1) Is anybody else in Sopranos denial right now? I mean, the writers get off the action track with one teensy water-torture dream episode that a person
could label a mite too "hey, the more abstract the clearly more intelligent" and they have to kill off the hottest character? Hey, and I don't really know from
Mafia, but I hold certain fundamental principles to be true, and one of those principles is that good television never shoots the best ass in the back of the head. At least not mid-
season. Damn.
2) R came home yesterday and now he's gone again. We had a fabulous dinner out so that I could eat the Scallops in Tarragon Cream Sauce dish that I always order before my latest "better eating" campaign. It just so happened that we were the only people in the restaurant all evening; I looked into R's eyes and told him we could pretend that he had romantically reserved the entire floor just for us, and he grabbed my hand across the table and squeezed it, meeting my gaze... and then we got over it and screamed baseball scores and crossword puzzle possibilities back and forth to the lurking bus staff. Then we came home and I pumiced his feet. A very satisfying night, all in all.
3) I'm still desperately (and shamefully, thank you foreign language exam, fuck you France) looking for a job, so I have all of these company names and addresses; advertising, public relations, newspapers, magazines... and I'm sending each of these companies resumes (even though I lay awake nights secure in the knowledge that somewhere some arrogant middle-management minion* is sipping a latte and laughing contemptuously at my having claimed ten years of grocery retail slavery as "experience"), so I'm calling these businesses all day today asking, "Hello, would you mind telling me who the head of your human resources department is?" so I can properly address the envelope, right, and nine times out of ten the receptionist for whom I've by now grown an insurmountably painful case of career envy goes, "well, what sort of position are you interested in?", giving me the opportunity to put my best line into play, that line being, "OH, PRETTY MUCH
ANYTHING." So in short, do any of you own publishing or advertising or public relations corporations in Phoenix? If you do, and you don't put much stock in interview etiquette or diplomacy or coherent sentence structure, I'm your gal.
4) These Paint pictures are absolutely the BEST Paint pictures ever created in the no-doubt sordid history of Paint. I've started the post, but that ("obviously," says Willie the Sock Monkey Pirate) doesn't mean anything in terms of time. You've got all night tonight to get in. At least. So throw into the increasingly disturbing pot.
* I love you.
1) I spent most of yesterday running around with M and her enormous child. He just turned a year old, and he's cute, he is, but I swear to god it's like carrying around a Scottish soldier. M must have developed the arm muscles of, say, an ENGLISH soldier because I was holding that kid and he pushed against me in an effort to get down, and not only was he
successful in the getting down when both my ulnas snapped against his pressure, but he fractured three of my ribs in the pushing process. M wasn't impressed with her kid happily chortling his way into parking lot traffic and me with my hunched shallow breaths and wincing arm pain, but if I had to guess I'd say that she was even
less impressed when I took off at the end of the day with his carseat in my backseat and got all the way home with it. I met all of the levels of "unimpressed" yesterday. Except the ones near the top.
2) My ass is getting bigger at the speed of fucking sound.
3) The Jake just burst into the house covered in liquefied horse shit from the neighbor's pasture irrigation. I, of course, being the "home alone for the weekend" twelve-year-old that I am, have defiantly left the door open even though the A/C is on. I've also been holiday-letting The Jake jump onto the couch. It just took eight seconds for all of my rebellion to cost me approximately $90 in carpet and furniture cleaning. I wish someone was here to make me go to my room.
4) I can't find a single Smoothie recipe that calls for mashed potatoes.
5) Keep sending in the Finger Squad paint pictures. I'm getting pictures now that have nothing to do with Finger Town, and that's awesome. Deadline is Sunday afternoon-slash-evening-slash-Monday-sometime.
6) I spent forty-five minutes this morning trying to claw the Scotch tape off of the battery cover of the television remote. I ended up crying and wheezing, bent over with shaky, bloody thumbs... I finally got it off but by then I was too exhausted to actually replace the batteries. I just slumped over on the couch-- breath ragged, heart pounding--and spontaneously fell into a three hour nap. At eight in the morning. My finger muscles are really sore now. Maybe later I'll bend down to pick something up and make this a "whole body workout" day.
7) I've offficially been voted off
Reverse Survivor this week! I don't know what kind of a statement it is that my strong suit is apparently satirizing a completely bullshit work by a pedophile, but whatever. Techno Destructo is off. I win.
UPDATE: M called this afternoon wanting to know if I have her cell phone. Then she called again wanting to know if I have her debit card.
I'M SORRY ABOUT THE
CARSEAT, ALREADY.
DAMN. It's not like I filled up a fucking
knapsack full of your shit before I left. It was just the
carseat!
And these cookies.
And that one sandal.
and your keys.
(and all the shampoo.)
The Post Where I Figure Out How To Magically Obligate You Into Sending Me Stuff.
1) There's A Baby asleep on my family room floor right now awash in slightly damp Cheerio's. Mouth open, arms flailed out... it looks like she OD'd on cereal.
It's really my fault. I work under the misconception that if fifteen Cheerio's are fun then two hundred Cheerio's are a whole wheat party. It's not. Fifteen are fine. (She thought this game was pretty annoying, FYI.)
