Posts Tagged ‘random thoughts’

Attention shirtless old man living at 500 S 300 E Provo:

Tuesday, October 6th, 2009

I've seen worse. But, then again, my dog is a lot larger than that. Actually - come to think of it - I have photographic evidence of much worse. I may just challenge this lady to a bruise off!

I've seen worse. But, then again, my dog is a not a size typically described as 'little'. Actually - come to think of it - I have photographic evidence of much worse. I may just challenge this lady to a bruise off!

TIE UP YOUR MOTHER-EFFING DOG.

I wasn’t even provoking the little beast. I was just running down the street. He attacked me out of sheer evilness.

Oh Internets. How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

Well, actually, let me restate: There’s no real need to do that.

You know I love you, right? Can you feel my eyes on you? Can you feel me look into your heart? Can you feel me in the pit of your stomach? Can you feel me in you? In your heart?

(and if you know where that creepy little speech comes from, then I heart you.)

But I digress…

Honestly? Not bad for 62. Not bad for 35, really. Hell, I've seen far worse-looking 25 year olds if you must know...   Who am I kidding? Iggy, you used to creep me out, but this picture is slowly changing my mind.

Honestly? Not bad for 62. Not bad for 35, really. Hell, I've seen far worse-looking 25 year olds. Who am I kidding? Iggy, you used to creep me out, but this picture is slowly changing my mind.

Most of all, Internets,  I love your randomness. Like that I was trying to think of some aging rock stars who tend to be shirtless and AREN’T Mick Jagger, Iggy Pop, and Keith Richards, and instead I found that post on some kind of Mormon blog site (where anyone Mormon is allowed to post their thoughts).

The mix of futility (as I think it’s highly unlikely that the shirtless old man would ever see this) and absurdity just makes my morning. And I also like that there’s accompanying photographic proof just in case – by some miracle – the old man should discover this post and want to protest the non-evilness of his little beast.

Don’t they have animal control in Salt Lake City?

Or is your only hope to post the details of your attack on a blog that no one is reading?

Bummer, if so.

In other news, my only real point here was (as I mentioned a couple days ago in a very short blog) that fate saw it necessary to soak my eyeballs with the images of a shirtless Mick Jagger, Iggy Pop, and Keith Richards…and all within less than 24 hours.

I don’t have to tell you: That’s a lot of 60-something man torso.

Although I couldn't come up with an image of a shirtless Mick Jagger taken since the 80s, it was difficult finding photos of Keith where he was clothed. Admittedly, the face is harsh...but see what I'm saying about the guns???

Although I couldn't come up with an image of a shirtless Mick Jagger taken since the 80s, it was difficult finding photos of Keith where he was clothed. Admittedly, the face is harsh...but see what I'm saying about the guns???

The first came as I was watching (once again) VH1′s Top 100 Hard Rock Songs of all time (although the higher numbers in the countdown this time) and then the next night, I was in a bar where they were airing the Rolling Stones 2005 Madison Square Garden show on TVs all over the place. I will admit that when I first walked in and saw Keith in all his decrepit glory, I felt a little saturated on the sight of older shirtless dudes.

However, once the camera panned to Mick – who at 66 years of age is said to run 12 km a day, kick-box, lift weights, cycle, and practice ballet and yoga – I started to come around a little.

And those images percolated and mixed in with the sight of really soggy YOUNG guys at the gym, and I had an epiphany.

That’s right. It came down to one revelation which I will happily share with you: Guns.

Your arms go to flab, and it’s all over.

It’s all about the guns, baby.

You can even have your stomach get a little…loose. And the lower half? Hell, that’s what Spanx are for.

My wound from early July. Dozer thought he was drowning...and tried to take my leg with him. Suck on THAT whiney 'dog attack' lady.

My wound from early July. Dozer thought he was drowning...and tried to take my leg with him. Suck on THAT whiney 'dog attack' lady. It's like a rainbow!!!

