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…
I don’t know how I found this, but my ADHD is your gain.
So according to something I was for some now-forgotten reason (I think maybe it had to do with ferrets attacking human babies?) reading in Wikipedia: “In 2008, new research revealed that people with blue eyes have a single common ancestor. The authors concluded that the mutation may have arisen in a single individual in the Near East or around the Black Sea region 6,000-10,000 years ago during the Neolithic revolution. Scientists tracked down a genetic mutation that leads to blue eyes. ‘Originally, we all had brown eyes,’ said Hans Eiberg from the Department of Cellular and Molecular Medicine at the University of Copenhagen. ‘A genetic mutation affecting the OCA2 gene in our chromosomes resulted in the creation of a ‘switch,’ which literally ‘turned off’ the ability to produce brown eyes.’”
Greetings all blue-eyed (distant, many of you) relatives!
That first blue eyed guy must’ve really freaked some people out. I have to imagine that back in the day something like that could lead to false idol worship or at least the gifting of a nice hut on the Black Sea.
That would be like some modern-day child being born with yellow cat eyes, all reflective and stuff. You know that would be all over CNN within hours.
Meanwhile, if you’re a white supremacist, you’ll enjoy this little tidbit: “A 2002 study found that blue eyes have become increasingly rare among Americans, with only one out of every six – 16.6 percent (22.4% of white Americans) of the total United States population having blue eyes.”
Actually, if you’re a white supremacist that fact will upset you, but it will no doubt add fuel to your insane fire, so there’s that. At the same time, if nature arbitrarily made pale, blue-eyed people once, no doubt it will keep doing it randomly despite the genetics or dark hair/skin/eyes of the parents…just maybe not as much as Hitler might have liked.
By the way, eye color has to do with melanin (the same stuff that determines your skin color.) Less melanin produces green, grey, hazel, or light brown eyes. Eyes with very little melanin appear blue.
Can you imagine the wake where this nightmare is featured?
In other completely unrelated news, if you love KISS®, you might be excited to learn about the option to be buried in the official KISS® Kasket, perfect for the die-hard KISS® fan…who has died.
Nobody puts it better than Gene Simmons, “”This is the ultimate KISS® collectible, ” Gene allegedly said. “I love livin’, but this makes the alternative look pretty damn good.”
That makes me laugh every time I read it. It’s so stupid, it’s rather hilarious.
Please note, I, for one, have no interest in being buried in a KISS® Kasket. Now a Hello Kitty casket (It must exist. Right???)? That’s another story…
These guys scared the hell out of me as a little girl.
So does “KISS®” stand for something?
Is that why it’s in all capital letters?
Keeping It Somewhat Screwy?
Keep it Simple Stupid?
Kooks In Strange Subterfuge?
Anyway, in order to provide a perfect trifecta of uselessness, I thought I’d do a solid for any paranoiacs in the house.
It seems that some years ago an editor at The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists used wind data and a list of probable targets to calculate that Tierra del Fuego would be the last place on earth to be affected by radioactive fallout.
How’s that for ironic? Your best bet for toughing out the end of the world is in the land of fire, otherwise known as a rockpile off the southern tip of South America. Bring your polar fleece and down jackets. I haven’t been there (yet), but anyplace that close Antarctica can’t be warm.
Ushuaia, Argentina. Not a bad-looking place to wait out the end of the world...
For those of you out there who aren’t exactly George Clooney, have no fear. There are women who don’t care all that much about that kind of stuff. And I happen to be one of them. Thus, I assume that extrapolating my opinions and making a blanket statement like that is true. Hopefully, for your sake – if you do happen to be a freaky looking dude – it is.
I have had more than one boyfriend refer to us as “Beauty and the Beast” and although, in my recollection, it was not that severe, I am of the belief that who a person is is a hell of a lot more than the package he/she/I comes in. Admittedly, I take pretty good care of my package, but at the end of the day, I strive to have the sum far outweigh the parts.
True, I have a crush on George Clooney – and it is to a large degree because of his looks. However, it’s mostly because he seems to have a good sense of humor and to be, minus the womanizing, a cool guy. Actually, the womanizing would scare the crap out of me in real life, but I don’t know him and this is not ‘real life’ so it’s a moot point.
