one mo time, w. feeling

HAPPY OUGHTSIX! Y'ALL!



Us kids are off to the far reaches of the Mid-Atlantic, sans internet, for a few days of loafing. I will have a COMPUTER, just not Internets, don't worry, there is great need to work on my novel and stuff. I am such the creative type and all, v. dedicated to my craft. And watching videos in the back seat of the car. Girl don't like to drive, yo. Girl like to take naps in the back seat! And eat tiny cylinders of Pringles from gas stations! Wear flannel pants! Conduct massive off-key singalongs! Etc!

Like I may have mentioned good effing riddance, 0-5. You can suck it.

(P.S. I am going to construct a most magnificent mural, or something.)

(P.P.S. Question just posed to me - In OUGHTSIX, do you think Passions will still be on? Because I wasn't really aware it was still showing during NBC's midday rotation. I thought it was cancelled right around the time of the little person/doll dramatic death knoll? Also, there was an orangutan on that show. I only know all this because when TR was unemployed, he would call me every day to update me on soap storylines. It took me weeks to realize he was talking about a television show, and not just ranting maniacally/acid tripping. Anyways, Passions. Still on. Who knew. Thanks for the update from my girl on the streets, DJ Kingpin.)

noted II

One: January 2 is the reg. deadline for the Winter Block of Girl's Rock n Roll Camp: Portland. I think, anyways- somewhere else on the site, it said that sessions actually START on the 2nd. Anyhoos. This is exciting if you are 11, and live in Portland, and like to shred.

Two: Also, this prospect. This is exciting if you are 18, or 25, or 45, or 85, and live anywhere, and have saved a fistful of $50 dollar bills in an empty pickle jar, for a rainy day or something. Also good if you know someone to crash with in Portland come May. This is exciting enough to force my friend Ricky to push aside the embroidery machine in his basement and throw down an air mattress for a few days. Pr0tLaNd, here I come.

Three: There is fudge in the office kitchen today.

noted

(another rousing battle cry/ get yr groupies together for a hot night re: the Prefuse 73 show at BC on Friday. I'm going to be on vacation, but if I were in town.... well, then you'd know where to find me. One Word Extinguisher? Reaaalllllllllly good.)

Like that breakdancing robot that caught on fire.

I'll be leaving the other three-quarter of the site to report on Christmas and how various family members ruined it.* While the celebration of the Lord's birth was certainly a fine and engorged day, it's the Eve that held my attention.

According to league historians, I appeared in the 14th Xmas Eve bowl and can report another injury free year. (Though I'm still nursing a sore groin due to poor planning. It was discovered minutes before kickoff that I had brought two left cleats and had to play with a tennis shoe on the right. It made me easier to defend, as I could only cut in one direction and bit it several times on the icy field. I was also regulated to kickoff duty in honor of two-shoed kickers everywhere) In the end, one team won and we all limped home to our wives and basted turkeys.

This was all just a prelude to the main event. I grabbed the dog, (still half cleated) and hobbled down to Gravely Point to watch the water skiing Santa. Unfortunaetly, we had the wrong Potomac beach park and had to list down a few 1000 yards to join the excited crowds at Lady Bird Johnson Park to witness this wondrous (going on its first year) tradition.



The children love Santa and his four wake boarding reindeer.

But I found the real hero of the day to be the jet skiing Grinch.



Most of the kids around me (I may have been the only adult without children unless the dog counts) loved the Grinch and his antics. He would spin around and do all those crazy trick that made Waterworld and that Jessica Alba/sunken treasure movie so boss.

But his greatest feat was his endless harassment of the Butterstick boat.



You get him Grinch! Splash that filthy panda! It's what the people want.


*This includes the 30 minutes the Duchess and I spent explaining to my grandfather how his new digital camera turns on. He thanked me by ridiculing my rather conservative haircut while drinking scotch out of a mason jar

chaos butterfly

SOMEONE PLEASE INFORM YR GIRL WHY AMAZON IS CURRENTLY RECOMMENDING THE "RENT" SOUNDTRACK TO ME???????????

um, what have I been buying?

neigh neigh neigh

Man, these holiday things can be overwhelmsville. I won't even get into the stories behind my mother's forthcoming novella; "How Your Brother Ruined Christmas Eve 2005: A Novella." Let's just say he did.