Otherwise? I don’t care who you are. Even if you’re generally thin: If you lift your arms and it’s reminiscent of a Komodo dragon, you may as well be 150 years old.

So that’s it.

Not particularly deep or anything.

In fact, and in hindsight, perhaps I’m just rallying myself up to go do my own upper-body workout? I’ve given up on my dream of Linda Hamilton T2 arms, although I would say that as of late, I could give Michelle Obama a run for her money.

And that’s good enough for me.

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Calling all think tanks

Thursday, October 1st, 2009
I have a huge crush on Tony Bourdain. I love his dry sense of humor.

I have a huge crush on Tony Bourdain. I love his dry sense of humor. And his willingness to eat anything.

I was watching Anthony Bourdain No Reservations, and he was actually in the outer boroughs (which was interesting because he’s a New Yorker, but knew nothing about anything outside Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn), and he was in Staten Island with David Johansen of the New York Dolls and asked him, “What’s great about Staten Island that people don’t know?” and his response was, “We have a lot of think tanks here.”

And that got me thinking.

First, it got me thinking that was one of the most unexpected ‘what’s great about Staten Island’ responses ever. David should get a prize just for saying something so random.

The next time someone asks me what’s great about the town I live in, I’m going to say, “Skunks. We have a lot of skunks.” And it’s both true AND unpredictable. (But if you know anything about what I went through with said skunks, it’s also a wee bit out of character. Oh well. Being impossibly delightful sometimes requires a selective memory.)

See what I mean?

See what I mean?

Second, it got me thinking that David was some kind of long-lost brother or cousin or illegitimate spawn of Mick Jagger. Or the Aerosmith guy. What’s his name again? (***doing some of that impressive thinking I’m about to be known for***) Oh yes, Steven Tyler. Some kind of hybrid baby made out of the rock n’ roll DNA of the both of them. The lips don’t lie.

Then I continued on thinking that the man looks like he has lived a seriously harsh life. You don’t get wrinkles like that playing tennis at the country club all day.

From there, my thoughts turned to how David looked weirdly familiar and although I know what The New York Dolls are in kind of a collective unconscious but not super specific kind of way, I don’t really ‘know’ them. Which is another way of saying, I’m not a big fan or anything – in fact, I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever heard their music – so where could this sense of familiarity possibly come from?

And THEN I started thinking through possible reasons he might be drinking out of a pineapple and why there seemed to be so many tiki bars on Staten Island, and that’s when it occurred to me: I am a thinking machine.

All I DO is think.

Hey! I think I have that belt! And that hot pink t-shirt! And maybe the skirt...  Not the belly, though. Definitely not recognizing the belly.

Hey! I think I have that belt! And that hot pink t-shirt! And maybe the skirt... Not the belly, though. Definitely not recognizing the belly.

I was born to think.

And I was born thinking.

Thinking is my calling.

And all that thinking led me to an obvious and inevitable conclusion:  A think tank should hire me.

And pay me handsomely.

To think.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and that’s not very nice of you. Don’t scoff at my dreams, bust my balloon, pee on my parade.

A think tank would be damn lucky to have me. Let me break it down for you: I’m sure what they’re used to are all these stuffy, boring, academia types who think exactly the same.

I could come in there, introduce some cultural references and slightly irrelevant trains of thought and get the proverbial blood flowing. And if providing a little ‘eye candy’ were necessary, I can rock a pencil skirt and 4″ heels like nobody’s business and get the actual blood flowing.

So to all think tanks out there: Drop me a line. Give me a jingle. Have your people call my people.

I’m available to work for you…for a price. And not full-time or anything. I’ve got a lot of side projects. And a book I should be editing right now instead of writing this nonsense.

I'm digging the leather coat, David. Come to think of it, if I get this Staten Island think tank job, I should come over. We could share clothes!

I'm digging the leather coat, David. Come to think of it, if I get this Staten Island think tank job, I should come over. We could share clothes!

Oh, and I don’t really want to sit in an office.