2) I had to pick the first five people who responded about the Five Questions. I would have just gone with everybody but then the Abstract Rule Invisible Internet Game Police would no doubt have been edging me over in traffic and shit. Black Lincolns. Limo tint. Little microchip badges. No good. So here are the five. I'll get your questions to you via email later today.
Scary Crayon
Middle-Aged Man In Moderate Distress
Mister Crunchy
Situation In Progress
Deadly Kitten
3) My friend M is coming into town later today with her baby boy. I'm excited about this for multiple reasons, thus mandating the complicated and oft employed "list within a list breakdown". Easy, girl.
a) Her unexpected arrival gets me out of a trip up to northern Arizona that I was somehow roped into taking with R. "A trip up north?" you ask. "Why would you want to get out of that?"
"Well," I reply, "the answer to that has many folds, my friends. Dare I leap into the dreaded 'list within a list within a list' abyss?
DARE I?"
"We don't know," you mumble. "We're a little insecure about our ability to follow along as it is. You're not the cleanest outliner in Outline Town. Sometimes you fuck this shit up and forget crap and leave us hanging on like '1c)'. Can we just keep it simple this time and then maybe we'll send you a workbook for at-home practice?"
"Fine," I say. "But I want that workbook. You hurt my feelings."
So. This particular trip up north was a trip to investigate potential investment property. Ooooh. Driving around all day staring at dirt? Maybe getting crazy and talking to real estate guys? Hold me back. Plus, no dog. I'm not really down with boarding The Jake just yet. I keep
saying I am but I'm not. Eventually I know that I'll have to and when I do it will be at the poshest, most elaborately disgusting North Paradise Valley puppy spa. With little puppy volleyball courts and puppy hot tubs. Little puppy mai tais. Where they'll sneak him Bugles and Havarti on a regular basis. But not yet. I don't know what I would have done if M hadn't called. I was precariously involved in a game of Kennel Chicken.
And did I mention that this trip was going to be with R's ex-girlfriend and her new husband? Yeah. No. She's mostly harmless, but I can only hear so much "Oh, R, remember when we were in Cancun and you bought me that bracelet with the stones and the gold and the thing?" or "Well, that's not what you
used to think, remember?" before I want to point out that I'm twenty years younger than she is just to shut her catty little hole. I bite my tongue to tolerate the occasional lunch with that bitch but I swear to god if she wasn't married I would have beat the shit out of her like seven times. R can go by himself. And I bet she'll be pissed that I'm not there for her to preen references to. Which really is reason enough not to go.
(Hey ladies: bonus points if you can guess how many of these squinty-eyed comments R has picked up on.)
b) I believe I mentioned that my ten year reunion was last weekend. Like myself, M also did not attend. We have planned a Subverted Reunion of the highest caliber. I don't have all the details, but I sent an invite to
The Captain and I got a black lace thong, a rusty dagger and a Barbie head in the mail today. So I think that bodes well.
c) Everytime M comes to town we're required by some law (I pretend it's a law) to methodically eat all of the food that M craves and can't get where she lives.
Remember? I've been working on my list like a bulimic freshman cheerleader all morning.
3) Keep sending in the Microsoft Paint Finger Squad. The ones I've gotten already I'm thinking about printing out and framing. It occured to me that since the Reconstruction my email address is no longer posted. So
here. Send them in. I'll post them Sunday night while I'm recuperating from the Subverted Reunion Fiasco.
4) Workbook. If you're not part of the solution, guys, you're part of the problem.
Five Questions
Caitlin sent me my Five Questions. Everyone knows what I'm talking about here so let's get crackin:
1)
How are your fingers feeling? Do they still look like BBQ? Will you post another picture?
My fingers! The Uptight Finger Family from Finger Town! They're actually fine now, thank you for asking. After the infamous Broccoli Incident they churned and boiled and bubbled and crispened until they reached an apex of grossness that I felt compelled to document
here. Soon after those pictures were taken I was forced to claw the black pieces off by virtue of the same uncontrollable fervor that grips me when I'm around anyone peeling from a sunburn, ie: "
shut up and just let me do it". Well, it wasn't long before I had all the blisters popped. Naturally. And then comes the requisite "chewing all the skin off the sides". You know. Surprisingly enough, despite the nurse's dire warnings, popping and scraping didn't make it worse, it only completely and painlessly solved the problem. And as for posting a picture... I had my camera all ready to document the healing, but then I decided that we should make it a Microsoft Paint extravaganza. You guys should do pictures of my fingers post-burn, and then I'll post, critique and link you. It's key that you remember their
names (scroll all the way down). Otherwise we've just got regular anonymous
fingers and that's not much fun. I assume. I wouldn't know, because I don't have any anonymous fingers.
2)
You're stranded a la Gilligan on a deserted tropical Island. You get to have four other people with you, of your choosing. Who are these people? Why are you stranding them on the island with you, you selfish girl?