Our tree is pretty much dead at this point, which is good, because we are going on va-ca for a few days starting Thursday. Which means you will miss my 87th birthday, Internet. I am year of the Horse; which according to the Internet makes me very popular. How wise you are, Internet. *

Also! I have ATHF on DVD (complete with Patton Oswalt frat-alien action), Richard Hell on CD, leftover mashed potatoes in my fridge, a book on Labrador puppies and how they ruin lives (from my mother, who is unaware I do not own a Labrador), some framed Giant Robot/KnD posters I love, including bunny wave and the "War of Monsters" which is King Kong battling a robot? And setting parking garages on fire? In downtown Tokyo? Whatever, it's awesome, and is already hung on our cottage wall. Oh, and a couple of cozy sweaters, one with a rooster on it. Me? Hooked.

* * *

Holidays In Baltimore.

* * *

In other news, I have won Terps tickets for the game tomorrow at 8:00 PM; and I had a dream last night that was INSANE. For some reason, a friend and I were in charge of some super-secret airplane reconn mission, and we crashed the plane (it was like a stealth plane, too) into an Army post, and then I spent the entire rest of the dream trying not to be killed by the government because of my mistakes. Oh my god or what.




(* People born in the Year of the Horse are popular. They are cheerful, skillful with money, and perceptive, although they sometimes talk too much. The are wise, talented, good with their hands, and sometimes have a weakness for members of the opposite sex. They are impatient and hot-blooded about everything except their daily work. They like entertainment and large crowds. They are very independent and rarely listen to advice. They are most compatible with Tigers, Dogs, and Sheep.)

Question?

The dog and I are home, cooking vegetarian things courtesy my new Moosewood cookbook. For real, how come no one has ever warned me just how bad this "Dr. Phil" person is? It's tragique.

Harried Christmas

While the Christmas fever has certainly infected the Pyggy household (tree, dodgy dog-mauled decorations), the diagnosis has revealed only a low grade sickness at best. The tree lights haven’t been plugged in for several days, the high-quality Santa doll is still in the attic and many presents are wrapped only in duct tape or sit in their original Amazon packaging. The Christmas tree itself has even given up and doesn’t bother drinking any of its water.

Meh.

Two more days and it’s on the curb anyway. (Oh, in an idea stolen wholesale from Ready Made this month… put in add in the paper saying you are collecting old Christmas trees for an art project and people wanting to help can just leave them in the front yard. Then put someone else’s address in the ad. And since I only know person who has a front yard… I hope the GP has a mulcher out back.)

Some Iowa relatives were visiting earlier this month and wondered why there weren’t any front yard displays in our neighborhood. (Or giant, classy Wal-mart Santas anywhere in the whole county, for that matter.) The condo association has put the kibosh on any sort of that nonsense and most people around the hood seem to be playing along. That’s why I was surprised to see this.



Since each block has its own rules and committee president, I have to assume this guy is either on the board or slipped some gelt chocolate coins into some faux-chinchilla lined pockets.

In all reality though, in the history of holiday displays this really isn’t a big deal. Every town has that one house that’s all done up, overboard with plastic Santas and Rudolphs and Frosties. Miller Light has even paid that guy who synched his lights in Ohio with a low powered radio frequency to be in their commercials. (Rumor has it that there is one of these somewhere in Springfield, but I can’t find an address)

Which all brings me to Quebec Street in Arlington.



This house has been a Pyggy favorite for a few years and seems to get more complicated every Christmas. (I don’t remember an inflatable penguin from last time) But the love for this enormity isn’t borne from the enjoyment of seeing little kid’s faces light up at the sight of a smoke spewing Thomas the Train when their parents slowly drive by. Even though that’s real nice.

It’s more based on seeing the terror in the Governess’ eyes as her brain tries to separate the vision of moving plastic figurines from her concept of humanity. For example…


Hello girls and boys! I’m terrifying!

The G hates these horrid moving things and they haunt her throughout the month of December. And it’s not merely human or elf based effigies, as there is a set of moving deer in the neighborhood that has caused her to slowly take step backwards. (The dog is scared of them too, making me the bravest species in the house.) And the Quebec House has dozens.

There’s this little shed…



Featuring this little boy repeatidly drawing his deadly, mechanical bow...



This was the one that sent The G scuttling back to the car after a few minutes of susceptible and unguarded exploration on foot. I have to admit, though, in a lesser moment I can see this doll jumping out of the display ninja-Pinocchio style and slashing me with his bow/blade.

Hmm, maybe it is time to go.

So long crazy house! Your giant plastic figures with curiously sex doll-posed faces will have to wait another year to capture us with your black Christmas magic!