Unless your office is somewhere cool (and no, I don’t mean the temperature. I mean cool as in awesome. For example: Staten Island is not cool. Manhattan is cool. Palm Springs, CA is cool. Kilauea, Kauai is cool.

But you’re smart people. You can put some brain power on it and figure out what I might consider cool.)

So, like I was saying, not going to sit in an office more than one or two days a month, not available full-time, willing to wear tight skirts, and of course, I can think it up until smoke comes out of my ears.

Act now.

Operators are standing by.

(A Google search on David Johansen cleared up the familiarity mystery: He has an alter ego called ‘Buster Poindexter’ that had that song “Hot Hot Hot” in the 80′s. How weird is that? Weird, right? That’s what I thought, also. You should probably work for a think tank, too. No really. You’d be good at it. I’m sure you would. That’s what I think, anyway.)

buster0im

Crazy, right??? Methinks he might have been in 'Scrooged' too. Anyone with me on that?

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There’s a fine line

Friday, June 12th, 2009

 

I’m staying with my friend in DC, and I walked over to the National Zoo – a few blocks from her home – today.

 

En route, no less than five men screamed at me from their car windows (varying versions of ‘Hey baby’ or ‘How YOU doin’?), while another seven or eight did so from the sidewalk. Sometimes I would quietly say, “Hey,” back, but mostly I pretended to be deaf.

It’s a funny thing about unwanted attention: there’s a fine line between flattery and harassment.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m as capricious as the next woman. Sometimes I go for a six or seven mile run and not one car honks at me and absolutely no one behaves inappropriately and – let’s me frank here – it’s a little bit discouraging. Am I losing it? Is it something I ate?

 

Chinese restaurant. I love the Peking Peeps.

Chinese restaurant. I love the Peking Peeps.

On the other hand, when I stop into a grocery store for two minutes in order to quickly procure a cake for my friend’s birthday (ultimately settling on an Entenmann’s cheese coffee cake when it they don’t have much of a bakery section. Coffee cake is still cake. It has the word ‘cake’ in it, thus making it cake, albeit not a traditional birthday cake) and hear an unfamiliar booming voice announce, “I love white girls. I’m going to take care of you tonight. I love you, White Girl,” I wish I had lost some of it. 

 

The same man recommended I look some stuff up on the internet (the names of which I promptly forgot, but by and large suspect was porn) and return the next day to the Safeway in order to be ‘taken care of”, and I considered pretending I didn’t speak English. In the end, I was able to wriggle free without too much trouble and – glancing behind me to make sure I wasn’t being followed – I headed back through the maze of leering and commenting strangers to the apartment.

 

Tee hee.

Tee hee.

 

 

Unrelated – or maybe it is related? – it is so humid out here, and my hair has gone absolutely nuts. It’s like a frizzy cross between Howard Stern and a Standard Poodle, and it makes me crazy. I invest a lot of time, energy, and money into fighting my naturally curly hair and seeing it break free of my efforts and shake its groove thing is neither desired nor appreciated (nor attractive).  On the other hand, perhaps this is somehow related to my sudden popularity on the streets of Washington D.C.? Lecherous men love frizzy curly hair?

(Note to self: Possible PhD candidacy thesis idea…)

 

The grand prize winner. As it should be. Super cool.

The grand prize winner. As it should be. Super cool.

 

 

In closing, it turns out that every year the Washington Post holds a Peeps diorama contest, and you can see the finalists and winners at Artomatic. If somehow you’ve been living or a cave, or a country that doesn’t celebrate Easter, or a country that doesn’t celebrate Easter with the consumption of gross quantities of packaged sugar products, Peeps are marshmallow candies in the shape of little ducks (or sometimes rabbits and other stuff) and covered with colored sugar. In other words, complete junk.

Anyway, as  part of the annual contest, people arrange the peeps in varying dioramas (kind of like a project you’d do in elementary school) and the best ones – as previously mentioned, the best as judged by the Washington Post – win. Having examined the offerings in this year’s collection I was impressed, but I also struck upon a common trend – come up with a clever idea, execute it enough to be recognizable, and you’ll probably win.

