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Sunday, July 8th, 2012

Well, I’ve been on the east coast two days now, and I’m either adjusted to the time change or a zombie. It’s hard to say.

I just took a nap from 9pm-11pm; that’s probably a point for Team Zombie. I also had bad dreams (first one that involved me walking in on some horrific medical experiement being performed on my dog…and let’s just leave it at that. In the second, I was at a beach with my purse when a rogue wave came in and swept it off, along with my phone, ID, all my credit cards, and even my passport. Note to self: separate some valuables on this journey in case things [rogue waves, purse snatchers, personal stupidity] go awry.) and am probably still recovering from a pretty serious sleep debt. Approximate hours accrued are as follows:

Tuesday: 6

Wednesday: 5

Thursday: 3

Friday: 8

Saturday: 6

28/5 = not enough

Moreover, I haven’t exactly been on my normal schedule in many other ways, either. Case in point: the only meal I ate on July 4th was this:

At least Hawaiian airlines still feeds you…well, sort of.

I believe they referred to it as a curry, and surprisingly it tasted almost exactly like something they used to make at this weird vegetarian restaurant I worked at once: the one that was owned by a cult. Have I told you about this? It was my first foray into professional (paid, anyway) cooking and my one big chance to attend an orgy, which of course I passed up. They lure you in with the orgy, and the next thing you know you’re selling flowers at the airport. Anyway, I digress….

I actually took this poor guy’s picture with a flash because I am a jerk like that.

Then there was the red eye from California to Atlanta. I actually slept well…once I fell asleep…and for probably no more than three hours. Still, when I heard the ding and the “flight attendants please prepare for arrival” I was shocked to find I’d been out cold. Since I was unable to catalog my own slumber, take a gander at my roommate, who I can only hope never, ever, ever, ever, EVER discovers this blog or this photo of him catching flies.

Friday is a complete and total blur. I took some pictures of a blue dragonfly in my dad’s backyard. I actually took about 30 pictures, but I’ll spare you the gory details and share just the one. Less is more.

Pennsylvania dragonfly

Okay, so it’s sideways. Whatever.

Looking at this, I realize my poor posture goes all the way back to my babyhood.

Brace yourself: I’m gettimng more and more random as 3am looms. Here’s a picture of me (maybe 18 months?) that’s on the desk in my room. Go ahead and ooh and ah. I was one hell of a baby once. Too bad Gerber never caught on or I’d no doubt be in the lap of luxury now or at least not having to do my own highlights (although, happily, it turns out I’m damn good: a gay hairdresser recently asked who does my hair. When I informed him it was me, he assumed I was in the biz and wanted to know who I worked for. “Me.” I responded. The conversation pretty much digressed into an Abbott and Costello routine from there…)And, in conclusion – at least for tonight. I already have two more not-terribly-exciting posts and photos in mind for you in the very near future – here I am just now in the same bedroom that houses said baby picture. Older, wiser, but still pretty damn cute and rocking some not half bad self-done highlights.

So long, farewell, auf weidersehen, and thank you for coming back for these pointless posts week after week, month after month, and year after year.

On second thought, let’s not dwell on the details of your time wasting. There’s no such thing as a stupid question. There is no Santa Claus. I believe I can fly. And only YOU can prevent forest fires and give this blog purpose. You da best! More soon…

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Poor Roger Ebert looks rather horrific these days

Monday, May 16th, 2011

That’s neither here nor there – and only vaguely correlative to the upcoming delights in this post – but doesn’t he? I don’t know much about thyroid cancer except I DO NOT WANT IT. No, thyroid cancer, no! Bad cancer! Down! Off! Bad!

Roger Ebert.

Holy shit.

According to some article in Esquire, it (via a surgery obviously) took away Roger’s ability to talk, eat, and drink. Pretty much the only reason I get out of bed every day – and keeping me off the edges of super tall bridges – is the pleasure derived from eating, talking, and drinking. Anyway, kudos to Roger for keeping a pistol out of his misshapen mouth. God knows I may not be so courageous.


In other news, on the flight back from the Deep South (I’ve been gone literally, thus my blog-related disappearance. That and a general lack of anything useful to say). So anyway, on the flight the in-flight magazine had these little synopses of upcoming new releases, so I though I’d share with you for your entertainment planning purposes…with slight edits. (My comments in brackets.)