...we’re off to bask in the glow of the relatively pathetic display put on by your neighbor...


Less bright = less fright.

"What are you gonna do, Sarah????"

If I had created an online advent calendar, Yacht Rock #2 would be behind the December 23rd door.

The Loots on Fire

Two quickies on parking in the District.

1. If your Ford Bronco is parked on 20th and M, your car is mostly on fire and the DCFD would like a word.



2. I got a parking ticket again today, the third in a month. As usual, I was parked illegally in a space zoned for District residents only. But the ticket indicates it was issued while I was in the car, with the engine running, waiting for someone. Even if the that sneaky hobbit's ticket machine had a bad clock, the only time I wasn't in the car's toasty embrace, I was leaning on it talking to a friend-in-law. I'd give every last dime to that fake Jamaican to learn this sleight-of-hand.

Linksys

- Books of the Year, courtesy: Bloggers

- My birthday is upcoming. Since Grand Royal was auctioned off early last year, and I probably don't have a shot at getting a monkey named Antoine unless my friend D. really comes through, I'd settle for some gum or something.

- Hee.

- This; kind of relating back to this. What with the Cosby and all.

- Clean out of ideas for the afternoon. Everyone is on holiday. Regroup, refocus, etc. Email is up. Harpy horidays.

festive greetings/you n yours

Before I begin, I am planning on drinking on Friday eve as is per 12.23.anyyear custom. If you are local and willing, please RSVP if you'd be so inclined as to join.

pyginablanket@gmail.com

* * *

You know that website link that's frolicking around the internet, all "fuck christmas" and "reasons why people hate Christmas" and etc? I'm too lazy to look it up, so just nod your head and smile.

Anyways, the website is apparently run by Brown Dog during the day from our Dell, while we're at work finalizing important projects reading blogs.

Scene: House. 12.22.05. Lunchtime.


MASSACRE!

I do not keep a tidy LH-on-Prairie homestead. But this is a bit much even for pathetic slobs like us.

Additionally, BD seems to have a particular hatred for BandAids recently.

Re: the lump to your left. There are these little woodland-y type Santa Claus figures/dolls, very Germanic and given to people like me by their crotchety great-aunts who cannot fathom the fact that we are adult females that do not own a single Christmas decoration???? And lo and behold they just got a free Holiday Gift from Reader's Digest????

They are sometimes charming. They are sometimes EXTREMELY FRIGHTENING.


Oh. My God.

Without the robe and the styrofoam padding and the hat, this is Hellraiser-nightmare-worthy.

It's okay, BD. I never liked no dolls, neither; esp. scary-ass Santa dolls with fuzzy boot-things. On wooden skis. Or whatever. And I really appreciate the detail-finding camera that points that the wine console thingy hasn't been dusted since the Clinton administration.

DOGSASTER, I BEG OF YOU: For the love of Germanic Santa, even if you cannot control your unweildy hatred of all things Christ-like/-mas; stop wrecking my shit. You came along, and now this blog is nothing more than the chronicles of... well... dogs wrecking shit. You are getting desparate, and I won't back down - you ate the chair-rail molding on the walls, BD. How many bones must one girl provide until such ceaseless barrage of unholy teeth finally ends?

I admit - I squealed in true girl fright/laughed heartily at the poor, scary Santa-being, who looks like he is committing suicide via a rustic Germanic noose/rope from his sack of handmade presents for good girls and boys. We're keeping him, because now I can honestly say I own a Christmas decoration I enjoy.

walrus on the drums/tiger on guitar

My morning just got much better: I find this weirdly awesome-awesome. (via blah, blah, black sheep)

(EDIT: Continued. If this doesn't put you in a good mood, then I am at danger: total loss status.)

YEAR O' THE BLOG

Today, i made cd covers.

* * *

Good things: I am going out for dinner tonight with people I love. No one is at work. I am currently super-organized. Coffee is fresh. I had a day of brainless manual labor yesterday, which was exhausting but refreshing.

December has been a good month.

* * *

I wrote 6 pages, in Word, single spaced, like a good little English major prob would, re: 2005.

The gist: a lot of it was morose and depressing; therapeutic maybe/highly unnecessary def.

Upon further review: I toast the good life I have while I've still got it.

I look forward with much, much glee to 2006.

2005, don't let the door hit yr suck-ass on the way out. Good riddance.

* * *

happy holidays.

