127 Hours

My brother sent me a link for the new Danny Boyle movie called, “127 Hours.”

Boyle’s movies strike a chord with me, as I’m sure they do many other people. I got chills within the first 2 minutes of “Slumdog“, and that usually means I’m going to love a picture.

The editing and sound editing alone in the trailer for “127 Hours” is worth a look and listen.

Go check it out! Link will take you away from Le Café.

My dog farts

I’ve had a long day. At 6 a.m.,  I drove to the suburbs to shoot at a new restaurant. The principals of the restaurant are formerly McDonald’s bigwigs who have decided to give their own restaurant chain a whirl.

Restaurants are like funeral homes; there is never a lack of hungry people. Open up a location in a decent spot, and you’ll likely make a shit-load of cash.

Over the last weekend, I was working on a concept in which the world thought of eating like they think of sexuality. You know, there would be food that the majority of people ate and pronounced the right and only food. They’d be all gung ho about it. When certain people expressed that they’d like to be open about their love for a food thought to be taboo, they would be shunned and considered second class.

One pious group of people would say things like, “We love you people who like taboo food, but we don’t love you enough to let you enter into our eternal life of food heaven.”

That’s where I thought, “This idea is stupid.”

The whole idea of people being disdainful toward sexuality is stupid, and I can’t wait for the day when it fucking ends.

I also can’t wait for the day when my dog’s farts fucking end. I mean seriously.

It’s almost midnight, and I’m sitting in my office surfing for tidbits to blog about. She’s tooting louder than a steam train plowing toward a tunnel.

I was walking her earlier this evening. I am having trouble getting her to sit after long walks or runs. I was standing at the back door saying, “Sit, Talulah. Sit, girl. Sit, baby. Sit, T-dawg. Baby, sit. Come on, sit. Siiiiiiiittttt. Sit.SitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSitSit!”

Finally she sat. She looked up at me — sitting mind you … with her ass to the wood on our deck … she tilted her head and farted. In sitting position, the fart squeaked out like tugging the open end of a balloon to make a fart noise. But instead of smelling like your own foul breath bellowing out of a balloon, it smelled like a goddamn death camp bellowing out of a dog’s ass.

And by death camp, it smelled like exhuming sixty five thousand dead bodies and taking a nap on top of them.

I am not exaggerating one iota.

Apparently lots of people read my post about grandma’s funeral. I’m a wee bit confused why there were no responses.

I think I hate all of you.

Noooooooooooo, just you and you. The rest of you are pretty great.

Maybe one day I’ll squeeze the end of you like balloons and make you squeak like the flatulent dogs that you are!