Prospective Perspective

Plastic Pinhead - Project #1

2012-01-28T19:27:00.000-05:00

Do you have guilt about plastic bags? Do you think about how many times you spent the 99 cents to buy fabric bags to bring with you into the market and then forget them countless times in the car, in the kitchen or even in the cart you bought groceries in? Do you ever feel like a plastic bag? No, of course you don't. That is a ridiculous lyric. I think plastic bags are weighing on all of our consciences - right up there with nuclear war and starving babies. And I know you feel like I do. I don't want to throw my guilt bags out now because I took them home when I shouldn't have and I would rather have them here than in the landfill killing baby otters or something. What should I do with them?

Pinterest has helped me see some uses for these bags which are starting to grow like tribbles around here.

Some more advanced solutions include a long, involved braided project that will eventually become a basket and a bag made of bags!

I also came across more than a few versions of ways to store those annoying plastic bags from the grocery stores.

Some followers on the site shared this link to RealSimple and their idea for reusing tissue boxes for storing your bags and this site from The Daily Buzz using old cleaning wipes containers, but there were two issues with these methods that didn't seem to work for my needs.

#1- Grocery bags are bigger than what those containers would hold.

So, I thought I'd upgrade the holding container to something more appropriate for my needs, an issue that in comparison to their solution looked like brown plastic hoarding.

Ain't no tissue box gonna hold that!

Enter my solution:

A box that held kitty litter

But there was something else bothering me.....

Problem #2 - After putting my plastic baggies in here, how could I fish them out after the first one, perched charmingly at the lip of the box, was taken?

Then, it hit me.

Do this to the ends of each bag:

Don't you love the pants?

Make sure to pull here so they stay connected when you pull them out of the box.

Now, do this for all your bags. Once you have a giant chain of bags created, roll them up. It's important to fold them in half, folding the bottom of the "bag" part up to the handle part and then roll them like a sleeping bag or a fruit roll-up, whichever sounds more fun to you.

Now it's time for the box!!!

Reminder: I am not a craft-mama retro-blog guru and my pictures are real, so they are filled with "character" and what some more focused people would call "sloppiness", but at the end of the day this is a box that is holding used grocery bags, not a masterpiece featured in Martha's Kitchen. Although, if some craft-mama guru or Martha herself would like to do this and make it not look like a third grader's Mother's Day gift, please do. :D

So, first, I painted the box:

And then I realized it was streaky and ugly.

So, I got my stash of National Geographic magazines and remembered how many thousands of projects Pinterest had that utilized maps. There are at least 6 free maps for every year of magazines from NG.

This one is of Africa.

I stuck it on there and then wrapped it like a gift.

I learned an important lesson:

GESSO IS NOT GLUE

and it made everything bubble with "character".

So, if your baggie box is going to be featured in public view, use paint, wrap it like a birthday gift with wrapping paper or just brown paper from paper bags, or newspaper or decoupage it with the RIGHT supplies. All of these things would have made this a "reminder" free post. :)

Next cut a door out in the back so you can "load" your baggie box. Make sure it's big enough for the roll of bags you have.

Look at all that character!

Thread your first baggie through the lip where the litter used to come out from and there you go!

and they keep going...and going....

In the end, I did think about the practicality of this project and thought that it wouldn't appeal to everyone.

For instance, the amount of time retrieving old bags is usually less than the amount of time collecting old bags or else there wouldn't be an old bag stockpile like so many of us have. This logic would then make linking all the bags and then rolling them and then putting them in the box not a likely practice (unless you have kids you want to keep busy while you make dinner), so the trouble I went through to create the system has gone to waste in these peoples' eyes, but the box in itself is still larger than a tissue box and you could just use the back end where you cut the door out to stow and retrieve bags. This would be the way I would use the box if I weren't hellbent on solving the issue of dispensing.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my thrown together improvements and the attempt to do more than "pin". I'll be back with more experiments from the boards.

"Would you look right here for me?" *

2011-11-04T10:59:00.000-05:00

Clearing the canvas. A remodel is required and reinvention looming. Will it last? There's no way to know. You just have to birth the newest rendition and hope that it is a better version of you and not a tenth generation a la Multiplicity. To ink or to crayons, let the new writer emerge.

*Men in Black (1997)

Not a Quilt Post. (of course)

2011-10-12T20:33:00.002-05:00

This satirical piece is called

Mocking Horse Winner

There's money to be made at the race

to the top.

"There must be more learning gains!"

They were found dead, slumped over their testing packets

Pencils in hands

Their epitaphs bubbled in completely.

~I.G.

..."And now for something completely different"

2011-08-17T16:44:00.010-05:00

It's not that I have given up or that I have employed the exacto blade in ways not intended for its use or even that this post is going to be a big blog of excuses, it's just that I had to go back to work this week. Work comes with a 4 am run, an hour commute and overtime. Sometimes it comes with extra work as a means for secondary income.

No worries, though. The thread is still running through my veins. I can't look down at the tile in my classroom and not see mini quilts and block combinations. I even found a stray rectangle of swirled fabric in my purse the other day and looked away longingly with a forlorn smile when I doted upon the summer I spent with the quilt. I have no new pictures of products to show and I have scrolled through the site and found that the pictures are getting boring and repetitive. To breakup some of that here are a series of products I found in Wal-Mart to break up the monotony:

Zote: The Racist Soap!

Who wants prissy dew anyway? Taste the Lightning!

How can we make cheese more healthy?

Baby Granny! I can't wait to change those diapers!

Who says sausages are sexual?

No Comment

So, I have proved that the blog is not dead. Maybe it's a little anemic from neglect, but certainly not dead. As soon as I have a moment to sew, you'll know.

Honor Roll

2011-08-09T08:48:00.005-05:00

The blogging pace has slowed down a bit, I know, and so has the quilting. The summer is winding down as well which is one of the reasons for the hold up. In a week I will be back in the midst of chaos and the saving grace and sanity-glue of it all may well be this activity. When things get out of control in life, the best thing to have is a completable to task to focus on. In the past these tasks have been knitting, needlepoint, trash novels and even video games (I am down for ANY quest) because they can be completed and done without the frustration of too much circumstance and other people's issues.

The progress is slow, but steady. With every completed block, things line up more and more. It's like watching the ice caps melt. One millimeter at a time. My mother says to include the misshapen blocks in the quilt as a testament to progress and proof of the homeade-ness of this piece. I wasn't going to because I would like to believe that I have some kind of secret unparalleled talent and I am perfect, but she may be right. Owning the actual proof of progress would be an incredible thing - especially if I decide to keep doing this. I can look at the equivalent of my kindergarten refrigerator masterpiece and compare it to my college thesis and feel like there has been an incredible transformation.

I know I wanted to include some kind of metaphor in this post about things in life lining up like the squares of each block, but I just can't formulate the rest of that thought. So, there ya go.

Here are my refrigerator-worthy blocks:

Kindergarten -
Notice how the right line is fragmented at the top.

1st grade-
Considerably less fragmenting on the upper right-hand line!!

How did I do it? Lots and lots of spray starch!

I constructed those two blocks in the same day and it felt good to see that things were lining up. I started a third one, but when it gets to be midnight my eye-hand coordination lobe fails completely. In the past, staying up late to do this has left me nothing but unusable scraps, shoddy math and instances of quilt pieces being stitched to the sleeves of my pajamas.

Today, however, is another day brimming with coffee. To the sewing machine....

Project Cut-Away

2011-08-01T10:36:00.009-05:00

As you know in quilting, one day you're perfectly cut and the next day you're not.

I don't know if there are gremlins coming in and slicing things askew while I sleep or if I am letting my astigmatism do all the measuring, but it seems that no matter how much I try, there are still squares that come out uneven.

I decided the other day to not let those uneven or askew squares make it into my block. I suspect the problems I am having are coming from them. Because I had been watching the marathons of Project Runway while I struggled through this, I was inspired.

After looking closely at the squares I cut for the next block, I could see instantly that the problem was most rampant in the squares made of two quarter triangles and one half triangle.
Here are some testimonies from the contestants:

"Shoo- Ya'll can't handle my diversity. I didn't come here
to make friends. I am too refined and sophisticated. You'll
see. Ima be jus' fine. Just because you can't sew
don't mean I ain't gorgeous. Bya, ya'll. I am going to a
quilt that can handle me."

"I can't believe I made the cut. I just hope I can measure up and not fray from the stress. This is all I ever wanted. I was cut for this quilt!"

Looking back at the above, maybe cheese wasn't the way to go with this post, but oh well. What is done is done.
Moving on...

I looked at the pattern again and saw that these quarter triangles were perhaps a skill for the more advanced. They weren't integral to the pattern either. They ended up making to alternating strips under the main pattern and added appeal, but didn't define the pattern as a whole.
So, I re-engineered the pattern and make all the quarter triangles into half triangles.

I thought I could speed sew these and be done, but speed sewing is also another skill I haven't mastered. I'd say 3 out of 4 squares from each batch measured up, but there was always that one that was slightly off.

I did them all individually, obsessing over each part and I mastered about 2 rows!!

There are slight alignment issues, but it is way more accurate than any other one I have done before. I was high on the accomplishment and should have stopped at this point, but I didn't. I spent the next 2 hours trying to patch together the 3rd row and line it up with these two. It would not align! I suspect one of the ousted contestants snuck back into the mix and is ruining the straight-edge contestants. Needless to say, I haven't gone back to the third row in almost two days. I will, though, soon.....after intense therapy for the emotional scars.

The Day Of Do-Overs: Aligning the Stars

2011-07-29T13:47:00.014-05:00

I think I left off on the last post trying to perfect the very complicated block pattern that I have chosen. My innate stubbornness has not let me throw in the towel on this. I understand that the pattern is advanced, but I have no problem trying and trying and developing new skills to achieve the desired look. I may end up with only a pillowcase at the end of this whole thing. I am burning up material like a crazy person. There have been a few things that I have been thinking about since I started this very difficult quilt. Let me get through some of them:

Mommy

My mom has been the greatest resource so far. She keeps almost everything and has always had a special space in her stuff for the crafter's life she has always wanted. I suspect if we won the Powerball, she'd just do art projects and crafts for the rest of her life. (Don't worry, Mom. If I win I'll make sure you have a house in the mountains just for your art and bunny rabbits.) Because of her ability to hang on to things I was able to keep the $14.00 in my bank account for another week.

The first thing she gave me was a sewing machine that had been calibrated!

So seductive...

In the morning, it looks just as sexy:

She also gave me a real, live ironing board. I had committed a huge crafters no-no when I padded the cutting mat with some towels and decided to iron on it. Now you can hang ten on the waves.

I am sure this will not do any good for the accuracy issues I am having. I do have a mini-mat though and I will use this.
Mom also had spray starch and a seam ripper, which I will now give a name to since it has become the one item that has saved crafters all over the world time and time again. Seam Ripper, you are now called "Superman".

SUPERMAN

Mom also suggested that I pin the corners together to eliminate the unevenness. We'll get to the results of the advice I was given at the end.

I was now excited to get back to work once acquiring all the shiny new supplies.

The Sayers of Nay

Obviously, sewing/quilting is not the area in which I excel. People always tell me to write more. Believe it or not, this blog was once hilarious. You can read for yourself on the left side of the screen by clicking on any of the links under "Best of Ann". However, for me to be funny, I have to be especially mad. Since 2009 I have found better ways to vent my anger than my blog. Some would call this abuse. I call it teaching. My blog doesn't come back five years later and thank me for being an inspiration. However, with the newfound impulse to make a quilt I found it necessary to write. Part of the reason is because my Facebook friends did not want a long-winded explanation of my failure to make it with a few yards of fabric. So, here it is. With pictures!

One of my closest friends replied to my status update with a link to Bed,Bath &Beyond. She also wanted to know if I drank Metamucil while quilting. My boyfriend, who is the loudest voice that I should start writing again, told me that I was feeling old because I was spending my days trying to get this quilt correct. Although, when I wanted to re-think the whole pattern, he slyly threw the "you never finish anything" guilt trip at me. I beat him up in my thoughts before marching over to the pattern and declaring war on its inaccurate name, "Chinese Puzzle (Easy)". EASY?!

The next day I told him I started the blog up and was writing entries about the quilt. He still hasn't read it. I tried to explain that writing isn't just something you do. It's the product of other things. If there are no pressing matters or desires to share things, why write? I have no urge to re-hash my day at work when I get home. I don't follow sports and I have a hard enough time finding ways to grade other people's writing to even start some of my own. I thought I would write fiction one day, but you still have to be selling a message or creating some kind of mystery or puzzle with a clear resolution to do that. You have to love your characters and want to play God of the universe if you aren't trying to hold a mirror up to it. I guess that need is quelled in my own classroom(universe).

Either way, writing about quilting is not writing about sewing machines. It's documenting the overcoming of a challenge. Fact or fiction, this is what makes for entertaining stuff whether you are writing it or reading it. So, here, in this blog you will witness either the success or the failure of one person who has a questionably psychotic drive to get one task done correctly: to sew fabric together to make one bigger piece of fabric!

The Issues

Yesterday I had cut and pressed and sewed on the new machine. The squares were much more accurate than my other attempts (with the exception of 3). Three squares didn't want to line up. Oh, I should mention that I did more math to be able to cut everything down more so I could have the best chances of being accurate this time - now that I was only focusing on one big block at a time instead of just cutting in bulk.

