Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Itching and scratching at the movies

First, an admission: I'm not the sort of person who gets super-excited about opening days for movies. When I was younger, sure, but either I developed patience or I accepted my inner misanthrope and couldn't handle the crowds and waiting in long lines. That's not suggesting I don't experience some sense of anticipation when a movie is coming out that I am interested in seeing, but I don't need to go to see it the minute it starts, or even see it opening weekend; I figure it's still the same movie the next weekend.

Doug, you're not really a movie fan, some of you are thinking.

Yep. I enjoy some movies—many movies, certainly—but I am not a devotee of the medium.

I have noticed, however, that there may be something to the movie-going experience that can affect one's enjoyment of the film itself. As annoying as the crowds are, a comedy seems funnier when a room full of people are laughing than when one is in a mostly empty room and feeling a bit self-conscious about laughing too loud; an action movie seems more exciting when the crowd cheers the hero triumphant over the bad guy.

That is undoubtedly why people stand in line for hours to see the midnight shows. It's not merely that they are super-excited to see the movie (which may or may not live up to the hype); the experience is enhanced by being surrounded by like-minded individuals. The people going to the Saturday evening showing may just be killing time because they couldn't think of anything else to do. (I know in my early 20s the group I hung with tended to go to movies as a default activity, whether we were really that interested in the movie or not.) Those people are the ones who are more likely to annoyingly talk during the film, clearly viewing the event primarily as a social outing rather than as collective entertainment. Which is all good and well for them, but makes for a less than ideal viewing experience if, oh, one came to actually watch the movie.

Case in point: My girlfriend and I saw The Departed well after its release, in a matinée at an upscale shopping mall theater (the only place nearby it was still playing). There were maybe 20 people in the place. And halfway through a quartet of silver-haired shoppers came in, sat down near where most of us were congregated, and proceeded to chat and laugh and pay no attention to the film. They rustled their shopping bags, broke out food, and utterly ignored shushing from pretty much everyone in the theater. And because they weren't teenagers, no one bothered to report them to ushers. We all just had to try to ignore them and enjoy the last half of the film, but I must conclude that my appreciation of the movie was adversely affected in a way that would not have happened if the decrepit foursome could have either shut the hell up or had the consideration to die.

They did further prove how sweet being old is going to be because one has carte blanche to not give a crap about anyone else, but as I'm not old enough to get away with that yet, it did nothing more than offer a glimpse into my delightfully cantankerous future. In the immediate, all they did was forever associate in my mind the film that would eventually win the Best Picture Oscar with their abjectly inconsiderate behavior.

In light of that any numerous others incidents in theaters, I concluded the only recourse seems to involve going to an overpriced theater, where the high ticket prices (although they're not that much higher than the other theaters these days) ward off the casual viewers—especially those with children. That, or stay up late and wait in the ridiculous lines for the midnight showings.

It may not be their fault that most of humanity sucks, but it can be annoying to have to go to such lengths to avoid them.

I told you that as a prelude to this: Sunday morning my girlfriend and I caught a 10:30 (yes, 10:30 am) showing of The Simpsons Movie. We were next to the Arclight anyway, so that's where we saw it. (It was important to help ensure it kicked Chuck & Larry out of the #1 box office slot.) Sure, the tickets were $14 (each), but there was no waiting in any lines. Not only does the theater have reserved seating, but the theater was not even remotely close to full. There were parents with younger children, but they were actually watching the movie.

(Despite the PG-13 rating, I'd say if you let your kids watch the show, there's nothing about the movie that should be that shocking to them.)

My assessment: I enjoyed the movie. Having been a Simpsons fan since 1989, I had little doubt I'd enjoy it. It was funny and well-done. If you like the show, you'll like the movie.

Ultimately, I left satisfied, glad I saw it, but it didn't make me think it was as clever as, say, when I first saw South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut, but that's not what I expected; it was the same heart-warming satirical content I'd come to love over the past 18 years, on a wider screen. And I like that.

However, the non-even-half-full theater was not exactly filled with laughter at the jokes. I cannot help but wonder if I would have thought it even funnier had I been to a late-night showing in a theater filled with rabid fanatics.

Of course, those people can be scary…

So, it boils down to this: There is no ideal movie-going scenario. Or maybe I'm not enough of a fan to think there is.

