Greenpeace has launched a campaign to give British Petroleum a new logo. Isn’t that thoughtful? I mean, BP already has a logo that’s pretty and sparkly and green and kind of like a flower but also like the sun — maybe a sunflower? — but given the GIANT OIL SLICK that’s begun washing ashore here in Louisiana, Greenpeace thought BP could use something richer and more earthtoned and, you know, gross. It’s kind of like back in the 90s when everyone was revamping logos for t-shirts, except this time Greenpeace will make money from it.
Below, you’ll see the ad that appeared in yesterday’s Guardian to announce the campaign, and here’s a link to Greenpeace’s spiffy website, where you can see all the latest entries — and submit your own.
Good luck, graphic designers. When you have a second, maybe you could send down some Dawn dishwashing liquid and a sponge?
Yeah, see, we were planning to do Hedda Gabler — as a comedy of course, with a rousing rendition of “Suicide Is Painless” to cap off the show — but then we figured that if we didn’t do a Real Housewives parody ASAP, the bloom would be off the rose. Personally, I think the bloom has already fallen, hit the ground, been collected by hippies, tossed into a vat of canola, and is now being sold as essential oil from the back of a van on Canal Street, but whatever. Rehearsals are hilarious, and that’s all that matters.
So in sum, what I’m getting at is: COME TO THE DAMN SHOW. I’ll see y’all there, assuming I make it through in one piece.
I hate Cato. I’ve never even been to Cato, I have no idea what it is, but I hate it because of its commercials and its shy/wild giantess/spokesmodel, who is not only NOT a model, but also NOT an actress, unless we consider, say, Melissa Sue Anderson an actress, and do we really have to limbo that low? FLOODGATES: OPEN.
Anyway, inspired by a tweet from someone I follow that I can’t seem to find at the moment, I have decided to liveblog the current Cato commercial. IT IS TERRIBLE.
:02 — Okay, Terribly-Dressed-And-Possibly-Retarded-Keith-Urban-Stunt-Double, I have told you: DO NOT GET ME WET!
:05 — YOU WERE WARNED!!!!1!! OM NOM NOM etc.
:10 — I cannot believe the amount of makeup that queen in wardrobe slathered on my eyelids. Does she understand? That we’re in New Orleans? IT IS HOT, HOT, MOTHERHUMPIN’ HOT. I can barely even see you, you hipster-marshmallow-cupcake-duck-like creature.
:11 — I dunno, what do YOU wanna do?
:12 — Let’s stop!
:13 — No, LET’S GO. You look a little like that creepy recovering alcoholic that Sarah Jessica Parkinglot dated in that long-running series whose name I can’t recall — the same guy who showed up as another recovering alcoholic in a completely different show — all of which is beginning to creep me out a little, so seriously: let’s go. LET’S GO FIND A POLICEMAN.
:15 — I’m still a little full from devouring my first boyfriend by the fountain, but I can’t say no to anything that long and red.
:16 — Neither can you, I bet.
:17 — Yes, I lost my teeth in a tragic buffet accident. The doctors had no choice but to replace them with tiny fluorescent light bulbs. Now put on your blue-blockers and FEED ME.
:17 — Wait, this top makes my ass look HUGE. Am I…am I advertising clothes for FAT PEOPLE? I AM GOING TO EAT KILL THAT AGENT.
:20 — Just as soon as I eat kill you.
:22 — On second thought, you are far too sinewy and thin to be filling. And that turquoise shirt looks like it might be contagious. You may pass. Do not touch me again.
:26 — HEE! I AM AS GIDDY AS A SCHOOLGIRL! A REALLY DUMB SCHOOLGIRL WHO IS STILL IN SCHOOL AT AGE 52!
:27 — Oh, there’s my stomach rumbling again. I’m going back on my word: say goodbye to your son, Mrs. Marshmallow Cupcake Ladypants.
:28 — Cato? CATO? Like that guy from the OJ thing? Ohgodohgodohgod that agent is toast. Or at least marmalade on toast. Mmm, is anyone else hungry?
I go through this very process at least once a week. If only I’d known there’s a flowchart and that it comes in poster form. To quote a certain carpet-rider (ahem), it’s a whole new world.
Somehow I managed to miss this story on NPR, but it’s not terribly surprising. Around these parts, the drag ladies have always got your back:
Workers in the Gulf of Mexico are using oil containment booms to sop up oil and protect coastlines from the approaching slick.
Commercial booms are usually made of plastic. But an alternative source for the booms is found on the floor of salons across the country.
As it turns out, hair adheres to oil pretty efficiently, which is why your hair gets greasy. Now salons are donating their discarded locks to help with the Gulf Coast cleanup.
A group in San Francisco has been producing hair booms for nearly a decade now. Matter of Trust makes nylon stockings stuffed with human hair and trimmed animal fur.
“Booms will lie along the beach, the waves will come up, and they’ll go through the hair and the nylon,” says Lisa Gautier, co-founder of Matter of Trust. “And the hair will grab the oil and then the wave goes back out and it’s cleaner.”
Gautier says the BP spill is by far the biggest challenge she’s encountered, so her organization is directing its current stockpile of hair — 400,000 pounds — toward the cleanup.
While the group does have lots of hair, Gautier notes, there is one shortage. “I knew that hair wouldn’t be a problem, but nobody wears nylons anymore,” she says.
Well, some people still do. Gautier says the great thing about being based in San Francisco is the city’s transvestite community, which has readily donated nylons. The group has also received donations from Wal-Mart and Hanes.
Ronald Firbank was a standout in the field of English eccentrics. He made the Sitwells look about as outrageous as the cast of Family Ties. He came from a ridonkulously wealthy family, bailed on college before finishing his degree, traipsed through Europe and Northern Africa frittering away his inheritance, and, at the age of 41, he died of lung disease in Rome, as all good eccentrics ought to do. Many critics considered his work piffle (yes: piffle), but E. M. Forster and Evelyn Waugh adored him, and since Waugh is responsible for one of the most gorgeous, sublime novels of all time, I suppose we can trust him.
Neither her Gaudiness the Mistress of the Robes, or her Dreaminess the Queen were feeling quite themselves. In the Palace all was speculation. Would they be able to attend the Fetes in honor of King Jotifa, and Queen Thleeanouhee of the Land of Dates?-Court opinion seemed largely divided. Countess Medusa Rappa, a woman easily disturbable, was prepared to wager what the Countess of Tolga liked (she knew), that another week would find the Court shivering beneath the vaulted domes of the Summer-Palace.
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