I watched some more videos of professionals and someone said that instead of rows, try making squares - this way lining up one block at a time will be easier.

This is where I started, with the 4 in the middle

I tried:

And tried and tried. I am posting the pics because they all look the same.

Then, I thought of the advice my mom said about pining the corners and I couldn't get the pin to stay, so I made a little stitch in the back to hold the mark. I looked GREAT!!!

See how lined up they are! I thought I did it until I sewed it.

Superman then lectured me on how this is how the last Superman lost this pointy part.

I cut away about three hours today to only find that everything is still not working. Am I still cutting inaccurate squares? How do accurate squares turn into inaccurate triangles? How do accurate triangles make for bad blocks? How much more OCD can I get before making one block takes an entire week?
I went to the Almighty Web for more solutions, but what do you even properly call this problem? I looked up "mismatched squares", "block assembly", etc. I know with search engines it's all about the terminology. My mother suggested I take a class. What nerve! I have the Internet and it is free. A class? With real humans? Does she even know who I am?

Anyway, I sense it is time for coffee and to relax before attempting this whole thing again!

Size matters

2011-07-27T14:56:00.003-05:00

This morning I went to visit my mom. She showed me a picture of a quilt she made at a younger age than me. It was pristine - adding to my shame.

We talked about the possible causes for the drunken/blind person squares I was producing. We agreed that the kink was the stacking of fabric for the sake of rotary cutting in bulk. When you cut more than 2 layers, you risk slight imperfections in the layers. Here you can see what I mean. It may look slight, but when this rectangle needs to be turned into a square and then into a triangle and all those cuts are stacked, havoc can ensue.

I spent last night looking at some videos from the pros. The Missouri Quilting Company makes quilting look SO simple, which didn't add to my self esteem. In addition, I could see that my under 100$ Wal-Mart bought sewing machine was the jalopy next to the Ferrari of sewing machines these pros were using.

The solution I came upon for the botchy squares was to re-size the blocks. So, instead of a 12" block, I'll end up with something like a 10 or 11 inch block. It may shrink the center, but I can make up for it in border or I may have to settle for a full/twin-sized quilt.

I think part of the experience of learning is to be flexible and understand that sometimes mistakes are made, but they don't have to ruin everything. Changing the plan to adjust to new information or new strategies is a great quality to have. I am not disappointed that the quilt will not be queen sized. At the end of the day, I'll be doing cartwheels if it looks good and doesn't burst into flames when you use it.

Let's see if mom's advice helps. (It usually does)

Like toilet paper

2011-07-26T17:20:00.010-05:00

So, instead of creating an entirely new blog to "litter the blogosphere" with, I am just going to add my new project to this old vehicle for sarcasm.

The young, bitter blogger has transformed into a elderly cat lady. It seems I have found harmony and have decided to disrupt that calm with the endeavor of quilting.

You may believe that this pastime is reserved for grannies and the feeble-minded, pack-rat hoarders of the backwoods, but I have discovered that this task is the marriage between extreme OCD, architecture, mathematical genius and incredible dexterity.

I thought I knew something about quilting because a while ago, I spent an entire year quilting my uncle's old concert tees together .

As you can see, there is nothing really uniform about the segments - I kind of just sewed everything together and hoped for the best - after backing every single shirt with jersey so they would all stretch the same.
It's been a few years now and the scars have healed over. I thought that a reasonable project I could do was do make the real deal. I was armed with a book my mother bought me and a pattern I liked. There are a lot of rules on quilterschache.com about stealing stuff - so I am telling you now, the block I am using comes from that site - click the link.

The first thing I learned in my journey was that I am still bad at math despite cramming for the GRE many years ago. Figuring out how much fabric I needed was difficult because of the way fabric is sold and because I did not use equations mixed with tangrams to get my numbers. I basically winged it - and had to go back to Jo Ann's three times. The last time I needed more fabric I was so embarrassed that I ordered it online. I don't know how many times I can tell the cutting lady that I suck at this sort of thing. The book AND the site afford you many tools to use to figure out how much you'll need, so of course, I estimated.

Anyway, step 1 was to cut.

After more math and heartbreak, I figured out that I would need 49 blocks to make a queen sized quilt. That meant cutting 98 strips of some fabric - for each color...one of them twice. They keep advising that you are exact, but fabric isn't exactly wood - it stretches and it behaves weird and sometimes I am like 1/8th off and it is no good. This is where the OCD can really be an advantage.

Oh, and before you ask, I am not hand-quilting. As it is, this will take me 6 months. I do know someone who did hand-quilt her own, but she is crazy. I can't tell if it was from quilting or if she was that way before...

So, four days later, I have all my pieces cut. Now comes the sewing. I immediately wasted a few squares on retarded things like sewing them on the wrong side or matching them up incorrectly. Once I got everything straight, it was midnight and I wasn't going to bed until 1 block of 49 was finished.

It was finished ...but disappointing.
As you can clearly see, things are mismatched and not aligned.

The back wasn't looking too hot either.

So,after a good night's rest, a LOT of coffee, a hot iron and my most stubborn qualities all riled up, I tried again.

I did these things differently:

I ironed everything
I cut uneven sides down to match before sewing
I made my 1/4 inch seam as scant as I could (that's craftspeak for I sewed along at a little less than 1/4 inch.)
I ironed, trimmed and measured before assembling the blocks into rows and then again before putting the rows together. The slight puckering you will see below is due to too much ironing and no starch. I will adjust for the next one.
So, here's the 2nd block.

There are still slight misalignments, but not as bad as the one before. This block also has the correct shape overall. (YAY!)
Here is the back:
I decided not to split the seams here. It was easier this way, but I am not sure if it is correct. It may account for the slight puckering. Either way, I am MUCH more pleased with the second block of 49!

At the very end, it should look like this according to quilterscache.com

If you have any tips, please share. I will incorporate them into the next block and you can see your own help hard at work.

See you on the next block.

"Too Much Blood in my Caffeine System"

2010-12-11T19:41:00.002-05:00

I made the mistake of taking my brother to breakfast today. It was a botched obligation I traded in for some more time to spend on the couch with my lover. With full intentions of making it up to Scotty by way of Taco Bell, I made the arrangements for feeding him after work. When we got in the car, I, all of a sudden, had a hankering for eggs, bacon and those either burnt or frozen potatoes from The Pancake House around the block. Sure, it's expensive, the service sucks and my brother orders their most expensive meal PLUS extra sides every time be go, but I keep returning for the same reason every one returns there: they simply have the greatest coffee on earth. In fact, they have a banner with a giant golden lion sipping coffee on it. That lion is the caffeine equivalent to the Hypnotoad(all glory to...) One cup in and she offers me another. "Yes", I practically beg her through tears of immediate regret. But, oh, it is so the best thing ever. It also washes down the burnt potatoes quite well.

Fast forward 5 hours later and I am wishing I went for that 3 mile run I meant to get in before it got dark, right before I picked up my mail and spent three hours reading the National Geographic that arrived, and before I started watching Glee. Now it is too late to run, but my mind is springing. I have a fuckTON of reading to do so I don't fudge the details on the novel I am teaching, but I'd much rather kill zombies and behead the conjurer mage who guards the treasure at the back of the cave I am exploring in the game on my xbox I am in love with. I would also love to clean and make things smell pretty while formulating the most innovative and effective method for teaching vocabulary this side of Marzano. Wow. I feel/sound like my sister. Someone needs to make sure my pupils aren't floating in the whites of my eyes because I have strained them too much while explaining these things to you. Someone make sure I am not doing it right now.

Don't call it a comeback...

2010-11-30T20:04:00.006-05:00

Today I blogged.

When did "blog" become a bad word? It's not necessarily entirely evil just yet, but it's not what it used to be. Remember when it was new and had that red plastic glow of new toy-ness? I have a blog with pictures that are funny and witticisms that will regale the fleshy walls of even the most crowded spam mailboxes and chain letter massacres. There was an open stage once associated with the word "blog". Now you say "blog" and I think of gobs and blobs of opinions from people like me with the illusion of audiences. Now, "bloggers" only have credibility with news commentary shows who are too lazy to go do actual journalism themselves. Everyone has a blog, but only those who can turn their tiny, ad-bartered piece of cyber real estate into a mecca of self-promotion get anywhere. Journalists posting what other journalists wrote. Is this where journalists go to die? Amateur writers going on missions and documenting their plights or failed novelists hoping for a bite; who are these people and where did their blogs go? To me blogging is the blue fairy at the bottom of the sea, keeping me frozen in a glow of hope, fathoms below a bustling and much more innovative world. I am perfectly content to write for the fish.

I sometimes troll my old blogging haunts, LJ, Wordpress, etc. It's nothing more than broken links and corrupted files. The ghosts of friends I loved in 2005, pictures from parties when everyone was much thinner, and, funny enough, old weight loss diaries and exercise aphorisms go unread.

That's going to change. Right now. I won't let this blog become "Probably Abandoned", as an acquaintance once named his blog when I pressured him to write one because he was so hilarious in real life.

The graveyard of abandoned blogs has one less resident tonight. ME!

AGAIN.

I am reviving...
AGAIN.

Who doesn't love zombies nowadays?

P.S. - Metaphor Coffee is looking for blood donors for its revival. If you like writing short stories and love a good competition and can END A STORY, please give me a shout. We'd love to have your....BRAINS.

Sick Day

2009-10-09T07:09:00.005-05:00

It’s Friday. Friday: the bacon-flavored nugget at the end of a week of pure obedience, the giant reward, the sigh of relief. The show, my friends, is at its end for this run. At least that’s what it is supposed to be. Not for me this week. I've been home sick.

A Brief History of Faking It

When I was young, I remember staying home sick as the height of all reprieves from schoolwork, and mean little girls who would pass their secrets to everyone at the table but me. In a tiny one and a half bedroom apartment where five people dwelt, it was paradise to be home sick. Think Home Alone. I could finally live my dream of eating nothing but ramen noodles and watch daytime television. Maybe I’d go to the pool or start a new project (even then I loved projects). Days home sick were the greatest unless you were actually sick, of course.

Like all kids, I bent my acting skills to the limit and as a sibling in a brood of three others, you had to be talented to warrant a day off from my parents. Some nights I’d skip dinner so I could use that evidence as support for my case the next morning. Sometimes I’d even go to sleep super early in order to give the appearance that I’d caught a bug that day and it was going to lay me out for AT LEAST 24 hours. I never went to far as to put the thermometer under the light bulb like the kid in E.T., but it was only because I didn’t think a temperature of 135 degrees would render good results. I think that even Ferris Bueller warns against this method citing that a trip to the ER is never a desired outcome.

But, by far, my most elaborate plan for staying home was also my biggest fail. If you ask my sister, she’ll peel over in laughter to this very day and will probably utter the phrase “whole peanuts” in between exaggerated breathes for air. I used to wish I was an only child. One night I decided I could not possibly face the teacher without my homework or deal with the mini-bitches I shared a table with (I take the Lord of the Flies stance on children and innocence). I had to do something drastic. Mom was not buying the traditional pouty face and refusal to get out of bed. So, I went into the bathroom with some, what I thought were, very well-planned ingredients. I think I had a mustard packet and some peanuts. I opened the packet of mustard and peanuts and started mashing them into the tile of the bathroom floor. The result was a bile-colored pile with whole peanuts in it. It needed more orange, I thought. What was orange? Ah, the conditioner that we used at the time was orange and it smelled like heaven. I added it to my fabulous concoction. A few sound effects later and I emerge with the frown, the fake shivers and a half-bent posture to indicate my severe agony. My sister finds me three steps out of the bathroom.

“Oh, I’m so sick” I tell her. She, being the foil of my entire childhood, replies.

“Oh? Did you puke?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see!!”

I point a frail and slightly trembling finger toward the bathroom floor.

“It smells incredible in here for puke,” she starts, “Oh and what is this? Wow. Whole peanuts! Whole peanuts! You barfed up whole peanuts.”

If I thought I wouldn’t be struck dead by lightning for cursing at that age, I would have had a steady stream of F-bombs going off in my head. They’d never buy it now. I didn’t even have to worry about alerting them either because in her torrent of laughter, my sister belted out for the authorities to come and inspect my latest creation.

“Mom! Mom! Get in here now! Ann’s sick. Look. She’s been barfing up whole peanuts and shampoo.”

The State of Staying Home as an Adult

Nothing could be farther from paradise than staying home sick as adult. For the most part, anything that will warrant more work upon your return or will leave you unable to get essential tasks completed is not dubbed desirable. To add to it, staying home from work is a last resort, meaning you feel so completely mutilated that even sitting up straight for an extended period of time warrants short breathes and a vague prayer for a quick death. Oh, and the hit to the wallet only amplifies those prayers.

Weird Al has a song where he celebrates calling in sick to do absolutely nothing all day. Doing absolutely nothing all day will do to an active mind what the rack did to medieval criminals. It pulls at little doubts you couldn’t afford to entertain in a busy atmosphere; it stabs at tender wounds you never got a chance to lick; and it holds you back from doing anything about them.

And then there are the drugs. When I first got sick, I was looking forward to the days of Nyquil and the nights of Theraflu. This is the closest I can actually get to narcotics in my life, so I welcome those “drowsy syrups”. The doctor put the prescriptions in my hands and told me that my bronchitis would be gone in a few days after starting this inhaler, and to make sure I kept up with the decongestants. Yay. Decongestants mean sleep and fevered dreaming.