I was going to say "my mother, my father, my brother and a therapist", but I wouldn't really want to do that. Then I was going to say "Darlene, the total fuckwit who moved out of her abusive boyfriend's condo at my insistence and slept on my couch for ten months in my one-bedroom apartment with her 160 pound Akita, not giving my any money for food, utilities or rent but spending lots of time smoking pot in her pajamas and oil painting me 'thank you' pictures of alcoholic beverages until I kicked her out when she got pregnant by a married guy whose WIFE was six months pregnant... Linda, the mother of my godchildren whose husband was so completely on crack (in the literal sense) that he took out a second mortgage on their home, sold her car and called me like forty times at work asking me to come over and watch porn, and who-- when told of her husband's indiscretions, ransacked the house until she
found said crack-- accepted her husband's excuse that he had loaned a guy money and the guy paid him back in crack (ohhhh! that's okay, then) and then accused me of trying to break up her family..."... and a couple of other girls who fit into this vein. I'd like to get them all on an island just so I can REALLY be ABSOLUTELY SURE that I get my point across about being a complete fucking idiot. But then I really thought about it and decided that I'd settle for a carpenter, an engineer, an astronomer and a swim coach.
3)
What was the last thing you stole, you total klepto?
Oooh. I'm not a big stealer. Not because I can't get
behind stealing; just because I have a painfully guilty conscience. I managed a grocery store for a long time, so I'm sure it's from there. Friends would come in and load a cart up with beer and I'd pretend to ring them up... shit like that. The funny thing is that I was the full charge bookkeeper for that store, too. It was my primary mission to
prevent theft, and I ruled with an iron calculator. I fired like fifteen people for stealing, although it was always for taking cash and not stuff. I obviously didn't care about the stuff. Since, you know, I took so much of it
home. I got to fire a fellow manager for shoving eighty grand into his pants.
Yes.
4)
Annie are you OK?
No, not really. I need a job, I need a degree, I need some cash... but I AM better than Michael Jackson. Which is something.
5)
A magic Genie comes out of your laundry soap and he says he can give you ONE THING before he returns to the bottle. What is that ONE THING that you ask him to give you? (It must be tangible.)
That's easy-- I want my cousin back. She was killed in a car accident a couple of years ago. In her pajamas. She was taking a movie back to Blockbuster. She's very tangible and I'd get her back.
Okay. Sorry about the digressions. Don't forget to Paint the Finger Squad. Here are the Five Question Rules:
THE RULES:
1. Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond to up to five of you; I'll ask you five questions.
3. You'll update your website with my five questions, and your five answers.
4. You'll include this explanation.
5. You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
P.S. It's
Reverse Survivor time over at The Crunchinator; I'm even more pleased and full of myself than usual, which almost certainly confirms my pathetic defeat. Whatever. It's awesome. I strongly advise each and every one of you to sign up for next season. I'm going to see if I can play again. So I can lose. Again.
Hey! Let's Do Yet Another List Of Things That Make Me Really Uncomfortable!
1) Okay, here's an abbreviated list of the shit that I've repeatedly promised to send to people but haven't, making me a big phony guilt-ridden uncomfortable lazyass motherfucker:
Scott and
Michelle and
Stace and
Caitlin are still waiting for tee shirts. And some other people, apparently, because I've had like twenty blank shirts from Mervyn's on top of my dryer for eleven years now. I actually DID make Kamikaze Progress Mia a tiny little shirt, and I even wrapped it all up in pink tissue paper and packaged it up with some chocolate chip-toffee cookies and then I ate all the cookies and took the shirt out of the package and put it back on top of the dryer. If you took all the self control in the world and you put it in a cookie jar I would eat all of it immediately and then it would be mathematically and categorically clear that yes, I have no self control.
I also promised Caitlin that I'd send her a tube of my favorite lip gloss since she sent me the most precious care package on the planet. I like to turn this one around and say that if Caitlin's package hadn't been so crazy prompt, and so crazy "beautiful raffia nest", and so crazy "adorable tiny candies", I might not have crawled inside this hole full of intimidated procrastination. My goal now is just to BUY the lipgloss and somehow get it to her without using it first. Guys, if it makes you feel any better I can't get things to people who live in town, either. I still have a Valentine's Day card here for my mom and I can see her house from here. I suck. And I love you. I'm uncomfortable with the suck, but not with the love.
2) The laundry room in my house is making me pretty uncomfortable in a linty, claustrophobic way. Not only do the twenty-odd white tee shirts piled on the dryer regard me with silently accusing cotton eyes, but now my linens are multiplying. Which is normal to a certain extent, but this shit is completely out of control. I'm shuffling through knee-high towels in there; this morning I had to strap on snowshoes to get some socks. Entire sheet sets are appearing out of fucking
nowhere... it's a problem of both the "slacker" and "suffocating" varieties, and anytime I get a problem hybrid like that I'm intensely uncomfortable. So if anyone needs a bedskirt and has their own scuba gear, get your ass over here.
3) Overdue library books.
From four libraries.
The Bookmobile is parked across the street.
It's full of steely librarian bounty hunters.
I'm under constant surveillance.
It won't be long now.
Will you write to me?
