you can’t just post a youtube video of the opening from Eureka’s Castle, because that’s too obvious, and nobody likes the obvious guy (he’s inauthentic!). The trick to the Nostalgia Play is to find something that speaks to our generation’s un-fucking-flagging bittersweetness for their youth, but also appeals to more modern sensibilities about being cool/conspicuously educated. Basically, find a picture of the Snorks, only all dressed in black, like beatniks. The Simpsons are also a really great bet here, but, by themselves = no dice… while Lisa done up like a Lucian Freud painting = reblog heaven.

8. Skinny Girls in Various States of Undress
People are psyched on these.

9. Terrible Fucking Cover of a Song You Like
Got an ironic (maybe) harpsichord version of a Bruce Springsteen song? What about a spry, indie jug-band rendering of “Skulls” by the Misfits? Post, but DO NOT say the artist or song name, and instead pontificate timorously about the first time you heard a certain song, or about your earliest memory of watching MTV, or just the power of music in general… and let the kudos roll in.

10. Absurd Generalization About the Nature of Things
Many venerated blogs became famous for making extremely simplistic observations about life. So, take a random clause about, um, like psycho-sexual development (“Having a healthy relationship with your parents…”) and unite it with a seemingly unrelated and vague, meaningless clause about something within your periphery (“…makes you think that clouds are beautiful”). The more ponderous and abstruse, the better. I know it sounds stupid, but it works. Just a simple text post, or for the double whammy, combine with a photo from #1 and use as a caption.


…And whatever you do, don’t write huge, long-winded plain text posts. These are tumblr suicide and people are not down.

everyone, prepare to alienate.

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Self-Indulgent Tumblog Post

brainland:

My roommate, Ranjan, is the smartest person I know (Ranjan, I know, right? Such a cliche). Sometimes he talks to me; most of the time I disgust him and he drinks.

Brainland: “Hey, Ronny. Mummies or Aztecs?”
Roommate: “Oh, Aztecs. Definitely.”
Brainland: “No way.”
Roommate: “Aztecs liked space better.”
Brainland: “But aliens built the pyramids.”
Roommate: “No, pyramids are easy. The Egyptians didn’t build a city with the distances between buildings in the exact proportion of distances between the planets; four of which they couldn’t see.”
Brainland: “Yeah, but, mummies.”
Roommate: [long silence] ”Mummies are good.”

Why did this conversation have to happen after I had already left. Not that I would have had anything significant to offer. Probably just some comment about Dinosaurs. They are all I care about.

Jan 02
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brainland:

I’m gonna go to Chinatown and buy a box full of turtles (for eatin’) from some cruel Chinese man in an apron who can down a Marlboro red in two pulls.  He’s gonna look at me with one eye real incredulously and he’s gonna say thems turtles for eatin’ and ain’t for no other purpose.  I’m gonna take ‘em home in a little terrarium and for all he knows I’m gonna make soup with ‘em or fritters or Korean turtle butter.  But when he looks at me, if he looks just hard enough, he’ll recognize I’m weak and I’m just gonna bring those turtles home and dress ‘em up in little Nancy Sinatra costumes and we’re gonna sing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin” a capella.  Fuck you, Chinatown.



Im drunk and tired.

brainland:

I’m gonna go to Chinatown and buy a box full of turtles (for eatin’) from some cruel Chinese man in an apron who can down a Marlboro red in two pulls.  He’s gonna look at me with one eye real incredulously and he’s gonna say thems turtles for eatin’ and ain’t for no other purpose.  I’m gonna take ‘em home in a little terrarium and for all he knows I’m gonna make soup with ‘em or fritters or Korean turtle butter.  But when he looks at me, if he looks just hard enough, he’ll recognize I’m weak and I’m just gonna bring those turtles home and dress ‘em up in little Nancy Sinatra costumes and we’re gonna sing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin” a capella.  Fuck you, Chinatown.

Im drunk and tired.