With Spike Jonze on the mind, this monologue from Brian Cox in Kaufman/Jonze’ Adaptation. For the god damn win.

If you’re like me, you’ve been following Spike Jonze’s next project Where the Wild Things Are off and on since well, it began, a million years ago. I came home today and was lovingly linked to this article in the NY Times about the movie by my friend Andrew. You’re the man now, dawg. I had heard that this project was in limbo, with Jonze and the Talking Heads and Powers That Be not really being on the same page regarding the project. Jonze has always been a hero of mine for his work on Adaptation alone, so this profile piece was really tight. Go check it out, but I’m going to leave you with a quote from the article that encapsulates why I love Jonze and his unfettered imagination:

If you compromise what you’re trying to do just a little bit, you’ll end up compromising a little more the next day or the next week, and when you lift your head you’re suddenly really far away from where you’re trying to go.

HELL YEAH BRUCE WAYNE NAKED! Welcome to the abode, fellow pervert. Seriously though, I question your taste. At the very least, if I’m going to get a boner from Bruce Wayne/Batman, he’s going to have to be wearing the mask. He can hit me in any position as long as I can grab onto those ears. There are countless hot billionaires, but there’s only one naked Batman.

There is a certain disconnection in my life whenever I leave the mancave and embark on some sort of journey. Whether I’m fucking around in Cow Country, or I’m meandering the marshes of Nova Scotia, I am decidedly unplugged. And I’m not sure I particularly dislike it.

Most of the time.

I’m a Twitter fiend. I don’t really use it to convey my feelings or what I’m doing. Seldom will you see me all,

Just took a shit. Used my hand to wipe up, toilet paper couldn’t handle the sludge.

or

Sam wasn’t happy when I ripped ass at the dinner table with her Dad, LOL.

Just not my thing. I’m already self-indulgent enough thinking people care about my analysis of banal news and stifling non-stories.

But I use Twitter to actively and obsessively garner the latest news from a variety of venues. What’s the latest word from Destructoid? What’s my other blogging situation over at Mishka sporting right now? And unmentioned but equally as important in personal mind-numbing minutiae is sporting news.

Open Twitter. Click refresh. Click refresh. Open Firefox. Click refresh. Click refresh.

I don’t think that this is a behavior particular to me. We all dabble in data streams these days without even realizing it. Open Facebook. Open MySpace. Open Twitter. Get the latest news. Get the latest status updates.

When I first leave, I brace for impact. Data crash. Information withdrawal. As I hurtle further and further down the highway, or skyway, or waterway, my parents’ basement recedes further into the distance.

I cry a single tear and mourn the loss of my computer, my comfortable set-up. Sure there are other computers I can hop on, check the e-mail. But it’s not the same. I’ve often remarked that I could physically move these days a countless number of times and not mind, so long as I had MY computer. MY mouse. MY phone. My life isn’t the room I’m sitting anymore; it’s the computer I’m sitting on. I equate comfortableness with the alignment of my icons on the taskbar, my wallpaper waiting for me when I boot up the computer.

It’s sad, or maybe it simply is. Maybe that’s just the way the world is swinging these days. Who knows. Give me my iMac and my keyboard and I’m ready to handle shit. Typing this mindless goop right here on a computer not my own is like sleeping in a bed not belonging to me. It’s a bed, it serves a purpose. But it isn’t mine.

The further I get away from my computer, the instantly-refresh lifestyle that my generation is buried in, the more it becomes okay. The desire to incessantly interact with the same five stories on thirteen different sites (including this here shit box) fades into the back of my mind.

And for the moment, silence.

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Guess what, Dick Grayson is the hottest! I’m glad someone searched Dick Grayson Hottest and found us! Welcome my child, you have found a new home.

In fact, what could be hotter than DICK GRAYSON?! Dick Grayson and Poison Ivy Cumshots! That’s right, someone searched Poison Ivy Cumshots and they were shuttled to our humble inter-abode.

I’m glad that when I think “Ian, you’re so fucked up, why do you find Ivy’s slithering vines so erotic?”, someone else comes along and informs me they’re searching the internet for Poison Ivy getting ejaculate all over her.

And the only way to make this post right, would be by suggesting that the hottest, Dick Grayson, supply the splooge.

Yes, I commandeered a computer powered by Cows and Moonshine to make this post out in central New York. Merry fucking Labor Day!

Whenever I wander around Warren Ellis’ Whitechapel Forums (which is pretty much everyday) it doesn’t take long before I find something worthwhile. Some days, it’s a new book to read or an 8tracks mixtape or some scientific article I can barely wrap my head around. In other words, Whitechapel is a failsafe source of discovery.

Today was no exception. Browsing the Splash Page Art Challenge Thread, I was struck by the work of George Zapata (who posts as ‘gzapata’). His submission (as seen below) wonderfully depicts the differences between Batman & Superman. And while this interplay between light/dark, cheerful/brooding, inspiring/frightening has been explored ad nauseam, Zapata’s effort is much more refreshing and playful.

From Superman’s ridiculous hair-curl to Batman’s scowl, Zapata helps the reader remember that these are cartoons — they don’t always have to be  complicated characters of  socio-cultural critiques. Sometimes, believe it or not, comic books can just be fun – and that’s exactly what these two pages prove.

I made my way to Zapata’s website to discover that he is a former student of the Joe Kubert School of Cartoon and Graphic Art and is trying to cut his teeth in the comic book world. I emailed George and asked for permission to post these images and he has yet to respond. With that being said, I’m going to assume he’s cool with it.

Go to his  blog. Check out his sick art. Let him know what you think. Help out the small guys.

It’s Friday. Finally. TGI-fuckin’-F or whatever. If only it were 1989 again and I could rock the TGIF lineup, I may not have need to write this. But alas, times have changed and I can no longer rely on ABC’s transdimensional-series cameos to help kill the memories of the week.

Instead, I need a cold brew. And since I’m drinking anyways, I figure that I might as well take the opportunity to review the beverage for the six diehard, dedicated readers of OL.

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A final post before a weekend in Cow Country. Or as I call it, “The Great Unblemished.” Far away from the mega-malls and the sprawling vomited forth bastard of the land big box superdepartmentatrons.

I’ll be shaking from withdrawal with the internets by early evening. No 3G network! No continuous opening of Word Press! OMFG. I can’t surf the stream unlimited for nine hours, posting random posts brimming with uber-vulgarity! I’m not kidding, it’s going to be difficult.

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Well, it appears that when my life as a blogger comes crashing down because of my incessant adolescence, I’ll be able to become a game developer.

NGS2 will feature SIXAXIS-controlled boobs. That’s right, a jiggle of the PS3 controller will translate into a jiggle of the character’s bosom. Just when you thought Tecmo couldn’t get any filthier.

If this wasn’t stolen from my perennially prepubescent skull, I don’t know where they would have gotten it. No, seriously. I’m wearing a mind-shroud fashioned from uncooked flanks of meat as I type this. They’ve stolen my million-dollar idea.

I fucking love Tecmo. Why? Because they name no delusions about who their audience is. It’s something the writer of a blog who dubs themselves “From Comic Books to Cumshots” can get behind. They’ve created a mechanic that allows you to shake obscenely large on-screen boobs with your controller.

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