Uncomfortable.
4) I'm uncomfortable in a self-desparaging way that I still haven't uploaded the Pirate Sock Monkey Named Willie pictorial. I'm sorry,
Mia. When I
do post it though I think you'll all agree that Willie makes a really bad car passenger. Although, in fairness, this may be true of pirate monkeys in general.
5) So I'm still watching The Baby for my personal trainer, right? His wife is a trainer as well, and they actually own this gym that I'm going to. Every morning one or the other of them drops The Baby off and picks The Baby up, and every morning I'm wearing a little boy's gray tee shirt and a pair of jeans. Sometimes it's a boy's
blue tee shirt, but that's sort of a big deal because it probably means that all fourteen gray tee shirts are in the laundry room where they're being protected and coddled by feisty European shams. It makes me uncomfortable that I sense that my morning gray shirt addiction is becoming trainer discussion fodder. It makes me MORE uncomfortable that I don't really care.
I love my gray shirts.
I buy them in packs of three.
I'm wearing one right now.
Do you want me to send you one?
BECAUSE, APPARENTLY, I TOTALLY
WON'T.
I actually started a post this afternoon called "I'm A Lazy Bitch", and then had to save it as a draft. Because I was too busy drooling on my arm to finish it.
Expect the Ultimate in "Sock Monkey Pirates Named Willie" pictorials tomorrow.
I did it all like two weeks ago, but I can't bring myself to commit to the uploading.
And I haven't showered in like three days. A sloth skulked up to me today and wanted to high five. He only had three fingers and it seemed too complicated so I just yawned instead.
And I didn't cover my mouth.
Don't Call Us, We'll Call You.
or
Wait, No We Won't. Go Away.
1) My highschool reunion is this weekend and I'm not going. A little bit because I'm not married and I have no kids and I have no job and I'm driving the same bullshit car I was driving as a sophomore and I STILL DON'T HAVE THIS MASTER'S DEGREE... but mostly because it seems like a lot of energy for nothing. From where I'm sitting right here at my computer I could throw a Frisbee to my highschool's track field. The marching band wakes us up every morning. I see everyone I need to see (and a lot I don't) from 1990-94 on a regular basis.
So anyway. Not going. But I'm getting a lot of phone calls from people who are coming in from out of town for the festivities and who want to hang out. Which is cool. Mostly. I got a call last night from this girl Jennifer. She's coming in this afternoon with her husband and two daughters... she's a die-hard, right? one of those who actually planned the birth of her latest baby to make sure that she could lose the weight before the reunion. In between her chemical peel, rehearsal makeup run, manicure and weave she wanted to know if we could get together for a "girl's night"...
"You know," she said, "we can rent Sixteen Candles and eat Ben and Jerry's all night... do each others' nails, talk about boys... just like we used to!"
"Like we
used to?" Yeah. If you want to really
replicate our highschool past, Jenn, then I guess you should start stripping again so that I can pick you up downtown at three in the morning when you're crying and naked and stranded. And do you need another abortion? Planned Parenthood probably still has your eight-inch file handy. Oh, I could lie to the cops again about your involvement in... you know. Hey! And then can we can go over to
your house and you can try to get your mom to throw up while I try to figure out how many percocet she took? Awesome! Sign me up!
"I'm busy," was the short answer. The truth is that I don't want to be there when she starts smelling her husband's underwear to see if he's cheating. Again. I've really got to unpublish my number.
2)
Reverse Survivor votes again tonight. I was pretty tickled with my own entry, personally, but since I've failed to garner a single vote thus far... well, go over and show me some love. If you can figure out which one is mine. Which you can, I'm sure; it's the bad, weird one.
I'm getting used to the new layout, I think. And just so you know I'm not through with the vamping. Or the posting. I'll get to that soon.
Yeah Lori. I hear you on the blue background. I'll leave it white, but I don't think I have the heart to make it look like a spreadsheet. Can you believe I deleted all of the Microsoft sea creatures? I have to do all new sea creatures now. It's a good thing I've got NOTHING GOING ON.
Okay. That's a start. Can anyone tell me how to put tables on the margin? For the quotes and the "links" and whatnot? Here's my
email until I get comments up.
Okay gang. It's absolutely without question time for a new template. Everytime I look at this page I just wince at all the
words and
sizes and color-y
mishmash. I'm going to try to work on it today so if you stop by and the shit's all fucked up... that's why. If anyone has any suggestions I'm of course open to those. Unless they're mean or stupid.
Or ugly.
Or hard.
The bad news is that he's got a family down there.
The super bad news is that he's got a family AND a dead gopher down there.