Since I do not live in D.C. and will probably not be participating any time soon, I offer up some of my own thoughts, yours for the taking:

American Gothic  (maybe call it ‘American Peepic’ or ‘APeepican Gothic’?) – Take two Peeps and stretch them long and thin. Outfit them in a farmer outfit and long dress, respectively; make sure the man has a pitchfork, and provide a bucolic background.

Jabba the Peep – Smoosh an entire package of yellow Peeps together into a singular ‘Jabba the Hutt’ shape. Consider involving a blow torch or glue – whatever it takes.  Next to him, place a shapely Peep wearing a gold bikini with a chain around her neck. Watch the movie and provide whatever background is appropriate. Voila! You have recreated an iconic piece of American filmmaking 

Land of the Peeps (the TV show, not the movie. The movie looks awful. Actually, the show was awful, but the damage is already done – I’ve seen it – so I may as well work with it) – Take three Peeps and outfit them in plaid shirts and jeans. If you can, stick some yellow braids on one of them. Take a fourth Peep, lick it all over, and roll it around in dog hair or bark or whatever you can find. Set them in a spartan and poorly rendered cave home and provide a poorly written script for context, and you’re a shoo-in!

You’re welcome, and good luck.

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I killed a Mac

Monday, June 1st, 2009

In less than a week.

A really frigging expensive Mac, if that counts for anything.

And a brand new aluminum MacBook, as well (which is somewhat redundant to the sentence above, but not so much if you’ve never looked into the pricing).

It lasted five days before the hard drive screeched to a grinding, crunchy halt.

I’m not happy about it, and I don’t get it, but apparently I’m some kind of Kiss of the Spiderwoman curse for laptops of any make, creed, origin, or operating system.

A friend suggested that the problem is electromagnetic in nature. Like I’m electromagnetic, that is, and have some freaky brain waves that fry the poor, helpless mechanical gears to tiny bits. If there ever is a rising of the machines, I may be our secret weapon.

Basically, I’m like Powder without the albinism. And with eyebrows. And with a whole big pile of broken computer parts.

In other news, and probably not related (but maybe related??? You be the judge), I have been on an osyter bender.

It all started on Wednesday when I discovered that a grocery store near my home was selling fresh oysters for $.50 each. Fifty cents!!! Fiddy cents!!!!

So I bought a dozen.

And when I discovered that they were fresh and non-poisoning, I asked a friend (who lives a mere two blocks from said grocery store) to bring two dozen when she came over for dinner that night.

And then Friday, tragedy struck. They only had five left.

But the five were good, and I enjoyed them and tried not to think about the fact that I was seven short of a healthy dozen. Life is hard sometimes. Especially if you’re an oyster within a five-mile radius of my mouth.

Then on Saturday, tragedy became ecstasy when I discovered that they had three dozen baby oysters and they were selling them for only $.25 each!!!!

Here’s where I made a bad call: I only took two of the three dozen. I didn’t want to seem greedy. Or obsessed. Or addicted.

But I’ll tell you what, as I was eighteen into my delicious stash, I lamented passing on the last dozen. I thought of them there  lying on the cold ice with no one to eat them, and if the grocery store weren’t currently overly difficult to reach due to some road construction in between our two locations, I would have gone back.

And if I could have coerced someone to go for me, I would have.

But alas, it was not to be.

On Sunday, as you know, I rest. And that includes the murderous slaughter of raw oysters. It’s a god thing.

Lastly – and you can probably see this coming – this morning I stopped by a different store location of the same chain and discovered some super huge mamas for $.79 each. Due to the unexpected price hike, I elected to purchase just 12.

Somehow during the chitchat process of getting my oysters from the guy behind the counter, I somehow let it slip that I was psychotically obsessed with the obtaining and eating of oysters. And that I eat them raw.

“You’re going to eat a dozen oysters?”