FWD

Capps and I have spent a large chunk of the afternoon on our new blog: ">>>>>". It was conceived as a dumping ground for email forwards we get from our parents. It was also conceived at two AM after some binge drinking.

Details, shmetails, it is extremely stupid, and it is extremely cracking my shit up.

Did you hear that DJ Qualls actually landed that Jet Blue plane hisself?

Airplanes with broken landing gear landing are the new California helicopter police chases.

Cable news eats that shit up.

"And really, they were doing the whispery-voiced sensitive christian boy thing long before Sufjan"

Via JH:

Dude's thesis on "ridiculous evangelical christian magazine called RELEVANT, to which the Jars of Clay singer contributes a column?" That's right, JARS OF CLAY.

It's really an interesting thing going down there, I promise. Also, it reminded me I need to email/call/send holiday greetings via Pony Express to my freshman college roommate, Jules, a Jersey girl married to a guy who looks just like Jesus, and is living in the deep-n-dirty south - a thousand different ways of funny.

The fact that she's married to a JHC lookalike isn't so much what reminded me of Julezini. Jules can, like many people, be described by her tru loves. Or, at least what I recall as her loves circa age 19:

1. Zeppelin
2. 70's-era Travolta
3. Free-delivery calzones
4. Jars of Clay
5. The old Fox game show, "STUDS"
6. Buying new undies on her daddy's gold card
7. PINE email

Note to self: call Jules.





Anyhoos- I did not mean to go off all half-blogged on Julemories. Go read the HLY*MLY blog. I'm still waiting to see if he can work in a least a footnote on "DC Talk." Holla.

I made your favorite cookies! Christmas trees for the Governess and Duchess, and bloody spearheads for LJG and the Nabob!

Well, the dog is doing his damnedest to destroy Christmas, one good cheer at a time. It graduated from chewing up all the wrapping paper to chewing up the poorly man-wrapped boxes and gifts. The G returned from her shopping spree last night to find the animal sitting in a pile of shredded tissue paper, proudly wagging its tail and pushing box bits under the sofa. I came home shortly afterwards, in enough time to avoid clean-up detail but soon enough to find a submissive dog on its back.

“So, I guess you know you’re getting an orange-ish (a mix between F08080 and FF4500 for you HTML kids out there) cable-knit sweater and dress shirt for Christmas,” I said to the G after I spotted them de-packaged on the floor.

“Very nice,” she said. “But I already have that sweater. You gave it to me last Christmas.”

Damnit.

Indeed, a short trip to her closet produced a similar sweater.

This isn’t so much a problem except it’s the second time in a week I’ve had to go to the mall to return a gift that I have already given her. I’m the new Ghost of Crappy Christmases Past.

"Missy Elliott called and she wants her gimmick back, but all we got in St. Louis is crunk. Rep yr city."

I have spent all morning on Chapelle Theory, pretending it's August again. Coincidentally, the garage-emo-rock-gypsy band I am putting together for a Spring '06 tour? "Bill & The Dark Crusaders," natch.

(via lindsayism)


* * *


I was on DeSoto's pre-purchase list for The People's History of the Dismemberment Plan, when it was released back in '03. I may or may not have been the first person to get that composite of cardboard and plastic into my hot little hands.

And then I listened, and lo I was sad, the skies opened up, gray and hateful, pouring the baby Jesus' tears of unholy rage against one of my favorite bands.

I really didn't like what people had done with these pieces of the Plan.

It turns out that what needed to be done was the CD needed to drop behind the mechanism that moves my passenger seat forward/back, and then get jammed in there two years later, so I am forced to dig it from layers of fossilized french fries and microscopic pieces of skin and general car filth, and pop it in, and have me a right good listen again.

And lo, the skies cleared and he pronounced it.... "not my favorite, but certainly not the terrible pap I remember."

- Track # 2 is like listening to T. Morrison and company play Ravi Shankar's gramma's birthday party, somewhere in New Dehli. I really like it. No, really really.*

- Quruli makes "Life of Possibilities" sound like Hello Kitty requested a remix as a soundtrack to an afterschool special. I don't like Hello Kitty. But the song isn't bad.

- Pay 4 Piano, it is decent.

My opinion is kind of worthless because my favorite songs are still the ones less deconstructed and retaining most of the originality of the Plan songs. The closest to the real thing. But, in a way, these are the real things too - they're completely separate and new pieces of sound that I didn't give the artist's credit for two years ago. So, welcome back to my CD player, People's History. I missed you.

* (related: Drop Dynasty's website made me happy.)