Why The Friends Series Finale Was The Worst Series Finale In The History Of Television Based Solely On The First Fifteen Minutes Because That's Approximately When I Said, "Okay, Fuck This Shit," And Turned It Off:
1) The birthing scene in which Monica and Chandler look only slightly more emotional about being new parents than I looked when the Safeway was out of house brand granola. This is the only scene I watched, so let's break it down and explicate in detail all of the different intersecting ways in which the writers failed to fucking show:
a) "Hey wait, it's twins!" "Hey wait, a boy AND a girl!" "Hey wait, THIS IS RETARDED." Too bad I can't see through the complete implausibility to find this situation even remotely humorous. Perry and Cox's strained "forty-three minutes to go" performance isn't helping.
b) Why is Monica wearing The Lady of the Manor garb? A raw silk tunic with a beaded wrap? In a DELIVERY room?? Nothing says "Hands On New Mom" like crepe de chine. I sort of felt like this was a sitcom version of
The Handmaid's Tale.
c) Yeah, particularly after everyone in the room spends ten minutes talking about the babies ABOVE the birth mother who's still on her back. No one talk to her, talk to the woman with the slightly inconvenienced smile in the diamond bezel Breitling--
she's obviously the mother here.
d) And then when they wheel the birth mother out of the delivery room (apparently her presence in the room where she just delivered two children was impeding Monica and Chandler's parent vibe) and Monica-- holding a literally NEWBORN INFANT--calls after the gurney, "We'll call you!" Yeah. Do that. Call her. Because that's how adoption works. IN THE HANDMAID'S TAIL.
e) Even better? They take those babies home later that same day. Yeah. I can hear that conversation:
CHANDLER: (
to doctor, who's washing birth fluid off his hands) "Hey, can we take off?"
DOCTOR: "Sure. Have a good one."
CHANDLER: "Thanks."
I don't even care about Friends enough to be disappointed-- I'm just insulted. But now I think that they should make The Handmaid's Tale into a sitcom. The kept women could think of really zany ways to elude their captors, like dressing up as free citizens or stabbing themselves in vital organs, but they'd always get caught at the end.
That would be funnier.
Q: What is one thing that can convince you that someone is waiting for you in the closet (under the bed, in the pantry, in the basement/attic, in the back of your car all hunched down, etc.) with a clown mask and a meat cleaver even though you've lived alone for like 10 years now and you've long since lain awake at night afraid of taxes and faux pas and sexual indiscretion in lieu of boogeymen?
A: Picking up the phone to call your brother and the line is dead.
Whoa. I've temporarily abandoned my mental relationship insecurity rhetoric so that I can concentrate more fully on holding a buck knife and a flashlight between my teeth and gripping this sweaty baseball bat.
Hey, does anybody think it's a problem that I just put The Baby to sleep in The Jake's bed?
If I'm not mistaken, there was a certain faction out there who doubted the grossisity and the nastosity of my finger problems. I mean, people besides my mom. I hereby present these pictures as proof of "I Win... It's Really Gross Afterall-ness".
I have to hand it to Meriwether RingFinger... what he lacks in char he makes up for in puff.
Oh, Erika I didn't realize that Road Warrior WAS "Mad Max". Duh. Yeah, you and Chip are right on the money; that's like the original post-apocalyptic masterpiece. Beyond Thunderdome was on last Sunday. Also badass.
And Jeremy, I'm with you on Mel Gibson. I could only have seen Braveheart more if I had a DVD player anchored to my forearm. And a television anchored to my other forearm. And some extension cords and maybe a sunshade and like five remotes bungee corded to my hair.
Michelle, I wanted to be a sniper after The Professional, too! They made it look so aspiring and honorable! Plus, guns.
We should all get together and see The Day After Tomorrow. And then you guys can come over and I'll start passing out the camo pants and knuckle tape. Someone bring some matches. Or some flint and some talent.
Oh, tonight's the night over at Reverse Survivor. I won't tell you who I am, but my ineffable Paint skills should tip you off. That and my ability to not rhyme.
Five Movies I Love And I Don't Care What You Say:
1)
Joe Dirt. "Whaaaa burger and some french cries." You can't argue with that. So don't try. Shut up.
2)
Deep Impact. When those stupid kids outrun a tidal wave by scrambling on top of a termite mound? Fuck yes.
3)
The Postman. Not that one that won awards and crap, the post-apocalyptic one with Kevin Costner. Not for any particular reason; I'm just a sucker for anything post-apocalyptic. When it all falls down come and find me-- I'll give you boots and fingerless gloves in exchange for allegiance. I'm just biding my time, motherfucker, me and my syphons.
4)
Willow. I refuse to reduce the perfection that is Willow to words of justification. When I have a daughter somebody's going to have to give me a long list of reasons why I can't name her Alora Dannon. And then think of a better way to MAKE ME NOT DO IT.
5)
Contact. I think a lot of people out there like this, but in my house I have to win some giant bet or something to get this shown. First, it's like eleven hours. Second, it's like eleven hours.
I went to the doctor again today, and I was bragging to the nurse that it doesn't really hurt at all anymore and she gets all wide-eyed and goes, "Well yeah... it hasn't
opened yet."
Ohhhh. THAT'S why she gave me so much codeine!!!
Uh, can I have some more codeine, please?
P.S. COMMENTER PARTICIPATION: Oh my god,
Jeremy,
Tremors is the whole reason I started this list! When Kevin Bacon says, "Repeat: Two MotherHumpers"... even on
cable... well, that's just too damn precious. Did that chick with the perm ever do anything after? She was a hell of a pole vaulter.