Not always, apparently. Imagine my disappointment as I lay in my bed at midnight, the covers to my chin, an idiotic grin pasted across my face and my foot twitching nervously at the end of the bed. The dialogue in my brain was just one long word. okIhavetogotosleepforworktomorrowiamfeelingbetteryay. Inhalers, for those of you who don’t know, puff a small cloud of crack into your lungs. Instant absorption. It’s like shooting a Monster into your heart. Logically, I figured that I could negate these effects with some decongestant magic. Some of you may already be chuckling because you know exactly how decongestants act in certain situations. Like, for instance, if you mix them with a strong upper, they will only heighten the 100-cups-of-coffee reality you are stuck in. One a.m. comes around and cleaning seems like the most perfectly logical cure for all of this. Cleaning ends at five and the sun is coming up and since you’d deprived your body of sleep and replaced its healing time with lemon-scented household cleaners, you are sicker than when you started. Grand. More days home. I don’t know about you, but when I go to sleep when I am sick, I have a slight fear of waking up.

It’s always worse when you wake up.

No such thing as bad press

2009-07-22T23:26:00.001-05:00

More Evil Apples

Blank Stares

2009-07-21T12:51:00.005-05:00

There is a story my sister tells about being so stoned and paranoid at being caught that when her friend walked in the front door, she hastily set herself up on the couch and pretended to be mesmerized by the program on television.
The TV was off.

Whatever appeal she found in that black square is now available for your iphone:
Proof that people will stare at an empty screen.

You can make the screen on an iphone go to black on command without the app, of course, if you prefer darkened and distorted versions of your reflection. This is equivalent to dressing yourself in the reflection of your car door.

My sister stared intently at the blank television screen thanks to recreational stimulants. So, I have to ask, what are all these people smoking?

For more Apple-flavored haterade: uSheep
and another app.: A 1,000$ social status label

Let's Pretend We're Married

2009-07-20T07:57:00.009-05:00

Throughout my life, I have found that all of the traditional milestones and phases of my development that were advertised as momentous and awesome occasions have been nothing short of whopping festivals of disappointment. Graduation pictures of family members crowded around you in the gown symbolic for the death of your freedom and your inauguration into suffering (bills, work, bills, work) make it appear like the event is some sort of dignified celebration of your accomplishments. In reality, it turns out that those pictures capture nothing more more than the five minutes spent outside of an auditorium, crammed with thousands of people who are forced to sit through the self-indulgent speeches of figures they have never met or even heard of. You bear all of this to hear a stranger mispronounce your name in a conveyor belt of awkward handshakes and "turn and smile"s while you hypnotize yourself with repeated prayers that your heels won't get caught in the large cracks in the floor of the makeshift stage. People will actually sit through hours of this kind of torture willingly, yet I can't get my students to stay awake for ninety minutes while I tell them about the most influential works of the entire human experience. People are terrible.

Back to the topic, most "life occasions" fell flat for me. College was not a party. It was a four year long study session, a prolonged stay in a forum for criticism, and an expensive one at that. It wasn't parties, orgies and a reliving of the sixties. High school was not all cheerleading and prom dates and driving tests. It was being a ridiculed minority and a part time retail whore.

So, you can imagine that the next milestone that will be coming up (since I am somewhere in the land of 20s) is marriage. I know I am not the norm. Weddings were always awkward occasions. In fact, they reminded me of Bar Mitzvahs more than anything. A rehearsed show for people who are there for the food, stimulants and perhaps to find a way to move forward to whatever sexual base they haven't achieved. Of course, you go to honor the relationship of your closest kin, but let's be honest, wedding attendees fall into the following categories.

- I am here because so-and-so are my closest friend/friends and it is my duty to be at these occasions. This probably the most genuine you can get. (5% of guests)

-I am here because so-and-so was at my wedding and I don't want to be ousted from the family for resisting my mandatory time with them. I must show up, buy a gift that they deem appropriate and by no means say anything that I am thinking throughout the course of the night. Also, I must hog the camera to keep myself from getting bored. Getting wasted wouldn't hurt either. (60% of guests)

-I am here because I want to believe that an actual lasting marriage is possible and I have unfounded hope for these two. I will probably eat more than I should and feel too enormous to actually dance. I will be the idiot crying even though I barely know the couple. (10% of guests)

- I am here because I love to watch a wreck. I know that these people are doing this for many reasons (save the relationship, scared of being alone, someone is preggers, someone cheated, someone is a control freak, etc), none of them being actual compatibility and love. I will drink and have the best damned time ever at this ceremony of poor judgment. (25% of guests)

Because of the disease that I contracted at the age of 7 years old (Bitteritis), my Barbies didn't have weddings. They owned ice cream stores and had sex in the back room. They never wore wedding dresses. They wore kick ass mini skirts and high heels. They may have been pregnant, but for the most part they adopted ponies. So, from an early age, I knew I wanted love, but not so much the marriage part (and ponies). Some people, mostly girls, believe that marriage is a milestone they must pass in their lifetime. They even have specs on when it should occur and how. I think that's a little much to ask from something based on finding one person you can stand long enough to be around for the rest of your existence. One would figure the odds of that are very slim and confining the end of this search to take place in your late 20s seems ludicrous to me. It took me 15 years to find a friend that I call "best". It's taken me 23 years to find a guy I actually liked and trusted. Maybe I have a learning disability based on the early onset of Bitteritis that makes it hard for me to understand this whole deal. Now, don't get me wrong, I have known a (singular) couple that I believe belong together and, at their wedding, I will be part of that 5% that doesn't believe the whole thing is a giant waste of money whose sole purpose is to make breaking up incredibly complicated and soul-murdering. But, for the bulk of this post, I believe that marriage expectations are ridiculous and part of that is due to "girl training".

And after way too much exposition and flat attempts at humor, I reveal the nugget of this social conditioning.

Things like this real life advertisment kill me.

It happened to pop up as an ad on the side of a blog site. It's part of a website where teens and kiddies can make their own avatar and dress them up and make them have lives that don't resemble life in the least (where is my purple unicorn and unlimited cotton candy tree?). Girls and teen-minded ladies, I present the "Romantic Proposal Game". There was never a better title in all of living history.

You can look at the description of this gender-conditioning fantasy right here.

If I created this game, it would involve levels you have to pass to achieve desired proposal:

- Sexual Fulfillment Level
* Holding out as long as possible to make him/her "want it more" mini game
* Doing things you never thought you'd do to keep his/her attention properly titled "Is your dignity bigger than your insecurity?" mini game
* Hiding your dissatisfaction/lack of fulfillment

If you are not successful in the mini games in the level, you will have to engage in battle.

Battles

-Battles consist of who did more hurt to the other and who can dole it out quicker
-In a successful battle, both parties see that they are too exhausted to fight and start over at the Sexual Fulfillment Level
-Guilt points are accumulated in battles that you lose which can limit your progression to the next level. At times, if your partner has enough guilt points, you can skip right to the end of the game to "Romantic Proposal"

-Getting Comfortable Level
*Main puzzle requires you to resist settling and to constantly reignite a burnt out match

If you can survive the "Getting Comfortable" level with enough energy/life to propose without any guilt points or last resort thoughts, then you can achieve the Romantic Proposal and you may be eligible for the "Lasting Marriage" Challenge.

If at any time you skip straight to the Romantic Proposal without mastering the "Getting Comfortable" level, your chances of getting past the "Lasting Marriage" challenge are minuscule.

Spreading Bitteritis To Those You Love
Date a Unicorn
Don't Date a T-Rex

Play Now, My Lord

2009-07-20T07:26:00.001-05:00

I was going to litter this page with long-winded sentences and sarcasm, but I feel these ridiculous web-ads speak for themselves.

In the end, I assess that this site will be filled with fat,adolescent guys and pathetic older creepers parading around in an avatar with either humongous boobs or an overly stuffed cod-piece. For women to want to play something like this (and yes, there are geeky woman gamers) the ads would have to feature a suit of armor, much like King Henry's (actual armor - complete with overly swollen bulge) and the words "I live to serve" or "Command me now, Mistress". But, guessing as most girls won't settle for CG swords, they'll stick to their Romantic Proposal Game . A girl would never stoop as low as to engage in virtual war or sex, only virtual love.

I present, Annie, my sister

2009-04-28T21:26:00.001-05:00

Dear Robert Pattinson,

You've fucking ruined my life. Allow me to explain.

As if puberty wasn't tough enough.

As if shopping in drag-stores at the tender age of 13 for ladies shoes that only burly men could fill wasn't awful enough.

As if sleepovers didn't inspire enough anxiety when my girlfriends would lend me a baggy tank to sleep in, and after sliding into it, gawking at the thong-like coverage it offered me. Or when they would stay over my place, I would try to beat the odds by offering my most form-fitting tee, and wanting to fade into thin air when they would change into what looked like a moo-moo on them.

As if being sprinkled with volcanic acne colonies on my face, all the while donning an "I <3>

As if the memory of ripping a loud one during silent reading in 10th grade and blooming into a siren-colored mess, alarming the class "IT WAS ME IT WAS ME" doesn't still send me into panic attacks.

As if phoning 411 for phone numbers to businesses and having them respond with a "Is this what you're looking for, sir?" didn't make my stomach turn into sailors knots.

ROBERT, I HAVE BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH, ALREADY. Jesus Christ. Like, is that not fucking enough?

I thought I made adamant strides toward being a respectable adult. Balancing two jobs, earning my keep, taking risks and turning out the victor in many challenges in my life. You have retroactively ruined my growth.

Here's now what a typical day is like: Hello New York City subway! Hey business women and men, intensely studying the New York Times - you, with your intent to inspire and change the world - here I am, like a psychotic 13-year old death-gripping the Twilight book, one-inch from my face, as my eyes dart left to right, LIKE I DON'T ALREADY KNOW WHAT FUCKING HAPPENS from watching this movie on a daily fucking-embarrassing basis. IT'S ME, just reliving all the moments that made me turn into cartoon-form, with bulging eyes, smoke steaming from my ears, jaw dropping to the floor, tongue unraveling into a 27-foot red carpet, all the while omitting weird noises like "AWOOOOOGGAAA", foot gyrating at a steady pace, panting like a starved dog - which was every time you walked into frame.

It's not entirely your fault. I blame my friend. She knew my weakness. She knew I wall-papered my room in Taylor Hanson posters when I was a tween. I was Lindsay Lohan and she had invited me into a coke den. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was adult-like and innocent. And there she came, Twilight in hand, forcing it into my DVD player. I remember ridiculing her: "Ugh, what is this, some Harry Potter Hannah Montana bullshit - UGHHHHH". And from the moment your character entered the shot, my integrity shriveled to the size of pea. I knew. I uh-ohed out loud, knowing that I had set my dignity on fire. Later I found out that you were a musician and like a ravenous lion, gobbled up everything I could read or listen to with you in it. EVEN ADMITTING IT ON THE INTERWEB MAKES ME CRINGE WITH EMBARRASSMENT.

This is a good one: remember the time that I was scrambling for my wallet in front of my adult coworkers - and OOPS, there's my copy of fucking j-14, with the Miley Cyrus giving tweenAmerica a huge thumbs-up on the back. THANKS A FUCKING LOT, ROBERT.

Or what about the time that I was in my room singing no, SHOUTING the indecipherable lyrics to one of your shitty-recordings that someone taped from the back of a loud club - I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING? Is it English? The language of angels? I CANNOT TELL - but I moan all the intonations at the top of my lungs, like it was the poetry of Shakespeare of the wisdom of Ghandi.

How about the time I slouch into a goon late at night and fetal-position myself in front of my laptop to watch YOUTUBE MONTAGES of you set to Monica's "Angel of Mine"? That's not enough?

Or how about when I watch Twilight and half-smirk some asshole comment when Kristen Stewart comes onto screen like "whatever, she's not even that cute."

Or what about when I phone my mom to notify her that I have found my soulmate - AND I SEND HER A LINK TO THE MONTAGE. How's that. How does that make MY MOTHER FEEL, Robert? Probably not too great about her adult-daughters future.

You have made me second guess my growth into adulthood. I had this thing down pat. I can watch Brad Pitt and George Clooney with the best of them and sigh occasionally. Entertain the occasional day-dream, but that's it. I don't throw their name around in conversations regarding what I'm doing later that night.

My real-life friends have real-lives. How's am I going to find a man, now? Fuck you for making every man that exists in this world look like a kindergarden school girl. Thanks for BEAMING with talent, making everyone's feeble attempts at being good at at least ONE thing look silly and desperate. Just fucking relax a little.

Written by Annie

Angel Hair

2008-04-08T19:56:00.006-05:00

Ahh..Family. Nothing brings out the wolf in us quite like some time with the pack, especially when that pack is slated to eat at the local Italian "family-style" trough. Let me describe what a family-style restaurant is. It is a place where you order large dishes, too big for one "normal" human to consume, and you place these various big servings in the middle of a three mile long thin rectangular table and watch your closest kin slyly stab each other in the leg with forks in an effort to appear civilized while still quelling the fit of "I Won't get Enough!" that is circling in their brains.

Some relatives like to seem polite and just wait until the plate is tugged their way and they take what is, for a baby elephant, one serving. Others like to be the take charge kind that ensures everyone gets some even if it means three strands of spaghetti per person and they can become warden over the remaining meatballs. I attribute these "others" to be much like people who gather as much money as possible and then don't spend it. The satisfaction is in the privileged and rare doling out. This and the "some" are my family. I am well on my way to being a fat, ruthless, control freak, alpha female.