* * *


In other news, if you don't have at least a friend or two who is a junior high or high school teacher, you should really check around for a teacher friend. Teacher friends are aces. Especially when they have stories about how their students are late for class sometimes and blame their tardiness on polar bears blocking the stairwells.

One time I was a friend of mine's date for Homecoming. He was an English teacher, and we chaperoned, and it was awesome.

BEST OF 05

More Bot, Less Talky:

Robot Panther!

No, I will not stop to take a breath:

Here is where I was going to insert a year-end "Best of 05" thing about music and all the new stuff I listened to this year, before I realized that hi, I used to be reasonably knowledgable about these kind of thing, I'd be on top of it, especially if you were, oh, a 45 year old guy with ironic hair producing hot new shit, I would be pimping your albums left-right-up-down-A-B-select-start-whatever, but now I am just behind and it seems once you are behind, it is impossible to catch up and I might as well just go set up my goddamn camping chair at Nissan Pavilion already and put on some creaseless high-tech fabric slacks because there is just nothing out there exciting me recently that was NEW IN 2005, just the same old saddy sad Brit-dirges from Ian Curtis circa before the noose hit his neck and all, stuff I've listened to since I was a wee member of the yearbook committee, or music desribed as "computer-post-rock", etc, and so in conclusion, I have nothing to offer you save the same old circle-jerking about Okkervil River and the Hold Steady and maybe R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet."

Now I'm off to help the economy by having a nervous breakdown in Pentagon City, prob. in the food court.

Thu end.

king of the lawyer-poets

Let us briefly revisit Flashy Jim, the flashiest robot around.

Exhibit A:

So, I have never been to Childe Harold in Dupont prior to this weekend; & attending a party there is kind of like attending a junior high school dance - lots of seating opportunities around the perimeter of the room, all the better to sit and gawk and watch white people Elaine-dancing to Kanye and dudes in stripey shirts getting cockblocked.

The good thing was that lots of guyfriends were there, totally dudes night out, wifeless and talking to 20 year olds in many-tiered necklaces. I got to watch a weird stalking-in-progress, and both the N. and LJG held a monkey-imitation training session for interested observers.*

Also, there was a staircase perfect for prom pictures. Listen, peeps: I tease because I love. It was an excellent bash. For rills. Cheerio.

* (Kong! We saw Kong. The next dog or fish or whatever pet I get is going to be named King Kong. Without giving too much away, it is three hours long - which is teh sucky; but it has a MONKEY-V-DINO scene that will replay in my dreams for the rest of my glorious life.)

Exhibit B:

In'nets, I need advice. Do glasses make you look smarter/older/capable-er? Say, if you were me, and usually looked about as hardcore as a preeschool sing-a-long leader; and about as businessy as yr sophomore sorority treasurer who used to steal fundage for her shoe binges, would you wear glasses to a job interview?

What if they were those black emo-y kind of girl-nerd glasses, that coincidentally made you look a touch squinty/beady eyed?

I am blind, but could sacrifice my saline solution for a day for a job, yo.

Please rep yr fine four-eyed selves and give a girl some hope.

Misc. Shit:

- Naughty dress! Naughty dress! NAUGHTY.

- Pull Down Menu Museum

- This flag signals/goodbye

- Travis Morrison & HF in January; and; wait for it:
Hold Steady make their DC appearance Feb One.

- Additionally: "Abstinence doesn't require as much self-discipline anymore," he says. "We never had any serious groupies, anyway. Our generation got screwed." May I quote LJG when I submit: A-BWA HA HA. Bwa Ha. ha.

ha.

Top Guns

HIGHLIGHTS, CHILLUNS; FRIDAY NIGHT EDITION:

* Office party dessert bar.

* At T/C/C's, proclaiming loudly to every new person I met, "The internet, it is weird!!!!!! OMG HI and stuff nice to meet you weird?" I stand by the "weird" proclomation, because technology frightens me, but I probably could have been more tactful since I was in a room full of handsome people made of internet and sugar and spice. I am socially awkward.

* Having one of the more awesome party coversations of recent years with drunky re: Glocks, dinosaurs, and patriotic lapel pins.

* Tom and Catherine and Charles, who all ooze sweetness and provide people alcohol and have a cute apartment and have auras that are purple or something. Any photos you post, Catherine: if I have pirate eye, that's it. No more Flickr for you.

* Getting emails at 5:30 in the morning from a new blog-a-venture partner that contains a redneck joke forwarded from his mom, writing: "I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS JOKE MEANS."