And
Cindy... no; I haven't read Contact. I own it, but I haven't been able to make myself to read it yet. I think I'm afraid that if the movie takes eleven hours to watch then the book necessarily takes ninety-eight hours to read. And I don't know that I have that kind of Sagan stamina. Plus, have you
seen that book? I need a library aide to help me get it off my shelf... it doesn't exactly scream "easy gym reading".
Bob, I'd bet cold hard cash that Petty was stoned out of his
mind during filming. Because that scene went kind of like:
COSTNER: "I know you... you're famous."
TOM PETTY:
(looks around shiftily, giggles, almost drops long heavy post-apocalyptic thing he's holding, giggles some more...) "Man, I
used to be famous, man... (
giggles, eyes shift away...)... I
guess, in another
time. (
inspiration strikes... eyes clear momentarily...)... but now
you're famous, man!
You're the
postman, man!"
(
dramatic musical interlude)
TOM PETTY: "Wait, you've got Cheetos though, right?"
(
awkward silence.)
TOM PETTY: "No, I'm serious."
J-A, Waterworld is one of the Ten Cinematic Wonders of the World. I own it on VHS and DVD. I may have the soundtrack (it's two hours of wind and jet ski motors). Sometimes I go down to the community pool and set up a little barter station on a raft and then make anyone who wants to get in the pool pay me some dirt. Or some urine. See "post-apocalyptic" above.
Caitlin! Time Bandits? I'm ashamed to say I've never heard of it. Are you sure it's not porn? Because it really sounds like porn. Oh, the teen flix! My favorite is "Can't Hardly Wait" with Jennifer Love-Hewitt and that wanna-be goth chick from Six Feet Under. I can watch that on a repeating cycle.
And the best Joe Dirt line... "I'll get this puke cleaned up lickity-split... speaking of lickity-split, let's get together later and see what's going on. I'm kidding, but seriously, let's hook up." That, and when he tells the meteor that he was cool because he had his back: "Hey! That's five bucks! I'll hold your half for you."
Ash, how much do I love that you TOTALLY JUST GAVE AWAY THE BOOK??? Not really gave it away, but SORT OF. You know those people who when you mention that you happened to see a movie or a show and before you can even finish saying the
name of the show they're clenching their eyes shut and clamping their hands over their ears and screaming, "NOOOOOOOO! DON'T TELL ME! I WANT TO SEE THAT!
I WANT TO SEEEEEE THAAAAAAT!" Yeah, I'm like the
opposite of that person. A lot of times I purposefully won't see tense or suspenseful movies that I don't know the endings to because I can't handle it; too much drawn-out suspense like that makes me kind of sick. A lot of times I have to pry the endings to shit out of people... "No, seriously; I WANT TO KNOW."
Chip, I've never seen The Road Warrior, but if your Aussie accent in the comment you left is even HALF as good as the movie then I need to GET IT RIGHT NOW. And I wouldn't say the Lord of the Rings movies are bad... I haven't seen tehm yet because I'm waiting for like the Alltime Movie Marathon Weekend of All Time, but I hear astoundingly good things. "Astounding" as in "sort of like Willow."
I THINK I'M IMPROVING.
EXCEPT FOR THE PARTS THAT ARE TURNING BLACK.
THOSE ARE PROBABLY NOT IMPROVING.
I spent most of last night reading
Mister Crunchy's archives. I've never laughed so hard in my life; he's so funny that I'm REREADING his shit now. Go read
Caterpillar right this second.
My Day Starting With Last Night And Ending Right Now, Which Is Technically Not "One Day" But Then I Never Said It Was, Did I? DID I???
or
If You're Going To Burn The Crap Out Of Yourself, You Need To Make Sure That You Burn The Three Main Fingers On The Hand You Eat, Write, Type, Wash Your Face, Put Your Hair Up, Close The Dishwasher, Scratch The Dog, Shift Gears With. Because Otherwise Where's The Fun?
or
Prepare Yourselves: This Is The Absolute Most Incoherent Blog Entry Ever Written. Follow The Twisty, Twisty Path.
I want to preface this story by telling you a little something about my mom. She has the pain tolerance of a goddamned shoeless Inca warrior. Or one of those women that you hear about in some urban legend third-world shithole who picks beans until her labor contractions are regular then strides off behind a tree to squat and push and grunt her baby out so she can chew through the cord, sling the baby on her back and go back to picking beans. My mom would totally have done that if it had been an option in Atlanta in 1975 and 1978. As it was she was in an army hospital, which she will argue is actually
worse because at least if you're out behind a tree somewhere no one can cuff your wrists and ankles to the bedframe. She had no pain medication
at all with either me or my brother, unless you include biting down on a leather strap, which I personally don't. For the record she
will tell you that she was fairly certain that she was going to die both times, but she says this matter-of-factly, like while she's cleaning her sunglasses on her shirt or balancing the checkbook or something. So when she pulled a Pyrex casserole dish full of molten hot baked beans out of the oven years ago and tried to pry the sugary, syrupy, beany lid off with a knife and her thumb slipped and went INTO THE LAVA BEAN GLUE, she screamed and cried and swore for about three minutes and then just shut up and found the bandaids. The blisters came up underneath her thumbnail and pushed it off. She'd pop blisters while we watched TV at night. Then we'd have ice cream.