THE BEAVER (groan): Jodie foster directs and stars opposite Mel Gibson (double groan) who will speak only with a beaver puppet on his hand (Are you f*cking kidding me? Insufferable. I’d rather make out with Roger Ebert.)


MIDNIGHT IN PARIS (perhaps): In Woody Allen’s (yes!) latest film, Owen Wilson (no, no, no!) finds magic (still no) as he wanders through the city of lights (Is every city the city of something? What’s Cleveland?.)


EVERYTHING MUST GO (if you say so): Will Ferrell (meh.) plays a relapsed alcoholic who loses his job and gets kicked out of the house (so it’s a feel-good movie, I take it), only to spend four days on the front lawn trying to sell all of his possessions. (Why do funny people feel the need to “stretch”? Play a grown man who thinks he’s an elf or a drunken fool streaking all by himself, and we’re behind you all the way. Force us to endure two hours of you playing an aging comic unable to connect with audiences, and we’ll come after you like a pack of wolves.)

Not even on video. Not even on an airplane with a dead computer battery and no iPod. Perhaps, however, with a gun to my head...

Happily, I think these are some damn positive signs that I might actually be able to sell a movie script. Hell, my dog might be able to sell a movie script.

I just proposed the following as a book concept and got shot down, but maybe it would work on the big screen?


Tragicomedy about a woman with a shoe fetish who gets addicted to snorting bath salts (or whatever it is they do with them) and accidentally chews off her own feet. There can be a lovable mutt too. And maybe a sexy neighbor who’s both sympathetic and totally grossed out.


(If you ask me, it’s the kind of role Natalie Portman or Ann Hathaway could really sink their teeth into. Yuk yuk yuk!)


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Let’s take this wrong and make it right

Sunday, December 7th, 2008

Sarah Palin as Miss Wasila 1984

I put the idea out there in jest yesterday, and now I can’t shake it: What would it take to right this wrong and see Sarah Palin crowned Miss Alaska? If she can’t be Veep, can’t we let her have Miss America? Or at least Miss USA?

C’mon. The woman has earned it and she has the fake northern Midwestern accent to prove it. That ridiculous accent alone could function as her ‘talent.’ She could do a reading from Fargo, you betcha: “So that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money. There’s more to life than a little money, you know. Don’t you know that? And here you are – and it’s a beautiful day. Well, I just don’t understand it.”

So, the talent firmly established, let’s talk about the other qualifications:

  • A contestant must be at least seventeen years of age on July 31, 2007, and not more than twenty-three years old on September 30, 2007. Hmmm… That may pose a bit of a problem. But surely we can make an exception for the almost Vice President? What’s the male/female ratio in Alaska? Fifty to one? It’s probably hard to find enough girls of age as it is.
  • A contestant must be a high school graduate or must have successfully completed the GED testing program by June 30, 2007. Check. In fact, I believe our girl even has a college degree. In Journalism. Which has nothing to do with leading a country, but for Miss America it counts.
  • A contestant must be female and shall always have been female. Whew! I believe we can check this one off… (and as a side note, I wonder if this was in the Miss America rules of the 50s and 60s or something they had to add at a later date? Me thinks a later date…)

  • She must be single and never have been pregnant. First and foremost,file the paperwork: The First Dude needs to go. Put him on the first plane to Arkansas – he’ll fit in well – and PR needs to immediately bring up doubts about the maternity of those five? six? kids. None of them look at that much like her anyway.
  • A contestant must be of good character and must not have been involved at any time in any act of moral turpitude. Could raising someone else involved in an act of moral turpitude be grounds for disqualification?

  • She may not have been involved in any activity that is or could be characterized as dishonest, immoral, and indecent or in bad taste. Houston, we have a problem. It’s hard to deny that the public wearing of Eddie Murphy’s Delirious jacket is in anything but bad taste. At least she didn’t do the laugh…
  • A contestant must possess poise, personality, intelligence, charm and beauty of face and figure and must possess and display talent. Depending upon where you’re from, your views on the sexiness of gun toting mamas in camouflage, and your personal standards of ineffable qualities like charm, Sarah is either the greatest living human example of these traits or you’re wondering if she still qualifies.

Only time will tell…

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