* As we're leaving for home, introing yrself to someone, and having him look you in the eye and say "Your kind of internet crap is the best kind of internet crap." Listen, you had me at "crap." I may have swooned a little with that statement. It also could have been the fact that I was slightly intoxicated and the spangles on my shirt were weighing me down, but whatevs.


- - -

Today is my husband's birthday, and he may be exceptionally old and have crows feet ("THEY'RE DISTINGUISHED!!!!"), but he is still exceedingly handsome and definitely the biggest bag of laughs I know. For his birthday, I woke up at 8:00 to take Brown Dog to the park to get his hump on. Happy birthday, kid. There will be no breakfast in bed, unless you want that brekfast to be Jamison or something. There are no groceries in this house. (My annual wife review is coming up this spring, and I really need to up the effort I suppose.)

Now, because I am up this early, I'm off to kick something!

THE HULK SMASH CONSTITUTION RIGHTS!!!

An old army buddy sent me the latest Marvel/Military crossover comic book that’s printed in what I'm guessing is a claimed effort to boost morale for the troops and their kids. (Though, it serves more as a poor branding tool for terrible movies like Electra and Daredevil, with giant DVD ads semi-glossed throughout.) The "story" involves the Avengers taking on a generic "fundamentalist" equipped with some sort of crappy EMP weapon for destroying America, all the while delivering good cheer and encouragement to the deployed armed services.

Perhaps Marvel didn't want to waste a premiere villain because this guy is of the Paste Pot Pete caliber. He is penned as generally hating the “American way” without identifying any specific belief system and the drawings don't give any hint to his ethnicity or national background. (He looks like a Major Bludd/Dr Mindbender combination) He just hates America. Yes, yes we all hates it. Stupid, fat America.

I couldn't tell if lines like "When I am finished with you maggot, I will go the heartland and ravage its fruit" or I'll be "riding the black spear of retribution aimed at your morally bankrupt country" were to be taken as serious writing or so over the top that they divorce author from any accusations of stereotyping. There are also threats against mothers and grandmothers thrown around, just in case the other insults prove too sophisticated.

Anyway, I've written way more about this comic than it deserves. In the end, Captain America takes out the guy with a single punch and all of his henchman gnash their teeth or return to their caves or whatever is least offensive. The unnamed villain is turned over to S.H.I.E.L.D, the comic version of the CIA, who perform an extraordinary rendition to a secret prison in an unknown country and torture him mercilessly.

I wish I could say I was kidding about that last part, but sure enough, the last page shows the guy getting locked up in one of those black site prisons the Post was going on about a few weeks back. Nick Fury walks away as the place is destroyed, jokingly asking the other spooks if they fell like helping him out.



Granted the guy was being torn up by the Hulk, but I can't think McCain's comic book equal would approve of that.

mg/whatevs

INSERT WITTY COMMENT HERE RE: WINNING BATTLES VS. WARS OR SOMETHING.

I AM ABOUT TO GET ALL FOREMER SECRETARY OF WAR, JAMES A. SEDDONS, ON PEOPLE'S ASSES!



(In other news, I have headphones on, which means if you IM me, you will blow my grey matter right out of my damn skull, because I am retarded and cannot figure out how to fix the sound thing.)


YES.

mg/ definitely right

ALSO I HAD TO WEAR A SUIT TODAY. AND MY FACE IS HOT.

mg/kind of right

I'M GONNA MAKE IT THROUGH THIS YEAR DAY IF IT KILLS ME.

a toot-toot/suicide blonde

Heads up young cowpokes:

The "royal we" are invited to (For real! Actual invites!); and get this: no less than four parties in this one small weekend.

I KNOW. It is not to believed.

Such an occurance has probs not happened since those steamy summer days of ought-three, where beer flowed like wine (?), I was young, and did not so much mind my hair curling in the humidity/jean skirts.

I bring all this up for a few reasons:

ONE. My tolerance is painfully, bashfully low. I chatter aimlessly WAY. TOO. MUCH. after one glass of chardon-yay, and take pretty much 0 responsibility after 1 1/2 glasses re: anything else that comes out of my mouth. I am a talker. Sometimes, a liar. And, to top it all off, I find it charming. Silence is a goldenish-tinged uncomfort. You have been sufficiently warned.

Either all this, or I refuse to talk at all. Mute/terrified. All or nothing.

