something that is singular as (a) a separate unit, or (b) unusual or distinctive manner or behavior; PECULIARITY
the quality or state of being singular
a point at which the derivative of a given function of a complex variable does not exist but every neighborhood of which contains points for which the derivative exists
a point or region of infinite mass density at which space and time are infinitely distorted by gravitational forces and which is held to be the final state of matter falling into a black hole
§~ Wednesday, July 23, 2008 ~§
«09:28» Reasons to commute by bike: # sinΘ Fixed gear commuter racing. Against a reasonably attractive young man. Normally I'm the one in front providing the view. He was up for a bit of a burn, though, and I could not catch him until the roundabout above the bypass, where my approach coincided with the lights changing and he thought he'd dropped me so didn't accelerate very hard.
That'll wake you up in the morning.
If you were the rider of the orange fixed gear with the orange messenger bag (Crumpler?) travelling in the direction of Heriot Watt this morning along Calder Road being followed (then passed) by a red-head in a Sugoi Manga Jersey on an Il Pompino with Midge bars carrying a silver and black Timbuk2... Tighten your chain, man!
Lack of biscuity hug was disappointing today, though. I think it was vanilla shortbread on the way home yesterday.
Run. Don't walk. Put the DVD down and flee. Don't even touch it. Don't pick it up. Do not expose yourself to the teasing lies that adorn the back of the box. You will thus be spared reading "The Cottage isn't just the funniest British Comedy in years, but the horror event of 2008. Don't miss it." That's all right. It's fine. If you had picked up the box you might have spotted that this review comes from The Daily Mirror, even though they've carefully made that bit grey and blurry and very, very small so you might think it came from someone worthwhile. If you leave the box on the shelf you will not be tempted by the presence of one of the cast of The League Of Gentlemen.
The description on the back of the box bears little relationship to the film itself. I once bought a low-fat, low-sugar recipe book. In it was a recipe for custard and jelly that used polenta and fruit tea. I kid you not. The author said that the yellow colour of the polenta "bore a comforting resemblance to custard." The entire book bore a displeasing resemblance to food.
This film bears a displeasing resemblance to something for which it is worth losing 90 minutes of your life. Roll up all the zombie/Texas Chainsaw Massacre/Evil Dead/Lock Stock Dog Soldiers Britflick tropes, stick 'em in a blender, sieve them to remove the lumpy bits then water it down for people who can't take anything stronger than dilute Ribena.
I haven't seen anything that tries so hard and fails so miserably in a very long time.
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Fixed gear commuter racing. Against a reasonably attractive young man. Normally I'm the one in front providing the view. He was up for a bit of a burn, though, and I could not catch him until the roundabout above the bypass, where my approach coincided with the lights changing and he thought he'd dropped me so didn't accelerate very hard.
The Cottage.
From now on, all Mars Phoenix tweets are to be read in the voice of GLaDOS.