Just as I tend to enjoy Simpsons episodes more when I see them in the syndicated reruns than I did when they first aired (the jokes have a certain nostalgia perhaps), I'm sure I'll think The Simpsons Movie even better later. When I see it on TV.


Something I don't need to wait to about: The lyrics to "Spider-Pig" makes me smile each time I think of them.

Spider-Pig, Spider-Pig
Does whatever a Spider-Pig does
Can he spin from a web?
No, he can't
He's a pig
There goes the Spider-Pig

Best. Cake. Ever.

Callously jumping on the hype bandwagon for The Simpsons Movie,
I offer this shot of the cake my girlfriend got for my birthday a few years ago:

Monday, July 30, 2007

Oh, it's big

Friday before last my girlfriend had the day off, so I used a bit of my copious vacation time and we traveled down to Costa Mesa to attend the Orange County Fair. Yes, "the OC" has a county fair.

Having been to state fairs in the Midwest, she expected to see gargantuan vegetables. However, as we were in the middle of the nation's most famous suburbs, and because it was early in the year (the over sized plants tend to be an autumnal occurrence), the closest we could find was the "world's largest corn dog."

We didn't find it right away, of course. I had a regular corn dog in the late afternoon while still oblivious to it. Really, after that, there was no reason to get another corn dog. A county fair is a paean to the deep-fried, certainly, but one corn dog should be enough.

However, well into the evening, after having had deep-fried artichoke hearts and cheese fries, and while waiting in line for a funnel cake I spotted one of the stands with the world's largest corn dog. My girlfriend noticed me glance over and said, "We can get one." I replied, "We don't need one."

That was absolutely true. Granted, no one ever "needs" a corn dog (of any size), but even in this context, there was no justifying getting more food; we weren't that hungry after the cheese fries, and the funnel cake was how we would finish the evening—that much was certain. And one funnel cake would be more than sufficient.

Of course we went over and got a "world's largest corn dog"; there's no story without that happening. I'm not going to try to explain what compelled me to do it. I suppose it's just what one does when at a county fair. Perhaps such events tap into some latent tendencies in our being. There must be some reason why there continues to be an Orange County Fair in the 21st century; the area is quite removed from its agricultural origins, so there's little reason why it should still exist in the age of X Games and iPods and YouTube, but obviously it does.

The world's largest corn dog is approximately 18 inches long. Really. The stick extends through the entire thing (otherwise it would collapse), so we had to eat around the sides, rather than being able to bite through. It was tricky to dip in the mustard and ketchup. The corn meal wasn't as tasty as the smaller one I'd had earlier.

But it was a foot-and-a-half's worth of corn dog.

We gave it the ol' college try, but still didn't even between the two of us didn't make it halfway down. We wrapped it up and put it in our bag, under the guise of eating more later.

That was the most ridiculous aspect of the whole incident, of course.

After walking around the carnival portion of the fairgrounds for a while, we came to our senses and accepted that there was no way we'd actually consume any of the leftover portion of the corn dog. Even if it did prove still edible, the reality of the situation remained unchanged: It wasn't that good. It was not inexpensive, as corn dogs go (even at fair prices), but our finances were not strapped to the point where we needed to get our "money's worth" and consume the rest of it to spare a future snack.

Still, as we approached the exit and stopped at a garbage can, we experienced a certain sadness about disposing of it. There was no logical explanation for the sense of… what was it? I'm not sure exactly. At best it was a novelty, purchased more for the photo op than out of hunger. Could it be simply that by identified in the extreme terms it was ("world's largest"), we were manipulated into giving it more importance than any corn dog should receive? Could we be so conditioned to respond to the "-est" suffix that we could not help but feel… protective of whatever it was used to describe?

I grasp how silly that sounds, over a week after the incident. My intellect makes me slightly ashamed when I ruminate about it now. All I can say is I know that was how we felt then.

We did throw it out. We didn't allow the emotion of the moment to overwhelm our reason and put it back in the bag. However, we did pause to document the disposal with a photo (a corn dog funeral of sorts?); we couldn't put it out of our lives unceremoniously.

I know. I know.

The worst part: Even in relating the story now, I find myself feeling pangs of that same sensation. Intellectually I know I shouldn't. It was a frickin' corn dog where all it had going for it was enormous length; it was otherwise unremarkable regarding taste. In fact, it was more troublesome than a normal-sized corn dog to eat.