See, now I've completely forgotten why I brought this up. I think I was going to tie my mom's apparent lack of nerve endings to my own burn experience last night and how I handled it completely differently (ran screaming to the doctor, sucked down the codeine and sucked up the attention). But the pain medication is making me care less and less about clean segues, so now I'll just tell you that
I burned
my hand last night steaming broccoli and it hurt like a son of a bitch. And when I got up this morning and saw that my first three fingers were nail to knuckle blisters, I thought I should probably go to the doctor. It's a good thing my mom is out of town because if she knew that I had gone to the doctor and not let her pop the blisters like human plastic bubble wrap she'd be mad as hell. As it was I was sort of hesitant to go anyway... having been brought up in a house where I had to be bleeding from the eyes to stay home from school, the doctor's office has always been something of a guilty pleasure. I've let strep throat go too long and had it move into my eyes. I broke my arm in highschool on a Thursday and went to the hospital on Monday.
SO I WENT TO THE DOCTOR. Jesus. And I was pretty cool up until then; I could drive and button my pants and shit. But then when the pretty nurses saw my fingers and started cooing and coddling I sort of fell in with it. I let myself be talked into a long soak and multiple future appointments with other doctors complete with a "follow up" tomorrow, free bandaging material and some creams, and when the nurse looked at me with her big brown eyes and asked, "Does it hurt much?" I said, "Oh yes. It's unbearable." And she clucked and cooed and then gave me a virtual lifetime supply of codeine and I bet you guys NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED.
Here you go. You can see that Samuel the Pinkie is pretty happy that he wasn't around at the time of the incident. Unfortunately for Carlton Finger, Sedgwick Finger and Meriwether Finger, the rest of the Finger Squad was what we in Codeine Town like to call "fully involved".
Housekeeping, No Toilets. Or Anything Dirty.
1) Man, I need to apologize to
Erika. She was the very first person to send me a Jake valentine, and I managed to erase it somehow. Which sucks, because I remember that when I opened it I was really tickled and laughed out loud which prompted R's "What?" which prompted my requisite "Nothing."
Erika does teeth like
I do teeth: retarded. Awesome. I think what I like most about this one is the subtle dichotomy: your eye is so busy celebrating the adorable floating hearts and the hearts in The Jake's eyes and the fact that his ears are barely attached and one of his paws looks like a biscuit that you
almost miss the blood spatter on paw number big. *shiver* Creepy. I spent an inordinate amount of time determining the anatomy of the chicken parts... check out the legs. There easy to find because they're the only things identifiable that isn't a head. Hey, and there are even two of them. A+ for accuracy. Sort of. I love you Erika, and I'm sorry that I'm so fundamentally unorganized that I even lose shit on my computer.
2) I was taking a bath tonight and when I went to rinse my hair-- which in the tub consists of that "total head submerge" move that always leaves my hair suspiciously "not rinsed" feeling, probably because I have to physically scoot about fourteen tons of bubbles out of my hair path and they never
stay away-- and The Jake, who was until now content to continuously lick the drippy faucet, became concerned that maybe I had fallen into some bubbly sixth dimension so he decided that the best move would be to JUMP ON TOP OF MY SUBMERGED HEAD. Should I: a) be touched that I have a pet who is so concerened with my welfare that he'll throw himself into the sixth dimension to save me? or b) go to the emergency room and get some stitches IN MY FACE?
3) I've got to give a shout out to Jeremy at
Queequeg Films: I found his blog randomly on Blogger's "recently updated" list, and when I left him a comment he came here and left me one of the nicest comments I've ever gotten. I can't remember the link to his blog, but I've been checking out the Queequeg film site that he left behind, and OH MY GOD. If he needs cash I'll totally back him; anyone who does a horror film about plastic bags has my full and undivided attention. Jeremy, come back and leave your blog link.
The Jake Loves The Chicken Insides.
The thing about The Jake that I keep forgetting is that he's a dog. It doesn't really matter how much I talk to him or how many physics textbooks I leave in his crate... he's still an animal. It's therefore perfectly normal that, upon discovering a pulpy piecemeal chicken in the neighbor's yard, he would not immediately grab a plastic trash bag and a rake.
The Jake
loved his dead chicken parts, both the inside parts and the outside parts. I was just as likely to see him prancing through the yard shaking a chicken leg around as I was to spy him hunkered under the trampoline lovingly licking some spleen. Yes, this love affair vacillated from the flirtatious to the profoundly moving to the tragic "wait, where's the rest of my chicken?" on trash day. Allow me to sort of illustrate:
We all know The Jake.
Can we agree for the purposes of this reminisce that this stuffed fish (dubbed "Farto" by an ex-boyfriend who is now, no doubt, a captain of fucking industry) is our chicken? If we can't, then I'm sorry. I guess I should have killed another chicken for you, Mr. Unable To Imagine That Stuffed Toys Are Mangled, Bloody Animals. Hold on, there's a cute fuzzy little baby chicken cooing outside... I'll go bludgeon her and snap some pictures of the carnage.