“Um. No. Maybe. Um. Yes. Yes, I am.”

“You can eat a dozen oysters?”

“Um. No.  Probably not. Well, yeah. I can. I have a good metabolism…”

“You eat them raw!?”

“Yep.”

“I’m afraid to eat them raw.”

“Yep.”

“I ate ten once.”

He grilled them. And poured tequila on them to make sure they were dead, or at least knocked out. And I was very sweet and pretended to be interested, but in my head another voice was talking and it said, “Buddy, ten oysters is for amateurs. I could do ten in my sleep. And, in fact, just two days ago I ate TWENTY-FOUR standing at my counter, shucking and pouring them down my pie hole. How ya like me now?”

But I didn’t. I took my bounty, and I left, and I ate them all for lunch.

This brings me to another thought: Does anybody know if there’s an oyster eating contest, because I think I could sweep the thing?

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May the fourth be with you

Monday, May 4th, 2009

Last night I had a dream that I had four kids at same time. Quartuplets? Is that right?

Why is it you hear about triplets and quintuplets, but never the quartuplets? Or is that because it’s quadruplets? Either way, they don’t seem to get the coverage they deserve. Having been the mother of quadruplets – albeit in a dream and not in any way, shape, or form that could be considered ‘real” – let me tell you, it’s not something I would wish on an enemy.

Normally I wouldnt think anything of this, but after last nights dream this image makes my blood run cold. And its short one baby.

Normally I wouldn't think anything of this, but after last night's dream this image makes my blood run cold. And it's short one baby.

There were two boys and two girls, and I was not doing a very good job at keeping up. Worse, I greatly favored one over the other three. In my defense, he was by far the cutest.

Possibly worst of all? I had only vague memories of even diapering them, let alone feeding time, bathing them, or showering any kind of attention necessary for proper development and/or to prevent them from growing up to write hateful memoirs about me and my sh*tty parenting skills.

Once I ‘came to’, as it were,  I set up a diaper, bath, and clothing assembly line. And that pretty much took all day. Midway through this, I started wondering how the hell this happened without any kind of medical intervention and why there didn’t seem to be a father (i.e. equally guilty party and fellow baby slave) involved to give me a hand with the chaos.

What kind of chaos? Well, let me tell you: While I was out walking on the sidewalk with all four of them (happily, as dreams sometimes go, there was a random time jump such they had all aged enough that they could walk on their own. I have to presume if I’d stayed asleep they’d have outgrown diapers and maybe gone on to become concert pianists or physicists or somehow or other done me proud. Or at least not wound up in jail.) and one of the girls bolted toward the curb and into the street. I ran and grabbed her right before a speeding car got there, but obviously leaving the other three behind me to get into god knows what kind of trouble, and the apparent stress was enough to wake me up.

That stated, I feel extra bad for the John and Kate + Eight people, especially now that the headlines show that John is stepping out on Kate.

John and Kate + 8 = 10

John and Kate + 8 – John = Nine and one life-crushing child support payment.

You and your friends will have a real laugh over this prank!

You and your friends will have a real laugh over this prank!

In other news, it’s May the Fourth, which (apparently) makes it Star Wars Day in a ‘may the fourth be with you’ sense. I didn’t get it at first, but now that I do, I’m none too pleased. I hate puns. They’re always stupid. My ears get angry whenever I have to listen to them.

Nonetheless, let me offer up some suggestions as to how you might go about celebrating Star Wars Day:

  • Use a Taunton (ton-ton? Tauntaun?) as a sleeping bag
  • Get a Tattooine
  • Freeze one of your friends in carbonite
  • Howl like a Wookie
  • Grovel like Jar Jar Binks
  • Talk all obscure like Yoda

(Any of the above three are guaranteed to massively annoy everyone in a ten-foot radius)

  • Make your own Death Star plans
  • Put on a hoodie and pretend to be the Emporer
  • Worry like C3PO
  • Become a senator
  • Find a trash compactor, get in, and hope for the best

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