Maybe that's the key: We didn't just eat (part of) it; we invested emotionally in it. Such is the magic of the world's largest corn dog*: It's not merely a snack—it's an experience.

That must be why there's still county fairs.

* If you buy one, however, I suggest you have a group of at least four to share in it. You'll bond in eating the communal cornmeal-wrapped hot dog, and with any luck you'll finish it and be spared the sense of loss when you have to throw away an uneaten portion. You don't need that much of an experience.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Somebody might wave back

Along the route of the Blue Line tracks, between the Compton and Rosa Parks stations, we pass a building with some vans parked out front. It looks a bit like a church, or an old schoolhouse. The tracks are elevated when we pass, so the view from the train is looking down at the building and the small yard in front of it, and the fenced area next to it.

In the mornings I have looked down and seen a group of adults being supervised in light yard work, or being led while holding hands toward one of the vans. I think the facility is for developmentally challenged people; there's a banner hung on it that says "Arc" (which is an organization focusing on that).

On some mornings (most recently yesterday), I see a young man, probably in his 20s, wearing glasses with the big Coke-bottle lenses, standing in the yard. When the train passes, he turns and jumps up and down and waves his arms wildly, in undeniable excitement. He keeps jumping and waving even though the train is 30 feet above his head, speeding by at 50 miles per hour, and no one else appears to notice him. When I'm in a backwards-facing seat on the train, I can see him keep waving until we're out of sight, never losing enthusiasm for his greeting, undaunted by the lack of response.

I can't remember the last time I had that much unbridled excitement over anything. I have a reasonably good life, but I don't think I'm capable of being that enthused no matter how thrilling something might be.

And society calls me "normal" and calls him "developmentally challenged."

One of these mornings I'll wave back.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Dare to be stupid

"No intelligent being would consent to be a fool… even though they should be persuaded that the fool… is better satisfied with his lot than they with theirs."
- John Stuart Mill

Um, yeah, whatever. If the fool thinks he's happy, he's happy. I shall envy him that nonetheless.
- me

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

It will not be televised

A billboard in Hollywood, posted above a rundown strip club on La Brea Avenue (just south of Sunset Boulevard), featured a tight shot of a woman's bare midriff, with the appearance of perspiration (as though in the midst of dancing).

The text obscuring the woman's alluringly sweaty belly button: the URL for a website. Websites? On a billboard? As crazy as it seems, I do think more billboards should feature those now; they do seem more likely for someone driving to be able to remember than the digits of a telephone number.

The name of the site: rhythmandverse.com, where "spoken word meets music." Ah, of course--what else would one associate with women's body parts? And not the mouth that speaks or the whole body to dance to the music, but just the abdomen area. They'd hit that nail on the proverbial head.

Perusing the site itself reveals a lot of photos of a male, not showing his mid-section, who may be the poet, maybe not. Reading the "about" page, touting how "Rhythm and Verse is an entirely new style of poetry. ...[It] was created to revolutionize the way poetry, and spoken word is received."

(It's so revolutionary that they don't even need to proofread the copy on their site to make sure their compound sentences are complete.)

Hmm. Putting poetry and dance music together. You'd think someone would have done that previously. Heck, it seems like there should be a single-word term for that in our lexicon. It strikes me as an idea that was certainly overdue, and I think Barry White needs to jump on this.

They are entirely too humble about their other groundbreaking action: Using a sexually charged image of a woman's body part that has nothing to do with them or what they're promoting as part of the marketing of their product. They invented sexist appropriation of the female form as an effective means of getting the attention of motorists passing by at high speeds.

Genius. I think this will catch on. The world will never be the same.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

No izing

So I see the Burger King commercial with Homer hawking the Whopper, and at the end it mentions the SimpsonizeMe.com site. Granted, I'd already made a Simpsons avatar (and my girlfriend made an avatar of me), so I'd been duly Simpsonized, but I figured I'd see what the deal was on the BK-promoting site, and I get a page with a pathetic drawing of the couch with the message:
"Whoa! As the world is going Simpsons it is getting a little crowded here. Come back a little later and try again."