Okay. Jake meets The Chicken.
The mutual attraction is palpable. If there has ever been a relationship worthy of Microsoft Paint, this is it.
Kathryn hit the proverbial dream nail on the dream head, here. The Jake dreams about his chicken all the time (how do I know, you ask? I read his journal.) and when he gets to the part where he gets to snap that wishbone, he always wishes for a second chicken head. P.S. Bonus points for giving Jake a tail. Bonus bonus points for making it stabby. Wait, hold the phone: Kathryn, did you sign Jake's ass??? I think you signed Jake's ass. I couldn't make a capital "E" in Microsoft Paint, let alone sign an ass. You might be a Paint ringer. I'll make no Paint bets with you.
Oh my god, Lori, Jake totally smokes! I am so in love with this, partly because it's soft porn (and who doesn't love soft porn), and partly because it could never happen. No, seriously. Let me explain: First of all, if the chicken had been sipping a glass of merlot as we're led here to believe, there would be wine all over the pillowcase. It's an "esophagal containment" issue. Plus, Jake would never have allowed the chicken's legs to stay all connected like that. He doesn't have that kind of self-control. Lori, what does "K S" stand for?? I'm dying! And how did you know that I only have one lamp in my bedroom? And that it's really ugly? You're good, my friend. Very good.
Jesus, Scott, this is kind of scaring me. Not the dead oozing chicken parts or the blood affirmation, but that it's so fucking accurate. I mean, that leg? That IS "the leg". And the "x" for the eye? Yeah, Jake ate the eye first thing. Nice job on the multi-textured blood... some airbrush, some paintbrush... very realistic. And while The Jake didn't grab anything in his fist I know that if he had, he would have done it just like that. Only with less knuckles.
First of all Michelle I need to apologize for all the little black dots on your valentine; I had to resave it as a GIF because it was THE BIGGEST FILE IN THE WHOLE UNIVERSE and wouldn't upload otherwise, and for some reason we got all of these dots. I think it works though, because... flies. Nice job on finding a picture of an actual Aussie... it's too bad that Jake is the most fucked up looking specimen of the breed ever. The AKC people mandate that proper Aussies shouldn't have more than 10% "white space"; any more and the chances of blindness and deafness and legs falling off and general unattractiveness get exponentially better. Jake is about half white. Give or take. Maybe a little more. So thanks for reminding me that I need to get his vision, hearing and legs checked. A+ for no chicken eye... like your husband you recognize the chicken priority delicacies when you see them.
This is the Mystery Valentine, made all the more creepy because my dog (or something that looks remotely like my dog) isn't in it. Which is, frankly, the number one reason why I dig it. That, plus the fact that it's actually large enough to jack my entire template. Rock. Let's look at the positives:
1) Those talons! Are chicken feet generally referred to as "talons"? No matter. These are. Dig those nails. Damn.
2) Yoga Cat. Self-explanatory.
3) Stars.
Remind me sometime to tell you the story about when we pulled the cover off the ski boat one spring and found three kittens living inside the cabin and then took the boat to the lake twice and skied and then had the boat serviced and they pulled two more kittens out of the hull. Because that's a good story.
(DISCLAIMER: All the kittens were alive. But two were wetter than three. They all went to good, adoring homes where they can run and romp and ski and wakeboard to their tiny little damp hearts' content.)
Hannah, I like yours because I'm still trying to figure it out. If I had asked Picasso to do a Jake valentine, he would have said no. But if I had gotten him drunk first and then maybe had sex with him and afterward he had doodled a little one-handed something in lipliner on a coaster just to get me to shut the fuck up already, I bet it would have looked like this. And I've never seen a better beak in my whole life. I keep expecting it to say something wry.
Kim, there are a plethora of things I can say about this, but I have to go with the obvious first: are those testicles or boobies hanging from the chicken's neck? DRIVING. ME. CRAZY. I also like how the dog is so obviously transfixed by The Power Of The Chicken. If the chicken were alive it would be crazy not to get a restraining order. And Jake did ask me to cook the legs for him. I refused.
Joy, what can I say? The airbrush blood spots on what might be the World's Cutest Microsoft Paint Chicken is KILLING ME. Hey, you did this whole spread in airbrush, didn't you? You officially win the Airbrush Award... I should make you a tee shirt with some palm trees and the ocean on it with a big hot pink Joy across it. Or a license plate! Something.
Chris opted for the "rotating shadow puppet approach", which is fresh. And conveniently lacking in gore. The little rotating dog reminds me of a Clean Up After Your Dog sign I saw in Amsterdam, except that this dog silhouette isn't taking a shit. And I'm not high. Hey, what's that thing after the dog? A tumbleweed? Is it feathery dog throw up? I need answers. Can you teach me how to make a decapitated shadow chicken, Chris? I sure hope so. I'm tired of cheating.
I love you guys. Thanks for participating. Joy, your license plate is in the mail.
