Posts Tagged ‘random’

Freaky looking dudes on whom I have crushes

Friday, October 16th, 2009

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."

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.

robinson_sandison500_18241tMoving 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.

53179177XX036_Comedy_CentraIn 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.

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Bad zoos

Sunday, June 21st, 2009


Is there anything worse than bad zoos?



Does anyone else see a resemblance to Larry King or is it just me?

Does anyone else see a resemblance to Larry King or is it just me?

Okay maybe intensive care units. And puppy mills. And concentration camps. And Indian gaming casinos in the middle of the day. And waking up naked with Howard Stern.


But I digress…  The point here is that bad zoos are sad. 

You know the ones: The cages are too small, the animals are pacing in an insane asylum ‘I am totally losing my marbles’ kind of way, and there’s a peculiar odor not unlike your average gas station bathroom.

Case in point: In my mid-teens, I lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico and the zoo there had a polar bear. In the desert. And basically it had a swimming pool (painted a cheery pale blue, no doubt to remind him of the glaciers of home) and a small ledge and maybe a broken down plastic lounge chair.

Think of your average cheap motel pool and you’re there.

Anyway, this poor polar bear was OUT IN THE OPEN. There was no fancy air-conditioned, temperature controlled enclosure. The water was a funky color (despite the pale blue), and – worst of all –  this poor animal was completely exposed to the elements.

Let’s call him Doomed.



Oh yeah. THAT occurs in the wild.

Oh yeah. THAT occurs in the wild.

So Doomed had basically acquired what I have come to believe is a polar bear sun tan. Due to his 24/7 exposure to the totally wrong (and much, much, MUCH warmer and sunnier climate) he had turned a bright orange yellow. Kind of – and forgive me for the graphic nature of this description – like when you’re somewhat dehydrated and relieve yourself of the paltry three tablespoons of liquid stored in your bladder. The dark yellow color in the bowl before you? That would be Doomed’s furry northern and now Malibu tan coat.


So that was then.

Perhaps things are better these days in Albuquerque? 

Perhaps the zoo has been shut down (one can hope) and Doomed transferred? Perhaps he has passed on to the glacier in the sky? Perhaps things have gotten worse, and he’s now part of an unspeakable adult entertainment act in Jaurez, Mexico? Let’s hope not.

Regardless, today, right now operating in Hershey, Pennsylvania is a super sad/bad zoo called Zoo America.

And in a way, perhaps it is a fair reflection on America.

The animals are molting and haggard and strangely ‘off’, their cages are too small, and there’s a haphazard grouping as to why they’re all even there. I suppose because each of them exist in the wild somewhere in America, which would (in hindsight) explain the lack of giraffes and lions.


Awwwwww! Too bad they don't come in pet size! Or pet temperament, anyway...

Awwwwww! Too bad they don't come in pet size! Or pet temperament, anyway...



Anywho, visiting Zoo America is one of those things that seems like a good idea (particularly when you discover it’s included with the price of admission to HersheyPark and you just realized that you’re a wee bit too old to want to be thrown around on the precarious rails of an ancient wooden structure while barely secured in a tiny cart and feeling your breakfast rise into your throat as you drop at 120mph. Speaking of which, I hung out with some friends a few days after my HersheyPark trip, and almost immediately and to my amusement, our conversation became an impassioned rehashing of ‘ways HersheyPark almost maimed my sorry-ass 30-something body.’ Everyone had a particular ride they recalled with a grimace as the memory of the associated pain, whiplash, pulled muscle, or slipped disk came rushing back.)

But I digress again…

It seemed like a good idea. Until I saw a cruel and unusual zoo situation.

It was so remarkable that I jotted a small note to myself while within Zoo America to remind me to one day write a blog on the singular inhumanity (or inanimalamity) of the following:

At Zoo America they have a Martin Weasel living next door to a Lynx.


I want one! I wouldn't want to find a wild one in my basement or garage or anything...but I want one!!!

I want one! I wouldn't want to find a wild one in my basement or garage or anything...but I want one!!!



Predator and prey, separated by some chicken wire.

Just so you have the correct visual, imagine the Martin Weasel, sensing the presence of a fatal predator three feet away, runs around in a frenzied panic all day long, while the Lynx looks on hungrily. Sick, sick stuff Zoo America, and I do not approve.

Essentially, this is the equivalent of putting me in a cage next to Hannibal Lecter and allowing him to stare and whisper at me all day long while convincing me to confess that I still hear the screaming of the lambs.

I’d run around nervously too. And maybe develop Tourette’s or something.

Bad zoos suck.