Okay, I can understand that they grossly underestimated the amount of hits they would get, but really: Would it be too much for the message to say "please" when they're telling me I'm out of luck and have to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to get in? Well, to hell with them; I don't need to be a puppet in their little game.

I'll be seeing the movie in spite of this.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Fired up

The useless photo site is burning up with activity.

Egad, that was awful. If you're not too disgusted with that pun, do feel free to mosey over there.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007


Better pictures than this can be found on the useless photo site.

Something for the boys?

I fully admit that I have at best a layperson's familiarity with marketing and the theories behind what is effective in that arena. I have only my reactions to use as a gauge of efficacy, and I suspect I am far too analytical to fall into any target demographic.

With that out of the way…

I pass by the magazine rack in one store or another with some regularity. I like to think I am reasonably observant about the sort of photos that typically adorn the covers of the so-called lads mags. There's a scantily clad (egad, I really must find a new phrase for that)… There's a model or actress or celebrity of some sort in a state of undress that would be inappropriate for any sort of formal gathering. The purpose of the suggestive pose, I presume, is to inspire sexual desire in the heterosexual males observing the cover, thus making them inclined to purchase the magazine. It's undoubtedly not that calculating, but ultimately that's the motivation on the part of the editors who select the shot for the cover. It needs to be alluring enough to draw one's attention away from all the other magazines competing for the browser's eye (all the other models/actresses/celebrities in states of undress that month).

I'm not looking to debate whether this practice is sexist (of course it is). This is merely an exploration of whether they meet their intended goal.

So a few weeks ago I see the latest GQ on the stands and it features a brunette with her hair partially obscuring her face, with no discernible expression on her face, dressed in a bikini where the color doesn't stand out well against her skin tone, with a sheer camisole over her shoulders that she is lifting up with her arms in the same way a five-year old lifts up her dress when nervous.

While it did get my attention, the pose inspired in me questions about what the editors were going for. There seemed to be better shots of her in the pictorial inside the magazine (which one should have no difficulty finding online--why bother copyrighting anything?), but again, I am no expert in this field. Perhaps I don't have latent pedophilia and thus it isn't intended for me.

Beyond that, I couldn't even tell who the woman was. The woman in little (or no) clothing on the cover is always promoting something (a movie, a TV show, herself, etc.) and it seems like being identifiable is of relative importance with that pursuit.

Upon closer inspection (you can see the cover here), I noticed the text in the lower corner revealed her to be Jessica Biel, Esquire's "Sexiest Woman Alive" for 2005 (lucky for her that other magazine bestowed her that title before this shot was unleashed on the world). Looking again at the obscured face I finally recognized her.

It didn't seem like it should have required that much effort. I suppose the editors succeeded in drawing the effort. Bravo, GQ. No wonder I never read your magazine.

She was featured to promote her inclusion in the upcoming "film" I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry. I don't know who her agent is, but he really isn't helping her in her expressed desire to be taken seriously as an actress. (If the movie is only half as awful as it appears to be from the trailer it may sneak above single digits in its Rotten Tomatoes rating.)

Angelina Jolie appeared on the cover of Esquire with nothing but a sheet in front of her, but she actually looked like an adult female in the shot. There is already talk of her getting another Oscar nomination. Certainly it could just be Ms. Jolie is more talented as an actress than is Ms. Biel, but one cannot help but wonder if another aspect of Angelina's talent stems from knowing how to pose when a camera is pointed at her (she does have a lot of practice in that area), and that influences how she is perceived by those who cast movies.

But as I noted up front, I have no expertise in how these things work. There is a reason why I am not publishing a glossy magazine.

There is also a reason I'm not buying those glossy magazines.

(And I'm certainly not timely in writing about these things.)

Monday, July 16, 2007

Ho-ho-hey, is that what I think it is?

Spotted this past weekend at the mall:

However, that was not terribly surprising. [By the way: Only 160 shopping days left (as of posting time).]

What was weird: Earlier in the day, at a Mexican restaurant in a separate city, the music playing in the dining area was flamenco guitar versions of Christmas songs.

The influence of the holidays is spreading.