But I digress.

The point here wasn't the picturesque scene of my uncle hoarding his plate in a corner like some sort of Garlic Bread Smeigal, it was the decor. Above the splatters of what can only reasonably be explained as marinara sauce, this restaurant is filled with pictures from some Italian fatass's family. Now the name of the place, given for the name of the fatass relative who lived in his basement and consumed most of Italy, is supposed to give some sort of explanation for the fact that it looks like an episode of Clean House. Pictures are cluttered everywhere and they are often .....saucy, to say the least. Of all the pictures that cluttered the walls: women flashing men, woman bending over, old Italian celebrities positioned in pictures right next to awkward body parts, elderly ladies giving people the finger and, yes, with weirdly positioned awkward body parts as well, one picture caught my eye.

It was a piece from the following classic painting:

I use the word piece here because the whole painting wasn't displayed, only a key part of it.
Now, we have all glanced at this thing and saw that said awkward body parts were covered cleverly in a half modest, half seductive placing of various limbs or hair extensions (clearly). Why go through all that trouble then if said awkward body part is covered with THIS?:

And yes, before you ask, this is exactly how it appeared on the wall. Just think of that tiny box with a brown frame (or whatever drapes you prefer) placed on the wall, over the shoulder of my fifteen year old brother.

In a restaurant that turns your family into animals I can't think of a better piece to be hung on the wall to punctuate the entire experience.

Scuse me while I kiss this guy

2008-01-19T17:21:00.000-05:00

Pop songs, the mindless drivel that gets stuck in your brain like a wad of gum in a third grader's hair, are not only annoyingly addictive and usually empty (like a bag of Lays) but they are often misunderstood. Misunderstandings happen in life, but when they happen at such an alarming volume and with so much airplay, you have to wonder if some kind of subliminal work is going on here.

For example, the senior class of a nearby high school chose the song "Lips of An Angel" as their graduation song. Please, sample the lyrics:

Lips Of An Angel lyrics

Honey why you calling me so late?
It's kinda hard to talk right now.
Honey why are you crying? Is everything okay?
I gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud

Well, my girl's in the next room
Sometimes I wish she was you
I guess we never really moved on
It's really good to hear your voice say my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel
Hearing those words it makes me weak

And I never wanna say goodbye
But girl you make it hard to be faithful
With the lips of an angel

It's funny that you're calling me tonight
And, yes, I've dreamt of you too
And does he know you're talking to me
Will it start a fight
No I don't think she has a clue

Well my girl's in the next room
Sometimes I wish she was you
I guess we never really moved on
It's really good to hear your voice say my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel
Hearing those words it makes me weak

And I never wanna say goodbye
But girl you make it hard to be faithful
With the lips of an angel

It's really good to hear your voice say my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel
Hearing those words it makes me weak

And I never wanna say goodbye
But girl you make it hard to be faithful
With the lips of an angel

And I never wanna say goodbye
But girl you make it hard to be faithful
With the lips of an angel

Honey why you calling me so late?

Good job, class. A song about a crazy ho who doesn't know when she's been dumped and an idiot guy who can't keep it in his pants. Sweet! I can't wait until the future is run by this generation.

Another song that has a poppy, addicting beat and a very well-placed half poetic line in it is Uncle Kracker's "Follow Me". I have heard people say, "I like this song. It's sweet". Yes, the chorus sounds pretty sweet. Yay. Everything is alright if I stay with you. Sure, tuck me in like a child. Weird, but I'll take it. Now, read the whole song please.

You don't know how you met me you don't know why
You cant turn around and say goodbye
All you know is when I'm with you I make you free
And swim through your veins like a fish in the sea

I'm singin' follow me everything is alright
I'll be the one to tuck you in at night
And if you want to leave I can guarantee
you wont find nobody else like me

I'm not worried about the ring you wear
Cause as long as no one knows then nobody can care
Your feeling guilty and I'm well aware
But you don't look ashamed and baby I'm not scared

I'm singin' follow me everything is alright
I'll be the one to tuck you in at night
And if you want to leave I can guarantee
You won't find nobody else like me

I won't give you money I can't give you the sky
Your better off if you don't ask why
I'm not the reason that you go astray
And we'll be alright if you don't ask me to stay

I'll be the one to tuck you in at night
And if you want to leave I can guarantee
You won't find nobody else like me

Don't know how you met me you don't know why
You can't turn around and say goodbye
All you know is when I'm with you I make you free
And swim through your veins like a fish in the sea

I'm singin' follow me everything is alright
I'll be the one to tuck you in at night
And if you want to leave I can guarantee
You won't find nobody else like me

Oh. Adultery. OK, so you are in love with another man. Oh, wait what was that line? "We'll be alright if you don't ask me to stay?" Oh, so a romantic song about my side fuck. Keep singing it America. It was top of the charts and still plays continuously throughout the country. Yay, infidelity.

I'm taking a log. Let me know your favorite massively misunderstood song....all five of you that actually read this blog. Maybe I should start praising you. How would you like a nickname? My Disciples? People Enjoying Evil Rantings (PEER for short)? Or how about "The People That Google Brought Through the Art of Tagging"? Eh, you decide. I know it'll be difficult, you know, with that overwhelming number. Do it democratic style and vote or have one person represent all of you without actually asking you or giving you any real choices, just like real democracy!

Junk

2008-01-18T16:48:00.000-05:00

AbsolutStranger:	Perhaps she was attracted to his insanity
CaptainGat:	Crazy guys get all the chicks.
CaptainGat:	Sometimes I try and pick a favorite Beatles album.
CaptainGat:	I can't do it.
AbsolutStranger:	I can't either. My mix cd is my favorite Beatles album.
AbsolutStranger:	My usual answer is Magical Mystery Tour or The White Album.
CaptainGat:	I'm digging Rubber Soul tonight.
CaptainGat:	Or, The Emo Album.
CaptainGat:	I want to be the guy who hangs himself with "You Won't See Me" on repeat.
CaptainGat:	How disturbing would that be in a movie?
AbsolutStranger:	I would laugh.
AbsolutStranger:	Someone should have a sex scene set to Come Together.
CaptainGat:	I'm Looking Through You in an Invisible Man montage.
AbsolutStranger:	A trailer for The Queen set to Her Majesty
AbsolutStranger:	More like a teaser
CaptainGat:	Run For Your Life, 28 Weeks Later.
deaddogseye81:	Passion of the Christ, Think For Yourself
CaptainGat:	Haha.
AbsolutStranger:	Hail to the Chief replaced with The Fool on the Hill
CaptainGat:	Eh. That song's too deep for this administration.
AbsolutStranger:	How about Funkytown?
CaptainGat:	X-Men, With a Little Help From My Friends.
AbsolutStranger:	Fast and the Furious, Drive My Car
CaptainGat:	Ouch.
AbsolutStranger:	Lost in Translation, I Saw Her Standing There
CaptainGat:	Girl, Streetcar Named Desire.
AbsolutStranger:	Cast Away, Help
AbsolutStranger:	Brokeback Mountain, You've Got To Hide Your Love Away
CaptainGat:	Too good.
CaptainGat:	Crimson Tide, Yellow Submarine?
AbsolutStranger:	Works
AbsolutStranger:	Boogie Nights, Long Long Long
CaptainGat:	Haha.
AbsolutStranger:	Happiness Is A Warm Gun, any movie concerning suicide
CaptainGat:	The Long and Winding Road in a Wizard of Oz trailer.
AbsolutStranger:	All You Need Is Love, Triumph of the Will
CaptainGat:	Get Back, any movie about someone going home again after a long time.
AbsolutStranger:	I'm Only Sleeping, any movie where the "surprise" ending is that it was all a dream.
CaptainGat:	Give everything away in the trailer?
CaptainGat:	I like it.
AbsolutStranger:	Haha
AbsolutStranger:	Pumping Iron, Carry That Weight
CaptainGat:	Dream movies and episodes can lick my balls.
AbsolutStranger:	I agree.
CaptainGat:	I let House do it twice...
AbsolutStranger:	I let House get away with a lot of annoying formulaic cliches.
AbsolutStranger:	I don't care. I still adore the character.
CaptainGat:	Orlando Bloom, Act Naturally.
AbsolutStranger:	Haha
CaptainGat:	I wish I had some good video editing software.
CaptainGat:	That's a montage I'd like to make.
AbsolutStranger:	I could try something in Windows Media
AbsolutStranger:	But I'm going to have to get good and drunk to start sifting through Orlando Bloom clips.
CaptainGat:	Romeo and Juliet, It's Only Love
AbsolutStranger:	Fatal Attraction, You Like Me Too Much
CaptainGat:	Ticket to Ride, Derailed.
AbsolutStranger:	Schindler's List, Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da
CaptainGat:	Too soon, too soon.
CaptainGat:	I'm glad I wasn't sipping on something just then.
CaptainGat:	Might've needed a new moniter.
AbsolutStranger:	United 93, Flying
AbsolutStranger:	I'm going to hell.
AbsolutStranger:	Or Wal-Mart.
AbsolutStranger:	I'll be back.

AbsolutStranger:	Indiana Jones 4, Let It Be
AbsolutStranger:	World Trade Center, We Can Work It Out
AbsolutStranger:	I'm running dry.
AbsolutStranger:	Edward Scissorhands, I Want To Hold Your Hand

The Haiku Project

2008-01-16T15:02:00.001-05:00

Don't worry, all five of my readers, there are more blogs to come and they will have a sour, sarcastic filling as always. In the meantime, check out the Haiku Year.

Friends on Friends

2008-01-11T20:09:00.000-05:00

One of my closest friend is working on this video game. He designs worlds. Pretty, right? Rockon Derek and respect to Bacon Man!

"If you have half a brain...." *

2007-12-24T11:51:00.000-05:00

_____In the midst of reading Vonnegut the other day, I came across a line in Slaughterhouse Five remarking that cliche romantic situations are actually anything but. There has got to be some level of hell reserved for people like me who take one of the world's greatest expressions against human evil and use it as a tangent for a blog that reveals trivial absurdities in this world like magnetic dog poop and composite turkey. Sins against true genius aside, let's talk about the reality of our little romantic fantasies. With experience we come to learn valuable lessons like chocolate syrup burns your throat, whipped cream leaves sticky residue and causes queasy feelings upon digestion of mass quantities and flavored sex aids usually lead to unwanted teeth marks. Below I have laid out, shone a bright light upon and then destroyed the biggest lies in the big dream of romantic love (making).

Rain (standing in, kissing in, running through, smell of, curling up with book in)

_____Nothing says hot, passionate sex like goose flesh, running noses, sticky skin and heavy chafing soaked jeans. Standing in the rain, running through the rain, doing most things in the rain is usually a highly dangerous thing. Aside from the onset of things like pneumonia and the freezing hack you get deep in your chest, rain and getting caught in it is a miserable experience. Do you know how long it takes to dry soaked sneakers? Even when you think they are dried, you put on your socks and go out only to realize that in a matter of steps, you are standing in a hot wet shoe. That's the worst too because the wet socks are warm because of your body heat and taking them off is comparable to that slightly creepy sensation you encounter when you sit down in a plastic chair that has been previously warmed.

_____When a storm rolls in, most people want to sleep because their sinuses have swelled so extensively their skull feels like it's about to snap from the pressure. People will say they love the smell of rain. I think that inhaling the dirty and toxic rain water during a sinus swell borders on pure genius. And while I am on the thread of inhaling things that are highly dangerous, let's talk about gasoline, Sharpie markers, and that New Car smell. There is nothing awesome about inhaling fumes that have been proven to wipe out brain cells faster than viewing an hour of America's Next Top Model.

The Love of/on the Road

_____One of my favorite myths of the foolish romantic is the joy of the open road. Driving blows, people. If it's not the jerking stop and go of a city street, packed with impatient people like myself waiting eagerly for that flash of green only to get a taste of 30mph before having to stop again and wait to be able to do more than sit there with your right foot on the brake, it's hours of gray, rolling, six lane monotony. "I just want to get in my car and drive for hours". Sorry honey, but unless you have the greatest book on tape known to man or a never ending supply of mentally stimulating music (and I know you don't), driving for hours is the most intellectually arid practice invented. What does your brain do when it is not occupied? It meanders, bringing up thoughts that, most likely, require action. Too bad you are stuck like a bee in a jar, a jar hurling through the air at 80. Plus, being hypnotized by the passing of yellow streaks and phone poles increases your likelihood of passing out if you aren't like me and calculating precisely how the asshole in front of you will manage to stop short and you will be sent sailing through your windshield.

_____"But Anne", you say, "What about road head? Aww yea." Aww No. Since the invention of bucket seats, this practice is not only difficult to perform, but it is highly uncomfortable, a choking hazard if you have to stop short, and yet another reason why people behind you are calculating precisely how they will sail through their windshield when you stop short because your girlfriend has got herself caught on the emergency brake.

Shower Love

_____In my experience, men are the ones who harbor this notion. The shower is cramped and slippery. It is also limited in its capabilities to supply endless amounts of hot water. Unless you are financially gifted, there is no where to sit, hold on to, prop yourself up, or to use for resistance. This means you have to be especially flexible as a female and if you are anything like me, you are moderately flexible and will bend over, stretched to the limit and in great pain, to give the illusion that you can indeed do all the things Barbie and Carmen Electra can do. So, while you are in this awkward position in the romantic destination of a 3 by 5 shower, the water drips down your neck and up your cheeks and inevitably into your nose, causing you to choke and sneeze and sputter like an old jalopy. Let's not even talk about the fact that it's either your head, your ankles or his ass that is in constant danger of the faucet. It's quite clear that shower sex was dreamed up by a homeless person.