And that’s all I got.

For today.

Bad zoos make me sad. Sad songs say so much. One thing that doesn’t say so much? Mimes.

And that’s something for which we can all be grateful.

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Are Canadians Funny?

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

This is an important question worthy of exploration.

large_flag_of_canadaCanada – a large, cold, and often unnoticed country to the north of us (and which many stupid Americans apparently believe is a state) – has a lot of people. But are those people funny?

Preliminary evidence suggests no, they are not.

Exhibit A: The Canadian Comedy station on XM/Sirius radio (I don’t know which is the proper name any more). With XM, the best station by far was channel 150, but now that they are combined, there are about 10 different comedy stations, all weak in their own way (e.g. old school, filthy, blue collar/redneck, and the weakest of all, Canadian Comedy).

I don’t have a specific example of why it’s not funny. It’s just not funny. In the same way that those two sentences aren’t particularly funny. They aren’t particularly anything, but we both know they’re not funny. Ergo, Canadian comedy.


Nope. Not funny.

Nope. Not funny.



Exhibit B – Jim Carrey. Not funny. I don’t care what you say, making faces and acting like an orangutan isn’t funny. The only time I can tolerate the man is when he’s NOT trying to be funny (i.e. in the recent movie Yes Man, where he was mostly ‘normal’ except for a brief plot line where he drank too much Red Bull. I recommended this movie to someone and had to promise them that there was only this one derivation into the annoying, manic, rubber face stuff so that they would even consider watching a film he stars in. That’s how not funny Jim Carrey is.)

Exhibit C – Leslie Nielson. Need I say more?


Between the goatee and the two earrings, he looks like some kind of Marvel Comics villain.

Between the goatee and the two earrings, he looks like some kind of Marvel Comics villain.

Exhibit D – Howie Mandel. Gag.


Exhibit E – Bob and Doug Mackenzie, a.k.a. The Mackenzie brothers (of ‘shut up, you hoser’ and Strange Brew fame). I admit I once found this funny – and I even named a poor, helpless Himalayan cat Hosehead – but in my defense, I was 17 years old at the time and not particularly wise. And the cat was Canadian and thought the name was rather hilarious.

Exhibit F – Tom Green. Need I say more?

The defense rests.

On a related note, who’s that awful comedian in the Hawaiian shirts who has the bit about being ‘fluffy’ (a.k.a. fat)? Can we blame Canada for him? Gabriel Iglesias (thank you, Google). I can’t stand that guy, but sadly, he’s our problem.

Although he sounds to me like he speaks with an ESL accent, apparently he was born in San Diego. Tomorrow’s topic: Are Mexican Americans funny?


Cheech and Chong – funny

Carlos Mencia – not even

(Unless, of course, I get distracted and go off on a totally unrelated tangent instead…)

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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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Strippers and Oysters and Madonna, oh my!

Friday, May 1st, 2009

I’m in hand-to-hand combat with an abysmal internet connection.

This is only  marginally preferable to no internet connection (i.e. my status for the last couple days).

To catch you up, I’m staying in a little cabin right off the water and shirking all of my primary responsibilities. I’ve come to appreciate that responsibility shirking may be what I was put on this earth to do. That or sleep and have crazy dreams, a skill I possess to a degree that can only be called a gift.

What I was NOT put on this earth to do includes (in no particular order):

  • Downhill ski
  • Salsa dance
  • Keep African Violets alive
  • Anything involving staring into people’s open mouths and touching their teeth.
  • Work on a chain gang
  • Mule drugs across the Mexican border
  • Ultimate fight
  • Snowboard
  • Put false eyelashes on other people
  • Raise pigeons/squab/any other secret code for ‘pigeon’
  • Belly dance
  • Teach at clown school
  • Wrestle midgets in pudding (learned THAT the hard way!)
  • Impersonate Madonna
  • Stalk Madonna
  • Forge checks drawn on any of Madonna’s bank accounts
  • Name hurricanes (although I do feel it’s time we dug into the more ethnic names: Huricanes Beyonce, Cheech, and Plaxico already!)
  • Skateboard professionally
  • Build a rocket ship that actually works
  • Swallow swords
  • Swallow fire
  • Swallow swallows
  • Strip dance

I could go on, but it will get boring, and I care about you too much to do that to you.


However, on the topic of strip dancing, I do have something to share: You see, I remembered something yesterday while I was running in the woods. I’m doing a 12K race on Sunday, and I’ve been running a longer distance than usual – and doing so faster than usual – in the hopes of finishing in under an hour. Thus, I have additional time on my hands with which to think worthless thoughts.


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