TWO. I do not make it a habit to talk work on this herrrr blog, but check it: today might have been the suckiest afternoon of my long profesh career. It has been awkward a thousand ways to Sunday. I am still sitting here, at 6:07, not even PRETENDING like I am going to make a move towards my car soon. Mistakes, they have been made. Heads, they shall roll. Resume, it shall be updated. Drink, it is required.

TROIS. Related: I need to wake up v. v. v. early tomorrow, to drive in the nastiness on the nastinest of highways, all the way up to the dag nastiest of MD towns, to correct some very nasty probs. Do not go into publishing, kittens. You think you will be some sort of Anna Wintour and instead you will become me, cubicled and wearing old itchy turtlenecks and sensible loafers. This means I will also be sleep deprived at the start of my weekend. In turn, this means I might be wearing spangled items of clothing. When we talk later, Internets, we'll just pretend it didn't happen.

FOUR. Request: Should you spot lil' ole we, stumbling about Shaw/Dupont/Woodley Park/Golden Triangle at any point within the next 72 hours; befriend a poor, drunk, probably cold urchin. A girl needs friends. Do not talk me out of telling you that Joy Division is the best band that ever was. I will try to tell you this probably, it's best to just pat my head and smile. I vow to not upchuck apps on your shoes in return.

barracuda

Hey, remember how I mentioned Heart the other day?

Coincidentally, via Catbirdseat:

Crazy on You cover by... Blitzen Trapper. Who Blitzen Trapper is, I don't know. I just thought it sweet that Heart has two websites mentioning them in less than a week, in a complete unironic fashion.

Go on with yr bad selves, Ann and Nan.

In Mexico, that dance is an insult to your mother

DOLLY
Did you know you can get married in Dollywood by a Porter Wagoner look-alike?

COLLEGE
Here's a random memory for you: So, I was a graphic design major, right? And one night before a portfolio review a bunch of us bought a case of Beast and shotgunned them in the design lab using our EXACTO KNIVES. Which is pretty hilarious, a bunch of goofy tee-shirted kids in the late nineties, shotgunning beers with the tools of their hopeful trade. Wipes tears away. Phew. Oh man. Do we know how to have fun, or what.

RESOLUTIONS
I looked back into my email archives and found the following:

Goals for 2005: Try yoga, run a 5k, make all my friends make out with someone totally inappropriate/famous. (NOTE: OKAY. That Billy Idol thing could have totally worked in my favor on this. Alas.) Build a robot Manticor. Learn to love my relatives, especially the not-fun crazy ones. Watch "Rabbit Proof Fence." Try not to "get served" by anyone/win all dance-offs. Listen to more Dolly Parton. Write a book or at least real letters instead of emails, read more classics, love my job, stop doing so much internet on the company dime, stop using the term "on the company dime", and as Sarah Brown says: "I can’t believe I’m 27 years old and have never done that thing where you stick your head inside a lion’s mouth. What the fuck." Stop plugging in appliances into power strips that are plugged into power strips that are plugged into powers strips. Don't steal (as many) post-it notes from work. Moisturize. Happy 2005! Please continue letting no one get you down.

Basically, I accomplished 0 of these things, actually reverting in re: to most of these goals. So, 2005 kind of sucked, besides getting a dog and not driving my husband so crazy that he left me. My 2004 was awesome, I swam with sharks and got fruit thrown on me by a monkey; so I guess I am an even-year kind of girl. I have high hopes for you, 2006. Goals to follow within the next week or two.

INSTANT MESSAGE OF THE DAY
The G: Remember when you used to seduce guys back to your house by talking smack about "Medal of Honor?"
LJG: Those were the days

Snowy Pantload

I'm going to a party this weekend that I am really looking forward to. But I just discovered that the subjects of this post and this post will be there.

D'oeth.

Time to break out the fake mustache.

Serotonin

The fresh hell, Sofia Coppola?

Power, Corruption & Lies "Age of Consent"?

Let's talk music first. We'll get to you casting Dunst as a leading lady in a moment.




(EDIT: Oh. Um, no, I did not know I was late to the party. And, of course, not nearly as funny. Dammit. We will agree to disagree on TMFTML's L.I.T dig, though. Why didn't TMFTML go after Virgin Suicides? Easier target, I would think. I mean, he could have tied right back in to the post's title with a Boy Hartnett zinger and all.)

(EDIT II: The obvious & totally spot-on joke for this entry, as noted in the comments by one The GOGS, is that "the original choice of music was "My Humps." Ugh. I am a failure.)