Staying in Bed All Day

_____Admittedly, I have often thought and even convinced myself over the years that this was indeed an awesome practice that was at the peak of romantic action. Of course staying in bed all day would appeal to me, the laziest woman alive. Sadly, one day after looking over at my significant other covered in a thin sheen of grease and emitting the potent fragrance of morning, now turned late afternoon, breath mingled with leftover sex residue I knew that this was not the fabled fairy tale I had heard about. After clawing my way out of the bed-ditch our bodies had formed through massive spring abuse and hours of just laying there, I decided that a shower (no sex) would be a saving grace. Unfortunately, after a certain amount of hours, no matter how much you exfoliate or how hot you turn the water up to, you can't get rid of that half drunken all day in bed stupor. A lull like that mixed with the frustration and grime that comes from doing nothing all day inevitably leads to fights or that "Ok, I've had enough of you. Time for you to go home" feeling. I may even go as far as to say the stay in bed day is a surefire way to destroy an otherwise perfect union.

The Beach

_____The waves crashing, Sandy and Danny Zuko making out in sand, chasing each other down a beautiful open shoreline; we all know this image. The part they don't show is Sandy digging wet sand out from her asscrack and parts nearby. After they get up from their rolling around in the surf, they are both covered in clumpy mounds of sand that house millions of sand fleas. When Danny is done helping remove the sand castle from Sandy's hair he turns around, careful not to step on either a hypodermic needle, a used condom, someone's old tampon, a man of war or a half decomposed roll of toilet paper. They run back to their car while they dodge pointy coral, hidden rocks and the homeless man peeing in the bushes. Now Danny's Greased Lightning is nothing short of a child's sandbox and the saltwater leftover on both of them leaves a faint musk of rotting fish that the breeze from the top down action can't cover up. As Sandy's hair blows in the breeze, it is twirled around itself forming dread locks from the leftover ocean that has now turned her hair to straw. The straw texture is especially sexy, the way is smacks her in the face and leaves marks as they change direction. Not even some paint on leather pants and a flying car can bring back the sexy for them after a night of beach lovin'.

So, if you like pina coladas (which are usually made with cheap rum), getting caught in the rain and all the rest of this culture's idealistic romantic love scenarios, you have clearly never experienced any of them without the aid of drugs, alcohol or a very strong dose of delusion.

* Rupert Holmes "Pina Colada"

It's A Boy!

2007-11-25T14:24:00.001-05:00

____In today's more liberal world all kinds of lines are being crossed, blurred and tangled up into enormous knots of confusion. This kind of thing is expected in your everyday world when you live within driving distance of places like South Beach. In fact, it's a perk of living in South Florida (and believe me, it's probably the only one). However, gender roles and gender identity are rarely questioned in other realms, or so I thought.

____Last night it was brought to my attention that the name I bestowed upon my overactive female kitten actually belonged to a male. Nermal, the ditsy and annoyingly happy counterpart to the ever dry and wry Garfield, was drawn with gray stripes and eyelashes. These are obvious female traitss. Nermal was also voiced by a female, Desirée Goyette. I'm not talking a female voice that is ambiguous like Bart Simpson's speaker, Nancy Cartwright, but Nermal had a decidedly woman's voice. When this was brought to my attention last night, I immediately felt guilty for corrupting the gender identity of the cat. However, the name and the gender confusion sort of fit. I guess it works being that Nermal the actual cat is extra large, super aggressive and has a throaty meow. Speaking of androgynous eighties childhood characters, I purposely named my effeminate male cat Atreyu after the confusingly femme character in The Never Ending Story. I guess they match now. Don't ever be a pet of mine.

So, I started to think back on other characters from childhood that were in the middle of identity crises.

Tweety -
Male or Female? Decidedly male. Don't believe me? Tweety's sex has always been shrouded in mystery, but the experts at the wiki have come to a conclusion. Here's another site with some more evidence.

Big Bird -
Oh, Big Bird. Big Bird was a tough one for me growing up. My grandmother and Big Bird shared a lot of the same traits; the hair for one. Big Bird was also tall and nervous like grandma. So, Big Bird was obviously female to me. Most people have been wise to the truth of his maleness.

Blue Meanie -
Maybe not as confusing gender-wise because Blue Meanie is obviously a male, but the voicing of Blue Meanie, the make up, the fuck me boots, the weird half pointed hand gesture, etc all point to drag queen.

Him -
This Blue Meanie rip off from PowerPuff Girls is named "Him", so no question there even if he is totally drag queen.

Atreyu -
Let's just say I had many confused feelings about Atreyu.

Care Bears -
I am fairly certain that there is more than enough confusion going on up there in Care-a-Lot. How many can you confidently identify?

Are there any others I forgot? Let me know.

Anatomy of a Nerd

2007-11-23T23:05:00.000-05:00

As times change and people adapt to their new and ever growing world, our perspectives of what is valuable morph. Our needs are modified in order to fit what qualifies as “success” as things get more and more complex and we become more and more dependent on technology.

Starting in the fifties, the country's attentiveness towards all things technological and scientific has turned on more than a few trends. The nerd, the opposite to others such as a return to nature, a return to a sixth sense, etc, has been present and is rising in popularity. When massive calamities such as Y2K come along, we turn to our intellectuals and for all of their stereotyped clumsiness and uncharismatic quirks, we adore them.

Athletes are somewhat still the leaders in stereotypes of men that get the girl, but with the recent boost in superhero movies and the surge in interest in these physically able men by night/super intellectual by day, the brawny athlete has taken a back seat. The preferred man is a morph between intellectual and smooth talker. He is the nerd without the social frigidness and in superhero cases, he is also the physical wonder.

But, in a world where media has been throwing out images of the unfaithful boyfriend, the liar, the cheater, the con artist and the pick up artists the praise for the nerd has skyrocketed. What is the moral of the show Beauty and the Geek? That these socially challenged guys are actually the greatest people most of the bimbettes will ever meet. But is it really ok to get a cheap laugh from their inexperience and obvious discomfort because we pat them on the head and praise them for not being assholes? Not to mention, does a pretty and sexy girl have to be a total vapid waste of space? Does adoring them give us permission to laugh at them as well? It's the reverse of using Randy in My Name Is Earl for comic relief. Oh, look how cute the idiot is. Today he put his fork in the outlet. It was hilarious. The Big Bang Theory seems to foster the reverse: Oh look at how cute the nerd is. He's upset because he can't be Frodo for Halloween.

A few weeks back I caught an episode of The Big Bang Theory and was offended. Now, I do claim a little territory in the nerd kingdom because of my love for Shatner, writing blogs, reading sci-fi, having dated a D&D master and befriending mostly geniuses. I know that these things put me into that category. Watching The Big Bang Theory was like watching someone claim that Dangerous Minds was an accurate portrayal of a teaching experience.

In addition to the show's serious lack of morals when it comes to making characters out of stereotypes, their selection of punchlines and stereotypical plot fodder is repulsive to anyone who even has any claim in the “nerd” universe. Sure, stereotypes are bad, but I also know they exist for a reason. They work and get a rise out of people because when you point them out, most people think “Hell, that IS true about someone I know of that grouping”. However, to write a show based solely on these things makes your characters nothing more than walking characaters. To saturate your script with catch phrases and trite interests is offensive to those of us who actually know what you are talking about. You aren't connecting with an audience, you are repelling them. It is just as offensive as having a show about an African American family who talks about loving fried chicken and watermelon. It is like having a Jewish family sitcom where all the characters do is count their money and talk in an annoying accent. Or it is like making a show about trailer park inhabitants who are so dim witted, it's amazing they haven't choked on their own spit.

Let me show you exactly what I am talking about.

Watch this: "The Middle Earth Paradigm" Episode of The Big Bang Theory

Or if you Torrent it's Episode Six of Big Bang Theory, The

The Dissection Table

***The episode starts off with a few jokes about a lost paint ball tournament where the “nerds” admittedly lose to a bunch of 13 year old Bar Mitvah attendees. One remarks that the other hid behind a tree barking orders instead of going out there to fight.
Implication: Nerds are no good at physical adventures such as paint ball and they are cowards

***The neighbor girl asks them to a party. They ask, “A boy/girl party?” and “Will there be dancing?”
Implication: Nerds never interact with girls or do anything physical like dancing.

**The nerds ask if the Halloween Party has a theme. The girl doesn't understand.
Implication: Normal people don't know what themed parties are.

***The nerds list cosplay themes like anime, manga, science fiction..
Implication: All intellectuals participate in cosplay. Seriously, people who engage in cosplay don't necessarily run in the same circles as people who are proficient in science or are into computers or who are even intellectual (or whatever category you are cramming these ambiguous and sad characters into). People belonging to the cosplay subculture and even gamers in general or anime fans all have separate interests with separate circles of friends. The thing they may have in common would be that they are seen as “unpopular” in a high school setting, but the last time I checked, that didn't make you a nerd.

***The nerds all dress as The Flash and they bicker over it.

Implication: The Flash is some sort of hero to the nerds of the world. All I can say is that this is totally ridiculous. The Flash is just a random comic book character and not even a very good one at that. Even comic book enthusiasts don't worship The Flash. So here we are again, mixing up groups and interests in the name of who would be unpopular in a high school setting.

***The nerds fight over the Frodo Baggins costume.

Implication: Nerds love the LOTR trilogy and they all want to be Frodo. The LOTR trilogy is a pop nerd phenomenon. Most Fantasy fans acknowledge it and have read it and enjoyed it, but there are far better books of this genre as well. In fact, the nerds here are very science oriented, the group of Fantasy enthusiasts isn't necessarily the same. Yet another pigeon hole for these “nerds”.

***The nerds show up five minutes after the agreed upon time and the blond girlie host is caught off gaurd because no one has shown up yet and she hasn't even showered.
Implication: Being rude is cool and being punctual is lame. When did we become the society in Idiocracy?

***The nerds watch and analyze the partygoers like a science project.
Implication: People with intellect don't understand simple interactions.

***Frodo nerd decides to not be intimidated by the love interest's boyfriend who is dressed as Tarzan, touting that he is superior in the information age because he is smart. The Tarzan man picks up Frodo nerd after Frodo throws around a few insults coated with large words.

Implication: This scene is just embarrassing to both sides because now they have stereotyped the physically able man as an idiot and in the end, he still picks up Frodo and embarrasses him enough to make him leave the party.

***The love interest cries on the shoulder of the nerd who is unsure of how to comfort her.
Implication: Intellectuals are cold and have no idea how to comfort.

***Love interest kisses nerd and he asks how drunk she is and doesn't take advantage of her.
Implication: Only drunk girls give it up to social rejects who wouldn't even take it when handed to them.

This show needs to be more responsible and less offensive to those of us who understand more than the mere catch phrases and nerd quirks that general society has tied to being a loser. Just because a nerd gets kissed in the end doesn't make it acceptable to laugh at him for the other 19 minutes of this torturous and shallow show.

Magnetic Poop Is Choking Hazard

2007-11-12T16:28:00.001-05:00

When this blog first emerged, it did so as a result of trauma. Last year's holiday season brought us the terrifying child's toy Butterscotch Pony, the life-sized pony that requires that parents assemble it away from their children for its mechanical head is packaged separately and such a vision may scar young children.

This year the prize winner for toy best kept away from children is Barbie and Her Doggie, Tanner. Yes, folks. You can feed Tanner biscuits that look the same going in as they do coming out. You can also dazzle your young one with a fabulous magnetic pooper scooper. I am sure that's what every little girl wants: to to play with her dog's crap in a twisted training regime that will condition her to carry around pockets of plastic baggies every time she walks real Fido. She could try magnets in her real life to clean up after her pooch, but I am not sure that would work.

Even more shocking is the media hooplah around the toy and its magnetic pooper scooper. Apparently, the magnet comes loose and kids can choke on it. Also, kids have been eating the round "biscuits".

At least they weren't converted into a date rape drug upon digestion.

You don't have to take my word for it. This seems to be a hot blog topic.

The Technology Liberation Front already wrote my blog for me and even illustrated it with a better graphics.

Y Jesus?

2007-11-11T17:04:00.000-05:00

Hilarious Offensive Material Provided By: This Guy

We now continue with your regularly scheduled blog...

Zen and the Art of the Grillz

2007-11-11T15:20:00.000-05:00

______As I advance in years, I watch the youth around me voraciously cling to trends and pop culture practices in order to find a group that will welcome them and embrace them as individuals. However, once in a while a trend is so artfully expressed, so creatively refined, that it ascends beyond the fifteen minute time limit. In today's terms, this would be that which is classical and timeless, a trend that is more “a revolution of the mind”*, such a force of truth and beauty that to part with it would mean the collapse of our social civilization.

_____I am talking about that which is the staple of an entire cultural experience: The Grillz.

_____Its wearers sacrifice the health of one of their most important orifices to honor the practice of Grillin'. Hours of bleeding gums, chipped enamel, rotting remnants of your last five meals, Grillz fosters them all while still showing your dawg you have enough cheese to afford such high gloss ice. These oral ornaments are a salute to the creator in thanks for his most masterful creation housed in the human body, “teef”.

