Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

This and That

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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Oh good grief!

Friday, November 4th, 2011

Midnight comes so soon!!!


I was just busy desecrating another – hopefully the last – bookshelf in the other room. Desecrating = assembling it poorly, for clarity’s sake. (Don’t worry, Dad, my days of defiling furniture are over. The therapy worked. I swear.)


I have stuff to share – nothing exciting, but stuff like how the rearview mirror fell clean off my Jeep window this afternoon and I’m not quite sure how to handle that: Super Glue, I suppose. – but I’m so panicked about the encroaching midnight deadline that I can’t think straight. So how about you simply enjoy this sweet song from The Swell Season, and we’ll call it good for tonight. They’re…swell.

Seriously though, I <3 them.


I’ll do better tomorrow!

Something about how much I hate ‘house geckos’ maybe? Or a smoldering piece on my mini-greenhouse on the back porch? Maybe a rant about the cost of gas in Maui or tea in China?  I know, I know: it’s scintillating stuff. Try to contain yourselves.



Someone just let out an anguished cry in the night somewhere outside in the darkness. That kind of thing intrigues me…

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Brimming With Bad Advice

Thursday, April 28th, 2011

So I have a friend who lives in the Liverpool area and we sometimes talk (type) via that Blackberry Messenger thing. It’s free, and he’s often drunk there when it’s the middle of the day here, so it provides occasional minor entertainment. As you know by now, I’m always looking for free ways to waste time.


Teeth tattooed with royal couple

This wanker actually got this tattooed on his teeth. He's the first one you should execute as part of the revolution. Sinister, indeed.

But I digress.

This morning he writes me “Have you heard some wedding is going on tomorrow?” which actually was news to me. I mean, I realize the older spawn of Charles and Diana is getting married, I just didn’t quite know when. At first I thought it was last Sunday (yes, Easter. I didn’t realize it was Easter either. Sue me.), which someone actually LAUGHED AT ME for. I think it’s a sign of intellectual superiority to have no clue what’s going on with the friggin’ royal family. I also pride myself on not being able to name any of the Kardashians except Kim. Anyway, then I thought the wedding was this coming Sunday until, well, the text this morning. Who gets married on a Friday anyway?

Oh, and while I’m on the subject, did William get his dad’s unfortunate choppers or what? No amount of braces can tame the gigantic teeth that are Prince Charles’ pedigree.  Hmmmm…. Do those people have a last name? Or is it like Cher? Perhaps i’s just “Prince Charles” and call it good.

Prince William smiling

Those are Dad's teeth for sure.

So back to the story: Trying to be polite, I write back and say “so I take it this is a big deal – vicariously – for you all?” It was a vicarious big deal for most of us when Obama became President, so I can relate.

So he says something about how he’s uneasy with it and that it seems sinister and something about incest and a bunch of other stuff that basically confused the hell out of me which ultimately led to ANOTHER revelation (this one much more significant than mistakenly thinking they were getting married on a Sunday) which is that the royal family actually wields some kind of power.

This I did not know. I thought they were just figureheads, but my friend tells me “The Queen is the head of everything. There is only a government by her consent. There is no constitution here. It’s all protocol/ritual.”

This is where my advice-giving kicked in, and it was good stuff. Thus, it didn’t seem fair that my friend – who, again, spends a lot of time drunk and is unlikely to actually act on anything I tell him – be the only Limey in possession of this insight.

Prince Charles grimacing

You can get plastic surgery for the ears, but the teeth are what they are.

So sit down, shut up, listen and learn. You can thank me later when you’re all buying yourselves Aston Martins with the money you split from the ransacked royal coffers.


You know you want to. It’s high time. It’s been almost four hundred years since Oliver Cromwell. Besides, all you’ve got going on over there is the X-Factor and Papa John’s pizza. A revolution will give you something new to discuss during the pub quiz.

Here’s what I advise:

1. Sink a few ships full of tea or throw a few boxes into the nearest body of water. This will make much more of a statement if it’s English Breakfast or Earl Grey or one of those. Save the Oolong to drink with your next Chinese Takeaway.

2. Do this while screaming a catchy slogan. “No taxation with representation” is a bit hackneyed, so I’ve taken the liberty of coming up with a few new ones for you.

Prince Charles windblown

This one is included simply because it made me laugh.

“There will be executions until we get a constitution!”

(Actual executions optional.)

“No more Queen Mother: I’d like to see her smother!”

(Look, I’m on a time crunch here. This is the best I can do off the top of my head.)

“The royal family looks like a bunch of chimpanzees!”

(These are getting downright weak. I’m going to stop here.)


3. Write a manifesto. Get someone with good handle on fiery, highfalutin, and occasionally incomprehensible language like “secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity” and “no Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood, or Forfeiture except during the Life of the Person attainted.”



4. Force poor people to fight for you

Revolutionary soldiers

This makes it look a lot better than it probably was.

This is key. What I suggest is that you become mayor of somewhere and then pass a law that the only way out of the draft you just started is to pay you one million pounds. Everyone who can’t come up with it has to fight. Instant army, easy breezy. Also, make sure there’s an inadequate supply of shoes, clothes, and weaponry. Nothing gets a man fired up like having to tramp around in the wet mud without shoes while being stalked by someone with a working gun. He’ll fight with his wooden pistol just to take the boots off the other guy. Again: candy from a baby…

5. Set lots of stuff on fire. Anarchy is all about uncontrolled street corner fires.

6. Boycott all British goods.

Happily, Papa Johns is not British, so you should be fine.