Wonderful thing to waste

Last week VH1 started airing the second World Series of Pop Culture, another tournament of teams competing to answer questions about music, movies, TV, and on occasion, celebrities outside of the context of those field, since the advent of contemporary popular culture (which, judging from the questions, started in the 1970s—I'm sure it is no coincidence that this period is what VH1 has chronicled with its I Love the '70s, I Love the '80s, I Love the '90s, and Best Week Ever series). Ostensibly the self-proclaimed geeks are vying for a trophy and $250,000, but the real appeal is showcasing the information their obsessive natures have caused their brains to retain.

We all have those bits that data that we can recall off the top of our heads. Most of it probably serves some purpose in our daily life. This competition gives justification for the rest of it.

I watch the episodes with a combination of excitement and dread. Because pop culture does not serve a pragmatic purpose—by definition, it cannot (that is its primary appeal)—the only way to know the answers to the questions is to have devoted significant portions of one's time engaged in activities that weren't going to have benefit in the "real" world. I feel conditioned to be dismissive of this knowledge. I'm not entirely sure where I got that; I don't recall ever be admonished about it. I've never had to demonstrate knowing John Lennon's middle name (Winston) or Jim Morrison's middle name (Douglas) during a job interview, so perhaps it was tacitly reinforced as less important by virtue of not being required for something I pursued.

Maybe it's that the topics on WSOPC don't tend to be categories on Jeopardy. The long-running Trebek-hosted game show has (in my perception) a greater association with legitimacy, because it focuses more on literature and science than on the Brady Bunch. I think it comes down to this: Jeopardy tests all those things you were supposed to learn in college; WSOPC tests how much you remember of what you learned in college, most likely while having the munchies. It's what your tuition really paid for, but there was no accreditation for it.

(I will admit that both shows are not as difficult as they probably should be. Such is the concession of making them appeal to a broad audience: The non-obsessive viewer needs to get some of the questions right.)

I don't think any of the teams in the WSOPC pool sought the prize money to repay their parents; the contestants all appear to be gainfully employed, and presumably their folks have come to grips with whether or not the money spent on their "education" was worth it. However, I wouldn't be surprised if the winning team feels a bit of redemption in their parents' eyes. All of those hours in front of the TV finally paid off.

When I watch Jeopardy I find myself often having a vague recollection of once knowing the answer but only able to muster something like, "Oh, you know—the guy who did the thing." I get slightly depressed over how I squandered my many years at university (most of which I paid for myself, working close to full time while taking classes), but when I can answer a question (or, rather, question an answer) I get quite a sense of elation.

However, when I watch WSOPC, if I can answer a question that neither of the contestants gets right, I feel momentary joy but it's followed by that conditioned sense of shame stemming from the proof of where my brainpower is strongest. It's a given that I should know most of the answers, and when I don't know one, I get a sensation that I interpret as this-must-be-what-people-who-actually-have-a-life feel like; the reason I don't know whatever bit of trivia was asked must indicate I was actually using my brain for something else.

I know that's not the case, of course. Intellectually, I know there's nothing wrong with having the trivial knowledge. The URL for the site is uselessdoug, after all; I must be something of a supporter of what serves no purpose. I'm not being critical of it when I think about it, but in the way I feel about it, outside of cognition, I cannot help but react as I have noted.

But I keep watching, so I'm not that ashamed.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

And I thought I was obvious...

An article in the latest Psychology Today (my girlfriend has a temporary subscription as part of helping out her nephews with some fundraising effort) posits that sarcasm is aggressive and indicative of insecurity.

Oh yeah, that's insightful. Good to see somebody's PhD isn't going to waste.

[Ba-dum-chink! Thank you. I do two shows on Sunday. Tip your wait staff.]

Wednesday, July 11, 2007


From this site promoting the upcoming Simpsons movie, the avatar that I made (above).

And the avatar of me made by my girlfriend (below).

(No, we're not in counseling. Why do you ask?)

See my friends here.

Knocked in

So I got a comment on my extraordinarily succinct post about the movie Knocked Up (wherein I spent two sentences merely agreeing with the good reviews the film got) that pointed out a post on The Nation's site. That post alluded to another post on Slate (which took to task the treatment—or lack thereof—of abortion in the film), then spoke somewhat critically of the scenario that provides the plot of Knocked Up (schlub has one-night-stand with hottie).

My friend's comment inquired about my thoughts on those pieces.