_____True Grillaz, wearers of the Grillz, know that any old snap-ons or cubic zirconium studded incisors are a shameful display and are only worn by the most sycophantic of Grillaz wannabes. Proper Grillz require an oral jeweler, a rare genius gifted in the application of, removal of, and general maintenance of Grillz. To be sure that your oral jeweler is of a high caliber, you may want to ask him these few questions:

How many Grillz have you installed?
If one were to lose a few karats by accident, how long would it take for it to pass through one's digestive system?
Would you be willing to recover said karats?
If I can't afford gold, which polishes would guarantee my brass Grillz won't tarnish?
Can I please get a certification of authenticity with my Grillz so I can pass it on as a family heirloom?

Maintaining healthy Grillz is important if you are serious about honoring this legendary practice. Here are a few rules to abide by when wearing your Grillz:

Never ever smile with actual happiness with Grillz in your mouth. This will cause scratching and bleeding in your inner mouth.
Remove Grillz whenever engaging in oral sex of any kind. Not only is it extremely disrespectful to wear Grillz while engaging in such activities, it is a surefire way to lose your companion for the evening.
When displaying proper dedication, it may be necessary to skip meals or start an all liquid diet when proper cleaning utensils are not available and you are asked to dine in any situation.
BRACES are by no means the “training bra” of a mature Grillz. Please don't cheese like they are.
Incorporating his lord and savior into any piece of jewelry is the finest way to commemorate an entire religion's basis of existence. This is true for Grillz are well.
By no means shall wearing tin foil or gum wrappers ever be considered anything less than blasphemy.
Grillz are a powerful weapon. Please bite responsibly.

Quality grillz can be purchased at:

Grillz Authority

Abercrombie and Grillz

The Grillz Barn

Resortation HardGrillz

and, the most reliable of all Grillz retailers: Grillz R Us. (please be sure to turn you volume up for the complete experience)

*quote hijacked from Vanilla Sky

Bricks, loads, and dumps

2007-10-20T18:45:00.000-05:00

Watch the background

Seriously.....

Turkey Composite

2007-10-16T20:07:00.000-05:00

When the stress rises beyond the shrug off or the close your eyes until it goes away phase, I like to indulge in doing as little as possible. Somewhere deep in the cracked corners of my personality, I feel that by not interacting with the world, it can't possibly explode in my face. For instance, a bad day may decide to top itself when I come home to make dinner by ensuring that I char whatever meal I decide to prepare. Or perhaps it manifests its last stab of the day in a hilarious visual to accompany the song "Fire, Water, Burn". Either way, I decide that when these days come around and do what they do (no kiss) that I do as little as possible as not to aggravate whatever force is in charge of things like turning my car into a magnet for paint or making sure that I put a pair of pants on with underwear still stored in the leg. Inevitably, I discover it and yank it out in front of my entire staff after feeling that something was off and perhaps I had gained weight in my back knee area. So, tonight, after a day I shall never relate, I decided that I needed to stay away from the stove and get some drive thru dinner.

Feeling like a greasy and gluttonous manatee, I chose something with a comfort food feel. Yes, turkey and mashed potatoes. Sure, it's only like 6 or 7 bucks, but really - we are paying for convenience here.

I come home with my little baggie containing a cafeteria style divided plate and plastic covering and dig in. Potatoes, perfect for something that comes in flake form before you water to it. Veggies, not bad. Turkey. Is this turkey? It tastes, and sort of looks like, a wet washcloth. This isn't turkey! This is some kind of composite of gamey poultry and parts of other animals that were rejected from the hot dog factories.

I am a purist in a lot of senses. I like to have furniture made of wood, not pressed wood or composites of wood or cardboard with flecks of oak in it. I expect this kind of blended materials from, perhaps, construction paper- not from turkey.

Below the pie chart will demonstrate the complete oneness of the "bird" or "animals" I just consumed.

Who thought that when you blended all those ingredients together you'd get something that tasted like a down comforter after you put it through the washer?

It just goes to show; on bad days, just stay in bed and don't move.

Worst.Cookie.Ever. (H)

2007-10-15T18:34:00.001-05:00

Below is a scanned fortune I got after opening my fortune cookie. This is real, folks.

I wish this wasn't actually my life...

i is for idiot

2007-10-08T15:12:00.000-05:00

Why is my favorite MP3 skipping? I thought we created MP3s to end the mind splattering effects of skipping. Records skipped and scratched and made all sorts of womb-like noises when they warped. Tapes slowed down your favorite beat and garbled lyrics. When CDs skipped, it sounded like an epilepsy fit. When iTunes skips, it sounds like you've been duped. Duped into Dling and getting yourself into a net where Apple controls whose computer what files are played on, which tunes you are willing to fork cash over to get, and how to read your most intimate collection of life soundtracks. Seriously, the way it does all those creepy things subversively when you first get it can be frightening. It labels all your songs, does all this research without you knowing, bringing back full album artwork and categorizing your files. While it goes behind your back and arranges all of your personals to fit the patterns of their master music filing system, you are left with grandfather speeds of processing, leaving the skipping song to grind on your nerves.

Who trusts something this invading? I mean, now somewhere - there is an imprint of your account. For some reason, the identification of my bank card is less personal and offensive than the identification linked to my personal music.

Yea, I have heard the arguments: iTunes is awesome. iTunes syncs with your ipod (which I DO NOT own). iTunes labels everything and makes it easy for you to pay legally for your music. iTunes only updates all your crap once and that is it. iTunes forces you to start a sentence with a lowercase letter.

I personally don't think a matter of filing that a half dyslexic secretary could organize is any trade off for the privacy and right to keep your crap as messy and random as it once was on Windows Media Player.

EYEtunes is more like it.

Yea, I'm a hater.

The Highway Communion

2007-09-30T17:58:00.000-05:00

I don't know about the rest of the nation, but living in So. Florida has afforded a subversive culture centered around the highway. The situation is unique to Florida's design. South Florida was built on the beach, as close to the sand as possible, and over time cities have expanded more and more to the west. This continued until they hit upon the everglades and were forced to stop. Aside from the ever pungent smell of the man-made lakes, the half sinking developments on the brink of the marsh, and the spotting of rare birds on the highway, the impact on nature was barely measured...I mean immeasurable. Because of the urban sprawl, massive highways were constructed so that middle class inhabitants could bypass all of the overpriced and upper class developments to go see their other middle class friends on the other side of the county. There is no one here who doesn't have to take at least a 20 minute drive to visit their good friend. It's become so bad that even if you live down the street from a friend, you are forced through five lane roads with a light every three cars.

As a result, you live in your car, which is actually a good thing considering how the stark heat is hot enough to make your hair start to smolder once you are exposed to the bare sun. Most of the time people mistake this time in the car for alone time. I say that people should roll down their windows and share the experience with the other 200 people on the road with them. We already sort of communicate with them. A passing glance, a nonchalant flip of the bird, or even a polite yet firm honk of the horn are everyday ways to get to those around you. Below you will find list of activities that will break the ice with other drivers who share in the same misery and drained bank accounts that come with commuting.

The things we have done in the car:

* Make signs. Perhaps you want to brighten someone's day with a, "Hey, you're hot. What's your #?", or a "Take your hand off your boyfriend's cock and drive!".

* Projectiles are often an important way to hail someone's attention. Some people use pennies, we prefer something tastier and with staining abilities: melted M & Ms.

* I, personally, don't take my pants down while driving, but I have been mooned several times on the highway; a delightful way to introduce yourself. Nothing says, "Hey, ho. I want attention" than naked ass cheeks pressed against tinted windows.

* "Honk if you're....." stickers usually work. Insert whatever word you want: poor, hungry, horny, getting fired for lewd conduct, etc.

* Learn sign language. I-95 during most times of the day is nothing more than a farm for exhaust. I say have a chat with the car next to you with your hands. You can also just carry around a pad and pen and pass notes.

Whatever you choose to do to connect to your fellow commuter, for the love of God, keep the music to yourself. There is nothing more obnoxious, and by default, nothing that defeats the purpose more than trying to share your love of dirty gangster rap by ruining your expensive sound system in an attempt to spread what you, no doubt, find to be deep and prophetic musical stylings that can barely be heard over the the chatter and rattle of the exterior of your less than prestigious car.

Do I really need to tell you why this is here?

2007-09-10T16:00:00.001-05:00

Truth Serum

2007-09-09T19:50:00.001-05:00

In the world that inhabits our senses today, we seem to run into many things that are against our sensibilities, so we slowly adapt to the disappointment. We accept situations that may not fit our desires as long as we can contort them in our psyche. When our fantastical walls crumble, we are left with the truth; that terrible situation that was just so obvious to everyone else around us.

The BIG things we lie to ourselves about:

*Love - Everything that is included in this deluded fairy tale we continually tell ourselves is attainable. It's like a religion we've subscribed to that promises to provide us with everlasting happiness. It even advertises that it can erase your sins if you continue to stay loyal. When we think divine intervention itself has somehow aligned us with our "soulmate", we give into it blindly thinking we don't have to suffer to make things run smoothly. Survival and social breath was once tied to this entire concept, much like being a good Christian was in medieval times. Now that being single isn't a crime or a sign of deviance, we as people don't settle anymore for someone who will either cook or provide for us. We want happy times all the time. Because we have this power now and we've entitled ourselves to break hearts in the name of our selfish whims, the entire foundation of romantic love has disintegrated. Why do we keep buying into an institution of survival when we are not in a crisis situation? It becomes a vestigial burden and a continual disappointment. We've all seen Sex and the City. The show is literally a visual of millions of single women sitting there scratching their heads over this evolutionary phenomenon. That's not to say that people don't need people, but our notions of what is supposed to happen are continually knocked on their asses and then we sit here and write blogs about the anachronism known as romantic love. If you want to know the truth, I am sure romantic love was dreamed up by the church in order to convince the masses that a higher power was involved in their crummy existences and that all they toiled about with was not without merit. It's like a 12 step program for the chronically afraid.

*Intelligence - Oh, do we lie the most to ourselves here. We make up tools continually to measure our smarts, but we've just proven our own stupidity in the mere action of entertaining the thought that we are allowed to systemize a field which we barely comprehend. We use our self proclaimed smarts to dominate others and climb to the top of the pyramid because ignorance and fear are closely tied. We are afraid of what we don't know, so if we know the most - we are the least afraid. At least that's what we tell ourselves, but we all know that the more you know, the scarier everything is. Ignorance is bliss. Flowers for Algernon, anyone?

*Immunity - Along with our tendency for giving ourselves more credit than we deserve, we somehow also believe that we are special. I guess it's natures way of making us give a shit, but seriously - a person not deluding themselves constantly knows perfectly well that bad luck happens all the time and it doesn't discriminate. There is some kind of weird bubble around most people who think that everything will always be alright. Their souls are shaken to the core when something does happen. Recovery then is almost impossible. We will one day see war in our backyards, and by that I mean people bleeding, buildings burning, etc. No, I am not a revolutionary or whatever name you call the people who push for change via violence (almost all groups desperate enough to make an impact), I am just saying no matter where you stand on this sphere, you will see it one day. You are not immune.

So, I guess in the end my advice is to live alone, stop thinking, and be afraid.

Hmm..not at all what I had in mind.

Oh well.

We Just Throw Parties

2007-09-01T20:47:00.000-05:00

I call up my best friend, the Human Google, today and inquired as to what he's got planned for his Saturday night on this blessed of all weekends, The Labor Day extension. In the past, I'd be calling him up while I white knuckle it on some distant highway, driving my precious automobile to the most feared of all locations; a club made out of some old warehouse in the middle of the ghetto. I am usually still telling him about how my nerves have successfully made my entire digestive tract into a slip and slide as I swerve between pee soaked homeless men in order to park my car in a location that won't make it easy for them to use it as a lavatory. After this, I nervously walk up to the place, hoping that I've got my dress and make up correct to fit in at whatever hellhole I have somehow sacrificed my dignity to attend. Once inside, I am still nervous because not only am I an amazon, but I am also alone and can't tell if I will actually recognize my friends in the dark. Forget about hearing anything and forget about feeling the cell phone vibrate. The music is too damned loud and at this point, I think I may have a concussion from the bass.

After I get to the bar and am ignored by the female bar tender, I get my usual: vodka tonic. I do this for a few reasons; vodka tonics are strong, they won't make me bloat, the tonic eases my now vat of acid acting as a stomach, and they don't taste like a hypoglycemic nightmare. I drink and awkwardly stare in the dark at people that I am not sure are my friends. When I do see them, I remember that I don't know them all that well. Any friends that I am close with have learned that these kinds of situations suck. So, I dance a bit to the music that is too loud to be enjoyed. I look around and wonder if any of these people are dying of thirst like I am. I wonder if the man now grinding himself into me realizes that he is at level with my knee, and as much as my knees need lovin too, it's quite uncomfortable. Of course when I lose balance from this dance of midget on stork, he thinks I am being affectionate.

It's not a rare occurrence for me to be at these places on an all girl night. When us girls want to "stand in a circle around our purses and shoes"*, I am frequently the last to get hit on and therefor the "cockblocking bitch". I don't mean to be and, hell, who wants to admit they never get hit on? It isn't because I am super ugly or fat or anything. It's usually because I live in a place where short girls with tiny everythings are coveted by short men with tiny other things. It's just how this town is. I'll just say it: I'm white. That's not to say I can't dance or don't have assets. I am just not the type that would ever cook dinner in my stilettos after arranging my Precious Moments figurines when I come home from church with our twelve children, all named after my husband, who is the picture of machismo. Tall, white girls don't usually do it for these folks. So, I am left. If I do get approached, it is by the most intoxicated or the most creepy person in the bar.