I can't quite fathom the logic that says "I would rather wear this ratty thing on my head than be bald."
Anywho, the inspiration for today’s pointless rambling is that I ran across some article criticizing the latest gorgeous girl dating Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows, and despite the fact that he basically looks like a pudgy, middle aged Jewish guy (especially when you factor in the reality that his hair is a piece. He’s bald, which I personally think would be preferable to the horrific Sideshow Bob wig he prefers…) Nevertheless, I totally get it.
No, he ain’t no beauty queen, but since when does that last anyway? We all get older, and if that’s all you had going for you…then good freaking luck, boring unfunny person with nobody to dance with at the nursing home prom.
On the bright side, it’s never too late!
Go read some books and get a hobby and work on developing a personality tout de suite! Maybe something involving cooking or learning to fix broken toilets?
Back to Adam, the other reality is that he is responsible for what is probably my most favorite song of all time, and that goes a long damn way in my way book.
This is (obviously) not an official video, but it’s by far the least offensive out there. Jose, you can tell us if it’s been translated appropriately.
The worst award went to a young woman with a ton of large piercings and pretty much a close up on her face the whole time.
Not so much.
Moving on, in the next corner we have another musician, The Black Crowes’ Chris Robinson. He’s seen better days – and the business end of a bong a few too many hundred thousand times – but he’s still incredibly cool and such an amazing performer. I’ve had the great good luck to see them live three or four times…and each time my crush is intensified. I think it has something to do with the way he moves.
And of course his voice.
And the fact that they pretty much never chatter, just jam.
I don’t know what he’d look like under that Chewbacca beard – and it probably ain’t pretty – but the kid he had with Kate Hudson is cute enough, so you never know? Actually, if you go back to the early days of the Crowes, you can catch a glimpse of a young, beardless Chris…but the camera never really pans in and focuses, and there was probably a good reason for that.
I’d also like to make a quick note of gratitude that he’s no longer dressing like a fancy pirate. Good move, Chris.
I love this song. The first time I ever heard it was in Liverpool, played for me by a man who said it reminded him of me.
I can’t argue with the talking to angels part (although I think of them more as guides and had said no such thing to him in that regard), and I certainly am not above telling you I’m an orphan even if you’ve already met my mother. It’s all relative… (No pun intended.) On the other hand, I’ve never shot up or whatever sad issue the subject of this tune seems to struggle with. Thankfully.
In conclusion, rounding out my trifecta of freaky looking dudes on whom I have crushes, is Dave Attell. Dave used to have this show called “Dave Attell Insomniac” where he would stay up all night (duh) and hang out with people who had night shift jobs and crack jokes and generally be spontaneously hilarious.
I couldn’t find a YouTube clip of the time he hung out in a waste treatment plant in Boston, so you’ll have to settle for some standup, posted below.
And in other news…
Is it me, or do these guys all bear a strange resemblance to one another? Like they’re all cousins or something? Or members of the same synagogue?
I think it’s a coincidence, but just to be sure, I may go ahead and end this now and find a so-so looking blond guy to crush on. Suggestions welcome.
You would think I would notice that the first two words in the title of this book are "Joseph" and "Smith" but nooooo....
So I was on Amazon.com placing an order for a few gifts, and at the bottom of the pages (below the reviews which I was reading, and thankfully so, as I was intrigued by this book called ‘Rough Rolling Stone’ because it had all these great reviews, but as I read the reviews, I started to learn that the book was not about The Rolling Stones, but about Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormons. And I guess it’s a good Joseph Smith book, as things go, and if you’re looking for that kind of reading.
That reminds me: This is akin to the time that I was supposed to be buying some kind of Buddhism or meditation book for someone and instead bought them a book of lesbian poetry [with the same title]. I felt bad because the lady had probably never sold a single copy of her lesbian poetry, and it had finally happened…and here I was returning it a few days later. And she may have had a full-on lady beard in the photo. I can’t quite remember. I do know that I took this kind of odd class once when I was getting my psychology degree, and was deep in the throes of ‘anything for credits toward my degree’ [which is how I ended up in a different class called 'The Prison as a Classroom' where we actually WENT TO A HIGH SECURITY PRISON!!! WTF?] and the teacher had us read all these lesbian [not homosexual. Just lesbian. And NOT The Color Purple. Just lame stuff that her friends must have written or something.] books about the first time and falling in love and being overweight [I think the class was about being overweight, come to think of it. Something like size and image. Or body image and size or something like that. As you can imagine, it had attracted some ladies of considerable size, and I stuck out like a sore thumb]. So anyway, my point here is that I do very clearly remember that on the back of the this one novel – which contained some very awkward and highly detailed love scenes – was a photo of the author and the way the light hit her was just tragic. She had a serious lady beard going on. I kept thinking WHY would you put that photo where other people can see it??? Or maybe in her country that’s considered hot?