I wasn't looking to analyze the film or any suggested message. That was why I pithily parroted the gist of the reviews I saw. But now that a sort of gauntlet has been thrown…

I'm a bit more inclined to focus on the Slate piece, and on that I suppose I think that trying to make Judd Apatow's comedy into the example of how movies (and, by inference, TV) "handle" abortion in the current climate is twisting it for one's own agenda.

I grasp that everyone has those topics that can't help but push their buttons, and that's what inspired these writers, and that they need to generalize to emphasize their theses. I am not criticizing using artistic pieces as inspiration for discussion; that's what every term paper about literature has been.

However, the movie is called "Knocked Up," and if Alison just has an abortion (as her mother suggests), one really doesn't have much of a plot. It's all good and well to suggest (as the writers on those sites do) that Apatow pusillanimously dances around the topic, but I think that's obligating the film to be more than I got the feeling (when watching the movie) it was trying to be. To dwell too much on abortion would have changed it into a "message" movie or a satire, but that's what Citizen Ruth brilliantly was (the Slate piece astutely mentions that); Knocked Up was a comedy that wasn't trying to polarize anyone—it was trying to be funny.

The humor stemmed from imposing the ultimate in responsibility on one who sought a much lower level of responsibility. Ultimately pretty straightforward fish-out-of-water sort of thing, in a manner of speaking. If Seth Rogan's Ben character had been dashingly handsome and ridiculously successful, that would force the comedy to revolve around the taming of a womanizing lothario rather than the forced growth of a "schlub"; while that very well could have been funny, I'm of the opinion that it wouldn't have been the movie Apatow set out to make.

The women who wrote these pieces are entitled to their interpretations, and can cite those interpretations in their arguments. Such is the beauty of art. However, to lament how a comedy with a title like "Knocked Up" is not "A Referendum on Contemporary Reproductive Rights" does strike me as putting a bit too much onto it.

Conceivably if you want a movie that addresses the issue of abortion more head-on (or a movie where the hot guy chooses the frumpy woman), the best solution might be to make one. Heck, then when it bombs at the box office you can complain about how the public didn't go see your movie and the inherent sexism in our society. There'd be no ambiguity about what the film maker thought, because you'll be the film maker; you won't have to speculate about your own political/philosophical inclinations.

Of course, that was just my reaction; I could be wrong.

Thus you may get some idea why I spent only two sentences on the movie in the earlier post. I wasn't looking to contribute to a lot of artificial bluster created by this nonsense known as the blogosphere. And now I have; I became part of the problem (and unnecessarily generalized just there, so I can fit in).

But never let it be said I don't try to make my fans--er, my readers happy.

Friday, July 06, 2007

Blowing up

A brief open letter to the illegal fireworks industry:

Despite all your efforts, far too many of the idiots of the country fail to suffer serious injury from lighting explosive devices while ostensibly celebrating our country's independence. I do not need to do extensive research to know that the morons who are inclined to set off your packets of powder still have their limbs because I could hear the ka-booms at 2:30 in the morning. On the 5th of July. And after midnight on July 6.

These fans of freedom clearly have enough fingers left on their hands to light the fuse, and this is proof that you are not doing your job. Ultimately, you have only one task: thin the herd. Yours is the industry best suited to appeal to the naïve and dangerous. You are in the unique position of disfiguring them before they become a serious threat to the rest of us while making a profit at it. They will pay for the opportunity. Heck, the really stupid ones will come back again after they've learned to fire up the lighter with their other hand.

However, it is obvious too many of them are emerging unscathed from their frivolity with your products, so I beseech you to make the necessary modifications to expedite the necessary inevitable outcome: pack in more explosive powder and make the fuses even shorter. And change any warnings printed on the packaging to encouragement to hold the fireworks in the hand for the best experience. (You're already illegal; it's not like they can find you for a lawsuit anyway.)

I realize it's too late for this year. Please begin the process of implementing the necessary changes a.s.a.p. so they will be in effect by next July.

Yours in appreciation and disdain,

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Quote du jour

"It is better to be a dissatisfied human being than a satisfied pig."
– John Stuart Mill, Utilitarianism

Hold on--how satisfied is the pig?

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Chalking it up again

For those who have been waiting to see if there would be more pictures from last month's Pasadena Chalk Festival posted on the photo site, your patience has been rewarded. Click here to see all the new photos.

(If nothing else this site helps develop your virtue of patience, doesn't it?)