My best friend, Human Google, often shakes his head in amazement when I tell him what I did the night before. He is eager to remind me that real people don't do things like that exclusively. Sure, once in a while it's fun to say you lost twenty percent of your hearing in an effort to get close to people, but for the most part people of quality know better; they usually throw parties.
So, for tonight, a Saturday night, I am sitting home writing long winded blogs and he is out at Vagina Slims, feeling uncomfortable while he drinks his screwdriver and girls with low self esteem dance on bars in glorified underwear. I know he is looking around right now realizing he's actually surrounded by horny frat guys, who frankly scare him and make him ashamed of his gender. Who knows, maybe he'll even try and rub himself on a random girl because that's what he is continually told is fun.

Nah, he's just standing there awkwardly screaming in order to have some sort of conversation with the guys he went there with. They will all come home without numbers or names, just as I have and wonder how the hell people find this sort of thing entertaining.

*Dane Cook reference

Yes, I am a dork

Slop + Mess +Art =

2007-04-04T13:10:00.000-05:00

**Insert excuses for lack of blogging action here.**

They may include, but are not limited to, alien abductions, the removal of a Siamese twin, doing jail time for attempts on the president's life, and falling in love.

Decleaning Your House

If you are anything like myself, (a human being with no flaws at all, a fantastic physique, a face a model would kill for, and more money than you can count, but enough brains to invest it and do my own taxes), then you probably loathe the idea of cleaning, yet you desire the sanitation and relaxation that comes with a clutter free lifestyle.

Here is my revolt. Here is your guide to loving the character-rich apartment that a mess makes.

Rules

Refrigerators need to be turned off or thrown away:

Refrigerators are cold, meaning they can hold food for a long time before it decays. This is

both good and bad. You want your house to have its own fragrance so that people can return and feel nostalgic for the old times. The fridge stink can aid this, but it does take longer than – say, putting your leftovers on the windowsill or in the dryer. Also, an efficient fridge will take away from the colorful forms of life that you have brought into the universe. You are creating life from fuel. If that's not the greatest thing ever, I don't know what is. You are the god of your fungal colony. The fridge just delays your universe.
Drawers are stupid:

Doing laundry is a necessary evil. It should be completely abolished, but lo and behold “society” doesn't approve of your own personal scent and it doesn't treat people kindly when it realizes the tie dye effect on your shirt is actually just a pattern created by rings of your own sweat. So, you're stuck cleaning your clothing. It's necessary to get rid of your drawers and scatter your clean clothes about the room creating colorful rugs and patterned piles of art. These piles of wearable art are also a wonderful alternative to furniture. They can be arranged to mimic beds, sofas, tables, and even litter boxes.

Dvds and Cds are excellent building blocks:

I have walked into many houses adorned with shelves packed with DVDs and CDs. These fixtures are trite and uninteresting. I suggest, after sprawling your DVDs on the floor, building towers, houses, and even a domino-like trail of pillars. Now, your precious treasures have doubled their entertainment value.

Shower texture:

Why is getting clean always a messy process? A bathtub full of products to rid your body of dirt do nothing but leave their films and shaving scum all over the place. Why even deal with this if your next shower just adds to the collection? You, fine homewowner, need to understand the value of saving. If you are patient, you will be able to reap the rewards of a uniquely textured bathtub. No more slipping on the smooth surface, and no more of that harsh white porcelain blinding you. Shower cake also holds heat, so you will remain in hot water longer than with a regular tub.
Vacuums suck:

Carpet is coming back, people! Now, you are pressured into carpeting your wonderful tile or hardwood floor. That could cost a fortune! Fear not, a simple toss of your Hoover can actually create that soft, warm, shag carpet feel. Carpet build up will even be expedited if you own animals. Now you can stop cleaning up the shedding of your favorite pet. Throw that damned vacuum away and grow your own carpet with dust bunnies and dirt trailings.

So stop wasting your life getting rid of the inevitable. Embrace it and become one with the mess. You'll see that you have more time and energy and perhaps, if you are lucky, discover a new strain of bacteria.

Living on the Landfill

2007-01-13T08:53:00.000-05:00

Let's go visit Genna. Drive two miles down the road to wait in the mile long line to get into her spectacular “gated” community. Waterfalls roar on either side of the guard house. The rush mutes out your inner screaming as you wait three hours to finally get inside of this cookie cutter labyrinth. Yes, it looks like a vision of conformity that only Disney's Celebration could truly emulate. The winding road leads you to a street where you slowly drive past each house, slightly pausing to see if you have counted exactly 12 houses in to find your best friend. Even the numbers on these cloned domains don't help. Is she 121145 or 124511? A car would be a helpful cue, but who doesn't own a Honda these days? A black Honda, or maybe it was silver. Fuck. Well, you pull into the driveway of a house that you “feel right” about and you knock on the door hoping you have either found your best friend or at least someone who resembles your friend. Genna opens the door. Jackpot. The houses get bigger, the rooms get smaller and you bunch into her broom closet of a room where you can't close the door because the foot of her bed is in the way. Silly girl, did you think you could have your room and sleep in it too? You sit on something that you may suspect is the vacuum cleaner or perhaps it is a sleeping dog. She goes on and on about her life in a matchbox home and you can't help but think of rotting diapers. Why is this image looming overhead? Because that is the image looming in the air. Yes, the breeze has decided to blow in a westardly direction and the visible green gas has now managed to cloud every part of the development, from the waterfalls to the man made lake in the backyard with the banks that seem to be melting into the hole that was dug to raise prices on the cardboard cottages. Genna's clothes, hair and cat now emit a trace remnant of these fumes. I have often looked at her pets, especially the dog-sized goldfish, that she has managed to keep alive and thought that their accelerated growth rate was due to Genna's excellent fish nutrition regime. I was wrong. It's obvious that whatever corrosive chemical they are using on that landfill has not only helped the gulls circling over it become as massive as eagles, but it has seeped into the water supply and the air supply enlarging everything within a three mile radius. Her cat is merely a stomach with legs and her eight year old niece is an amazon. The effects of the gas from the mountain of decay have also become psychological. Genna is now on an never ending hunt for a perfume that will block out the reality of her living situation. At night she gets up and takes showers to rid herself of the smell, something like burning eggs and moldy towels, but the water just ingrains the funk into her skin. Once in a while I question her family's decision to buy property on a hazardous waste site and then I think of my apartment, only two miles up the road and remember why I tolerate the location; it's the only place I could afford that wasn't an efficiency. I did trade a kitchen, a full bathroom, and a bedroom for some altered genes and cancer, but wouldn't you?

New Years Manual

2006-12-31T13:50:00.000-05:00

If you're anything like the typical being you have probably found New Year's one of the most disappointing holidays of the year. Why? Well, there are numerous theories about being exhausted from the soul sucking Xmas rush or being tapped out of funds because you tried to buy something that would warrant a smile from even your least liked friends. Maybe New Year's blows because the entire party is centered around watching a glorified tangle of mini lights slide down a stick. Whatever the reason, here are some ways to weather the New Years Disapparty.

The Show You Are Missing

*Don't focus on your resolutions (you know they're non committal fluff you delude yourself into believing for the purpose of giving your life the illusion of momentum); focus on your friends. Have they had enough to drink? Have they had enough of your drink? And perhaps their neighbor's drink? Alcohol is the key here. You can even slip them some extra happy with a Benadryl in their champagne. Any over the counter decongestant will do the trick. Why are you inevitably lining your friends up to hunch down over the toilet bowl? Because they are damned entertaining right before they decide to relive everything they ate that day in reverse. You can gage the success of their show by following this simple rubric:

*- one star for any embarrassing gesture or utterance such as confessions of obsession, true love or incredible lust, small stumbles, Freudian slips, etc.

** - two stars for gestures or utterances made to the same sex, humping of any inanimate object, admittance of infatuation to a co worker of a higher position, the phrase “Where are my shoes?” or impromptu karaoke without a karaoke machine.

*** - three stars for a fight, urination in inappropriate places such as plants, the kitty litter box, and/or roommates' beds, floor swimming (an activity that occurs when you just want to lay down and the hardwood floor looks so comfortable, but getting up from it induces the spins), inappropriate molestation of a passed out party member including, but not limited to Sharpie art, clothing removal, incriminating poses with animals/furniture, tea bagging, fruit baskets, warm water hand tricks, etc.

**** - four stars for same sex making out sessions, illicit sexual acts, police/FBI raid, anything that warrants the fire department to stop by, any of the aforementioned acts video taped and posted on the Internet.

Instigate Marital Strife

Many New Years bouts of misery are directly related to the fact that everyone has had/ is having more sex than you. If you find yourself the single one out in these situations, you may experience great satisfaction in unmasking their “happy couple”smugness.

Step 1 – Pick a topic known to bring dystopia to the union.

- past sexual partners

- household chores

- married yet?

- what about baby?

- “alone” time

- driving

- flirting with strangers

- breaking up/divorce statistics

Step 2 – Make topic personal. For example, Mandy and Tom are smiling artificially at you when they ask who you are dating. You simple smile back and say, “Well, I am a free agent. I don't believe in relationships or monogamy. It's so incredible to be able to just enjoy yourself without having to worry about (insert topic of choice). I mean if (either Mandy or Tom) were single, I'd show you how freeing it can be. *touch target on the shoulder, look into target's eyes* Remember that time, (name of target)? Denial at this point will only help you. Just smile knowingly and walk away seductively. Make sure to look over at the chosen target every couple of minutes in order to ensure a lasting effect.

Step 3 - Enjoy the rewards of a well placed wrench. Mingle, pair off the separated ones with each other so the party goes from a collection of gooey couples to one messy blob, much more fun.

Make Your Own Ball

Attitude is everything. Convince yourself that no matter how lame or lumpy you may feel, this party WILL rock so drink, sing, pants a few people and to hell with everyone else. If you don't make things happy, no one will.

Headless Horse

2006-12-26T15:39:00.000-05:00

Memories of waking up in a sea of wrapping paper, indulging in the material joys of childhood, are all in the past now. As an adult you are no longer drunk on the strawberry scented plastic of your youth. You are now stuck in that frozen half smile of "is this gift a punishment for something I did?" for the holidays. At the end of it all you are broke, exhausted and you truly like about 1% of all the gifts you have received. What do you do with all of the extras? I happen to live by a landfill (which explains why my fish have lived so long) and my desperate attempt to avoid becoming "the junk lady" has lured me to the gate of that seagull-circled castle of waste on more than one occasion .
I may die a cat lady or alone eaten by dogs a la Bridget Jones, but I will never be the "the junk lady". You know, the kind of person who buys gifts and stows them away in a room which is impossible to walk through and that looks like a massive land feature from far away. Up close you see that the mysterious crag is actually a collection of millions of useless things like novelty alcohol sets that come with a bottle of whatever and two cups labeled with the brand, turning you into a walking, talking, sample-giving advertisement. But I digress...at great length.

As an adult, gift giving is for the kids. We can vicariously watch them get the things our apparently non clairvoyant caretakers did not get for us. My dreams were shattered as my two year old cousin ripped opened fake food and cabbage patch dolls. I guess it's better that no one bought her the mechanical mare that I had been both entranced and horrified by. Here is what the wonderful patrons of Amazon.com said about the plaything:

Or you can view the Assembly Video

" What a great product?, December 3, 2006

Reviewer:

J. Downing (Columbus, OH USA) - See all my reviews

"You may wish to not open the box around your children if they may be frightened by a box with a decapitated horse inside."

Isn't that all you need to know? I wish more products carried this disclaimer. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. "

and

" Great fun for my grandson- and Me!, December 25, 2006

Reviewer:

J. A. Stump "karma mama" (Ellicott City, MD USA) - See all my reviews

We got the pony for our little grandson- although it is marketed for girls, he saw one at a store and fell in love with it early in the fall. I was able to get one for the retail price, thankfully; and my husband and I put it together with no problems, once we laughed at the obvious "Godfather" deja-vu of the horse's head detached in the box!
I have had a BLAST with this "animal"; the only complaint I have is that it does not walk and cannot follow me around the house! When Noah first saw it, he just clapped and squealed, he was so happy! This has been worth evey penny already."

Ahh, crappy reviews and spelling mistakes aside, I guess the Butterscotch Pony horrors are not just figments of my overactive and morbid imagination. There definitely IS something very wrong with life sized robots posing as animal friends.

Dear Java,

2006-12-24T17:39:00.000-05:00

Coffee, there is something I need to tell you. I don't just taste you, letting you wash over my tongue, I consume you letting you heat me from the inside. You know I enhance your natural flavors, or hide them with sugars and creams, because I love you. I know I shouldn't try to change you, but I don't just taste you, I feel you. Your naturally acrid taste and sinister looks lure me back every time. What girl doesn't like a bad boy? I have tried others, but decaf is plain and boring. I like the emotional roller coaster. Doesn't everybody? You know you strip my stomach of its lining and the lows you give me make me quiver and shake.