You see, part of my process for getting through this book (and writing anywhere from ten to sixteen pages a day) is that I go outside and lay in the sun. I am such a big fan of our solar system’s star, that just being outside soaking up its heat is reward in itself (hopefully the reward stays a reward and doesn’t decide to punish me with a nice case of melanoma. On the upside, I’m one of those people who tans like a fiend and almost never burns. The summer I was 18, I went to Florida for a couple months. When I got home, I was so dark my high school boyfriend didn’t know who I was when I showed up at his door, and later compared me to ‘Pocahontas.” This would make sense if I was Latina or something, but I’m actually [as you may already know] half Irish, quarter Czech, and quarter Lithuanian…so go figure).
Anyway, the second upside of the whole outside lounge chair sunbathing writing thing is that I can’t get wifi out there. If writing a novel has one nemesis, it is the evil known as the Internet: Facebook, Twitter, Yahoo Mail, Wikipedia, online window shopping (I have no money, so I’m reduced to filling a shopping basket with things I would like…and then abandoning it. Considering how many clothes I already have, this is actually a win/win/win situation for me, my wallet, and my closet.) Anyway, when I’m outside I can’t f-ck around.
Something like this is hanging under pretty much every surface within a ten-mile radius of my house.
On the other hand, nature poses its own unique challenge to my daily task (minus weekends when I do not write, lest I lose my mind).
Paper wasps, to be exact.
I know this, because I spent last summer thinking they were yellow jackets, and killing them on sight. And then for some reason, I suddenly felt bad about that. And, considering the rampant pet death/disappearance in my life, I also developed an issue with all the Raid or related bug poisons.
So anyway, I ended up getting on my old buddy – The Internets – and learned that my primary foe is not yellow jackets (who build their nests underground and are in the neighborhood, but not a particular problem in my yard) but paper wasps. Paper wasps make these delicate nests that (when you beat them down with a tennis racquet) are wildly intricate and seem to be made of a grayish paper. Moreover, they’re not completely nonfunctional and vile pests like yellow jackets (which are totally useless and in a category occupied in my mind by cockroaches, silverfish, and the aliens from Alien.)
The paper wasps are here because they’re eating caterpillar, flies, and beetle larvae, and they are here because many of my neighbors have backyards that I refer to as ‘weed farms.’ So the insects are here for the weeds, and the wasps are here for the insect. Voila. The circle of life.
Thus, because I try to be respectful of such circles of life, this year I am on a campaign to let the paper wasps live. And they are not just living, they are THRIVING. Which, at long last, brings me to the lament behind this post: Now, when I sit outside for an hour or so every day as a reward during the final hour or two of book writing, I find myself covered in wasps.
And I do mean covered.
They walk all over me.
And it’s light and itchy in that vague way a stray hair or house fly walking on you is…but it’s a WASP.
Here's another one. They're bee-ish...but they're not bees. Wasps don't pollinate.
So everything I’ve read says they’re not aggressive (and I would generally agree), but they are ridiculously fascinated by me. Or just trying to intimidate me. Or something.
And then I worry that they might just spontaneously sting me just for sport or just because I’m there or smell weird or just because they can.
And it’s not the pain of the sting (and make no mistake. The stings hurt. I’ve been stung three times this summer), it’s the five days of itching that accompany it. The itching is so intense that I have woken up more than once having scratched myself until I bled. The itching is UNREAL.
And thus, my thought on nature is that it sucks.
You try to be nice to the wasps, and in return they walk all over you.
Think you're so smart?
Maybe you're tired of all the technological issues, and want to take over and reduce the number of heart attacks I have per week?
Send a note to the Webmaster, Dozer! (And if you don't hear back, no doubt it's because he has trouble using the keyboard.)