You’re welcome in advance. Good luck and enjoy your revolution!



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Things Can Only Get Better

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011

Welcome to 2011.

I hate to start things off referencing (even accidentally) mid-80s pop musician Howard Jones, but sometimes distasteful choices must be made. If, like me, you are the highly suggestible sort and will now spend all day singing “No One Is To Blame” then please accept my apologies in advance. You can look at the menu, but you just can’t eat…

Anywho, and as the title suggests, I am optimistic for this new year to the degree that “it can’t get much worse.” Although I’m trying to be more power of positive thinking than that in articulation and presentation and overall attitude, truth be told, my mindset is more ‘buck up and knuckle down’ than ‘yippee.’

But maybe that’s 2010 talking?

2011 is the brave new world, without the caste system, but maybe in a sleep-learning kind of way.

Admittedly, my down mood (seriously kind of a year-long event now) has been hard on those who count on me for optimism. “You’re the one who always says it’s going to work out!” is the cry, and it’s a lot of pressure to be a cheerleader when your own team is on a losing streak. However, looking back at my entire life, I’ve always been the Queen of the Silver Lining (as opposed to the Silpstream), and I know I’ll soon hit my bounce. In fact, ironically – or not – I woke up on New Year’s morning with the words to an old Dar Williams song on my mind: “This is your year, and it all starts here, and oh, you’re aging well…”

And I believe it.

At least the aging part.

And I’ve made my list of goals (almost entirely professionally/writing related…but hey, focus on what you can control), and we’ll go from there. I have a new resolve and a willingness to work harder and broader and smarter than before, and I will try like hell not to look back on the disappointments of the last year as harbingers of the future. Part of process (whether it be creativity or life itself) is boredom and suffering and even despondency: it must be slogged through to get the ultimate results we want. Sometimes those qualities are an unavoidable part of getting to the finish line: they must be pushed through or even endured.

So perhaps they had it right: it is better to end than to mend and start anew. Take what we’ve learned and bet it all on a new plan. I have no idea whether or not that’s true, but let’s find out together, shall we?

Something tells me that’s the best option I’ve got…

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One Man’s Trash

Monday, November 1st, 2010

Back off the wagon again, kids. Sorry about that. I’m afraid the extreme downside of living a highly boring life is that I have almost nothing to tell you…so I don’t. I’m not sure what the upside is, but when I figure that out, you’ll be the first to know.

At any rate, I’m kind of interested in finding an old Silvertone, Kay, or Hagstrom electric guitar – the budget guitars from the 60s – on the cheap. There are a relative abundance of them out there, it’s just that I’ve never seen them cheap. Thus, I figured (hoped) that from my location here in South Central Pennsylvania (somewhere between Gettsyburg and Harrisburg, specifically), that this might be doable. I’ve seen that “American Pickers” show: you have to go rural to get a bargain on a treasure.

The issue, it seems, is that I may have gone too rural.

It’s kind of like that scene in Tropic Thunder when Robert Downey Jr. warns Ben Stiller that he went too far. “Everyone knows you don’t go full retard.”

I clearly went too rural.  I went to a local flea market, and it was full retard. It was like 50 people woke up that morning and said to themselves, “I feel like hosting a really shitty garage sale full of utterly worthless crap!” However, instead of confining the sale of their junk to their own neck of the woods, they chose to load up their claptrap refuse, drive it across town, and pay ten dollars to proudly display it alongside like-minded optimists of the same ilk.

But don’t just take my word for it: take a gander for yourself.

Horrible taxidermy kitsch

What craftsmanship! Not all taxidermists are thoughtful enough to include both the feet AND a mirror.

Ceramic beer steins

Every day can be Oktoberfest!

Rock stars you never heard of

Classic album. The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Spanky: it just doesn't get much better than this.

Ridiculous bedspreads

You can actually buy these blankets in any town with a large enough white trash population, but they never cease to bowl me over with their hideousness.

Depression glass makes me depressed

Someone robbed my grandma's tomb!!!

Beautiful woman driving

On my way there: hopes soon to be dashed.

Old cell phones for sale

I was too young and too poor to afford a cell phone when they first came out, but it's good to know that I can still get my hands on one - or seventeen - of those babies.

Taxidermied ferret

Without a doubt, the highlight of the flea market. To quote my friend Rob, "Is that a weasel in an aquarium, or are you just happy to see me?"

William's Grove Amusement Park roller coaster

The flea market is held on the grounds of an old, now defunct and otherwise abandoned amusement park. When I was a little girl, the Catholic school used to take us there one day a year: even then it totally sucked. You know it's bad if a seven-year old kid knows it's bad.

Holographic "art"

This isn't just awesome art: it's HOLOGRAPHIC awesome art.

Chucky doll in box

The problem with this doll is the horrible, mean face it's making. I might have bought it except the evil grimace makes me wonder if it might come to life and try to kill me.

flea market guitars

Martin guitars are made in the area, but do you think that made a damn bit of difference? In accordance with their surroundings, the two available instruments were complete and total crap. But of course.

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