Everyone loves you. I mean, my own best friend bought me a new mug to put you in. My own best friend! How could you? I even carried a new “maker” into the office yesterday like a newborn because the old one was bastardizing your efforts. When I am unmotivated, you are my muse. You turn a listless life into one of panic and efficiency. You have single handedly saved the world and are responsible for its progress. How can a girl resist such power? Locke sang because of your drug. Swift crafted his greatest stabs at the cruelty of the human machine because you sped up and dragged out his formerly muted anguish. How can you turn cold so quickly? Why do you sour after an hour? Why do I keep coming back for more? I don't know how to quit you.

A Gift

2006-12-20T21:10:00.000-05:00

Took the Blog Right Out of My Mouth

2006-11-23T11:14:00.000-05:00

This WAS going to be my blog, but it turns out someone has already written it for me.

I always wanted to find a way to drink coffee while having sex

Scroll down to "A Cup off coffee and Sex, Please?"

Any ideas for a device that would allow getting a schtumpin while enjoying your coffee consumption?

Best idea/sketch receives a bag of beans and a tube of lube.

"Is there anyone just resting in this room?" - DC

2006-11-18T17:21:00.000-05:00

Just like any institution, I work in a place that houses tiny little cubicles that we defend with all of the aggressive habits of any free range dog. I am sure that Spencer, the newest addition to our Frankenstein of a family, has properly marked his territory and the cliché red stapler. Even though we aren't stuck in our tiny, al fresco offices like the normal work place, we do encounter all the banal hilarity that can be found in the latest Dilbert comic. We have the classic love/hate relationship with the copier, we breed the Dunder Mifflin staff quirks, and there then there is the continual search for paper, staplers, and pens that work.

I offer you a few tips for survival in the big city of minuscule working quarters.

Part One: The Bathrooms

Elusive Privacy – Pee shy, performance anxiety, social conditioning gone awry thanks to your mother and her glare of shame, call it what you want. Some people need privacy to do their business. You would think a tiny rectangle with no roof, no closed floors, and a flimsy clasp not even worthy of closing your Wonderbra would afford you the luxury of a voyeur-free experience. God forbid you get stuck at a high traffic time and you end up with the dark stall which doesn't close.

If you can not manage the difficulty of the sacred double palmed door hold, you are usually out of luck. Have no fear, if you have armed yourself with your Office Kit, you can just reach in and grab the multi-tasker of amazement: duct tape. A few strips of this on the door and no one enters or leaves until you are done properly testing the indoor plumbing of your, no doubt, 100 year office building.

Scapegoating – It seems that I have free moment at everyday between the minutes of 11:13 and 11:20. If I miss this window, I am stuck standing up, breathing very shallowly, and giving the “I really am laughing on the inside” face until around noon. Unfortunately, if I do make the designated moment of release, I walk into the mustiest fog that ever left a human's body. Sometimes the evil-dooer would spray, but rotting intestinal refuse mixed with wild berries just adds a whole new level of harm. Why? Because there is a receptor in your brain that thinks “wait, but we like mixed berries!” and even though you have closed off all pathways into your body, some part of you wants to let in the berries. So, I hold my breath, but turning blue on the toilet is not the way I want to die, so I do the logical thing; I breathe through my mouth. Always a horrible mistake. A palatable humid funk invades and I try and resist, but then I think “wait, mixed berries!”. In the end, I just shed a tear and wait until I can open the door and escape the gas chamber this person has left behind. As I run to safety, I am inevitably and always confronted with a person, much like myself, who is dieing to use the loo. You see where I am going with this? Yes, the funk of doom is now pinned on yours truly who has barely survived in the dutch oven of hell herself.

A few days ago, I identified the culprit as the older blond lady with way too much lip liner. And I liked her so much before this. She had to be stopped. I was not going to be the one blamed for the torture of my co workers. Part of me wants to know what sort of weird bean and broccoli only diet she is on, another part of me wonders if she is really human, and another suspects that she is disposing of her rotting ex husbands via the indoor plumbing.

If you are ever caught in this lethal situation, my advice is to either fake throwing up (which won't be hard) in order to signal to the next person that a.) the person before you left a stench not even a dog would roll in and b.) that you did not expel anything from the end of you that would produce such wondrous gases. You may also want to open the stall, room, whatever you have and keep it open as to let everyone around you know that you are not going to become a mouth breather in that poisonous atmosphere.

Or, you could do like my Russian co worker, Alina, does. She opens the door, takes a whiff and says, “I can do better!”

Be A Man Use Your Hand – Why is it that the most difficult task for a janitor to do is to replace the toilet paper when it is low? Is it because that enormous roll of paper is so rough and thin that picking it up ends up being a very daunting task? Is he hording the stuff for his family of eleven? Are the dispensers just too darn complicated to operate? Who knows. And who knows why we covet this sandpaper at all. We use the paper that can't even take the stress of its own function for the most holy of sanitary acts. You want a few squares, maybe three, maybe four, but this roll of iniquity can't even handle the tug necessary for the roll to move anymore than a square at a time. If you are in a high class place, you can tell by the way the toilet tissue flowers in your hand. Yep, there's your two ply, a see-through pile of squares.

Baby wipes are a good solution, but once again you have to have confidence in your building's decrepit piping. I suggest hiding a roll in your filing cabinet. Nothing is worth a wet hand, an eternity gathering squares, the dread shake, or a day of swamp ass.

For him or for her – If you've ever worked in a normal place of business, you've had the opportunity to venture over to the other side, the land of urine scented tile and little metal door flaps.

Aside from the one employee who dispenses the fog, the woman's bathroom is unique in its attempts to cover up the result of too much coffee with very oddly misplaced scents. Oh, is that fruit I smell in the bathroom? Who was eating a watermelon in here? Sugar cookies? Huh, wow, how come I didn't get any? Another facet unique to the ladies' room is the metal door of disgust. It's that tiny, and often broken, silver box usually mounted between stalls, and if you push far enough you can watch Betty, grandmother to five, doing her business. Most women steer clear of that box unless they are adding to its vile contents. Men, don't give into your curiosity. That elephant stays in that room and you never address it, not for a second. You hear me? Although, you will find that it is broken much of the time and your delusions of the bodily function-free woman will not be spared.

The mens' room has its own special features. I have often heard of bizarre urinal situations. Some involving very tall men and short fixtures that allow a great splashing effect, much like the fountains in Las Vegas. I have also heard of very tall urinals that defy logic and probably require water works talent to operate. All of this crazy contorting makes for a splash radius rivaled only by the first five rows at Sea World. Women, if you must use the mens' room, wash the bottoms of your shoes when you've left. Despite all of the stray pee, I am still envious of men and their quick, no bending, no wiping, in and out routine.

Other bathroom quirks to be aware of:

There is often no hot water, if there is, it is probably scalding or takes an hour to come through the pipes.

Paper towels are just that, paper dyed brown. They hurt.

Watch for crouchers and always line the toilet seat. You don't want to come home to your significant other and be asked why you have the bottom of someone's Nike drawn out in dirt on your ass.

Want to clear the bathroom? Just sing.

Beware of people who talk on the phone in public restrooms. There is something wrong with them.

Playthings that Play Back

2006-11-06T19:44:00.000-05:00

Wal-Mart. You either love it or loathe it. It is either the your safety net for cheap essentials like curtains, plungers or wedding rings, or it is the very apex of “The Man” pandering to the ever evolving sense of convenience our society demands nowadays. What other venue offers low quality chicken cutlets and paint thinner in the same location? One stop shopping – everything you ever wanted including toys.

No matter how old I get whenever I pass the toy aisles bursting with bright plastic encased in cardboard display boxes, I feel a small heart skip. An old conditioning gnaws distantly in the back of my mind now cluttered with new objects of lust (like decorative lamps and smelly candle holders). But no matter how domestic my tastes have become, I still do a quick search as I walk slowly past the “girlie girl” rows for distinct reminders of what fun used to be. Lisa Frank, Barbie and My Little Pony, all familiar labels, that I could recognize from a Hubble spacecraft, no longer create the walls of pink uniformity that would send elementary me into a salivating state. New names and swirlie logos and different candy-scented lures now line the aisles and it feels like I forgot an entire language. But the other day – the toy aisle delivered.

The kid in me awakened in Strawberry Shortcake pajamas and jumped from the top bunk to get lost in a pile of boxes with plastic windows, molded faces and yarn hair fastened tightly inside with clear ties stronger than steel (a chain that only my father's teeth or a steak knife could break). The feeling of twelve Decembers came over me.

What was this? A PONY! A life-sized pony without any traits that were often the clincher in the case against buying your daughter a pony. This pony did all the things a little girl would want sans riding it around Flutter Valley or having it trot down a Rainbow that sprang from the dust in your pocket. Oh my God, they did it.

I had never even suspected that the very male oriented predecessor would evolve into what is essentially a little girl's Valhalla.

I watched as a daughter approached the pony, goaded by her overweight and unnecessarily sweaty father. The pony moved at the touch of her hand and nuzzled close to her.

In complete terror I dropped my merchandise and ran from the store.

My reaction was what I would estimate what my mother felt when, as a little girl, she begged for a “My Size” Barbie.Upon the nightfall of that holiday in which her prayers were answered, she lay awake, gripping the covers over her head so as not to see the artificial whites of her new friend's eyes and the static smile now converted into something much more in the blanket of of her own midnight imagination. After one terrorizing night of being stared down in the bluish horror of her plaything, now big enough to play back, she threw the monstrosity into the basement and never looked upon it again.

This horse, a robot mimicking a live animal is so convenient, I thought when I first saw the little girl touch the faux fur. No pooping, no dieing, no riding accidents, no evil pack of wild mares...just cute, respondent pony. The ideal audience for such a product, a mousey eight year old, picked up the little carrot made just for pony and shoved it into its mouth and the only image I conjured up was.....

A pet that is a machine. A relationship with a computer programmed to emulate another being. Are we no different than baby monkeys that cling to their chicken wire “mother” feeders or a parakeet talking to its reflection in a mirror? We laugh at it and say “he thinks there's another bird there” because he responds to cue and signals of interaction.

I am not suggesting that the little girl fall in love with the horse, but will she not mourn the toy when it breaks? Will she not remember it always? When we learn more and more about what makes us react, bringing imagination to life can be very creepy sometimes.

Case in point- The Chimp with a Chip

...And if you want more where that came from

All the answers are in this bittle lottle...uh...little bottle

2006-11-04T14:53:00.000-05:00

The following is a paid advertisement by the makers of "50 Ways to Avoid Dealing with Your Life" and "Stories We Tell Ourselves to Make Us Feel Better"

FATE
We've Got It All Taken Care Of

Ladies and gentlemen of all times and locations, are you often left unhappy, unfulfilled, and unsatisfied with your lot in life? Your job leaves you feeling hollow, your friends leave you waiting, and your self worth is dragged in behind you like the smeared remains of a fragrant doggie doo?

Don't get angry and denounce your institution of faith! You know this "bump" is just a predetermined stab to your very being. Your terrible choices and bizarre self fulfilling prophecies had nothing to do with it. Hang in there because it is your fate to experience this humiliation. Somehow, it will make you tougher and being calloused is a good thing! Once you have grown some extra padding over the nerves that once treated you to the pleasures of life, you won't feel anything at all. Won't that be grand? Instant obliteration of all you hated.*

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "but Bob, what do I have to pay for such a service?". I am glad you asked that. When we developed this program and proved its effectiveness in our bestselling book, Oedipus Rex, the program required all sorts of subscriptions to religion and beliefs in idols, which often contradicted themselves. Thanks to progressions made in religious tolerance and other fields of belief, we are able to offer you this program with no indent on your wallet. We promise complete immunity to confusion, and in time, pain. And the best part is that it is completely free! A small sacrifice in belief of yourself with every failure and let down is not so much to ask. In fact, most people acquiesce in these situations anyway. What do you have to lose?

Let me put it to you in another way. You don't really have a choice (but, hey, isn't that what I have been saying all along?). Even if you do cancel your entire subscription to your current vehicle of beliefs, it won't matter because that too is part of your fate. We have already that down here on page 666 of your life's book. Even if you throw yourself off a bridge in the next hour, we saw it coming. Struggle all you want, we've beaten you there. Control over your life is just an illusion, hahaha. So, what do you say? Oh and if you sign your friends up, we'll also enroll you in the world's most popular opiate, karma. No more waiting for tangible justice or time spent on revenge schemes; karma is justice.

Just imagine, all your actions, inactions, choices and thoughts will never weigh on your mind again.

Fate
we've got it all taken care of.

Fate is a trademark of the ControlMass corporation, a subsidiary of Wolfram and Hart.

*we are legally obligated to remind you that love and hate are closely related and the elimination of your compassion, vulnerability and the ability to love others will be compromised as a side effect of this program

Reverse Peephole

2006-10-29T10:32:00.000-05:00

The Prospective Perspective, written by Ann Nonymous or Annon for short, pledges to tip the world on its ear and to collect all of the loose change that falls from its pockets. She knows you've been holding out on us, World, and she wants your lunch money.

"A monumental moment in blogspotting" ~ Hard Drives for the Driven

"A non stop teacup ride of wit, wonder, and role reversal" ~ Twinkle Twinkle Little Cat

"Literally, the lighthouse in a sea laden with the drowning dribble of the droll who desperately seek their dream of dominating the blogisphere." ~ Alliteration Addicts Anonymous

Bookmark this event now to reserve your spot in the Blog of the Century.

Updates Coming Soon!