Obviously, nothing to blog about here. Move along.

After a brief IM conversation with LJG this morning, I spent ten minutes Image-Googling "science tattoos," in the hopes that I could find someone out there on the interenet who had taken the initiative to put Punnet squares on their bicep or something. No such luck, but I did find this:



Yay! Trekkies!

Pryor Memories

Photo taken from the liner notes of Joe Henry's fabulous album Scar and the song Richard Pryor Addresses a Tearful Nation. I think it's a Henry Diltz.

In February of 4th grade, my teacher put 25 or so scraps of paper in a bag and we all drew names for a Black History month oral reports. If I remember correctly, the selection process went something like this:

Rufus: Yeah! I got Harriet Tubman. The Underground Railroad is awesome!
Kaylin: George Washington Carver! Sweet! That coupled with my debilitating peanut allergy so severe that it has required our principal to ban my friends from bringing PB&J to lunch is such delicious irony!
Burton: I had a dream I got Martin Luther King! And I did!
Limburg: I love the stop light and I picked that guy who invented it!
The Nabob: Richard Pryor? Aw, man. Did any one get Archibald Alphonso Alexander? I'll trade with you because I don't care what Jack Evans says, the Whitehurst Freeway is my top all-time favorite freeway.

My recollection of this may be a bit a tad off, but I do remember being severely disappointed at drawing Pryor. First of all, I knew Walter Payton* was one of the names in mix and his scrap of paper was never drawn. Second, I don’t think I had a clue who Richard Pryor was. My 4th grade knowledge of stand up comedians consisted of an old Bill Cosby record and quoting hand-me-down lines from Eddie Murphy's "I got some ice cream and you ain’t got none cuz your on welfare" bit.

I complained mightily to my teacher and offered to trade Pryor for Payton. No dice. We reached a compromise when she told me I could do both of them and I foolishly agreed.

I had completely forgotten about all this until this weekend when I heard a Pryor obit on NPR and realized I already seemed to know a lot about his life. I got to wondering several things about my teacher, including what kind of woman would trick an 11 year-old into doing two reports and why she would assign one of those to be about a drug addicted, foul mouthed stand up comic whose material was too mature for me to listen to/understand. There would seem to be hundreds of other possible individuals in the history of black America who would have been more appropriate for a 4th grader. Also, there was scant information about Pryor in the elementary school library so my parents were greatly inconvenienced as well.

I don't recall much about the report itself except standing up in front of the class and delivering a line from a Pryor biography. Something about "using a comb to rake crack rocks from the carpet." I remember having only a vague understanding what I was talking about. But I bet whoever had to follow me with their boring old LeVar Burton report was kicking themselves.

I killed on the Walter Payton presentation, though.

Sweetness.

*As a child, I tried to incorporate the NFL in any school project. In third grade we had to pick a partner and write a report on a state capital. My female partner was aghast to see that I had taped pictures of Mile High Stadium all over our paper on Denver. My dad was aghast I had cut up his Sports Illustrated.

"Oh, I'm sorry, will having a fake indie rock label take away from the time you spend linking to and reading other people's opinions all day?"

While I'm linking to mmmbed.com, this is pretty awesome, even at a few years old.

I disagree on her British accent scoring, however. Real ones are much less annoying than fake ones. Consider, if you will, a Madonna. Or a Decemberist.

I Enjoy Making Things Seem Important Through Capitalization

Not that I consider myself that anonymous, but... Does this mean I have to turn in our capes/masks now? Linguistic markers help determine identities of anonymous bloggers - see also: secret sites. (via Kottke)

-

Went to gym last night for the first time since the Great Ipod Destruction 2005/Lincoln Administration. That is kind of pathetic, sure, and last night they confiscated my card because I haven't renewed my membership, and since I've been lying about my county of residence for two years I now have to figure out a way to avoid paying for a non-county residence membership, i.e., I am totes cheap. I refuse to belong to a fancy gym on several counts: One, shiny people in lycra. Two, I cannot in good faith pay billions of dollars to stare at shiny people in lycra when Three, a county facility has the same machines/etc and is always less crowded and more pleasant and has people playing basketball, poorly, for me to be entertained by. Four, I like people in sweatpants. Five, I rarely go to the gym because I am having a love affair with my couch, and am deeply entrenched in systematically chewing my way through my holiday gift from my company, a gift basket containing chocolates and processed cheese spreads.

-

Tookie and Richard Pryor are both dead

-

Are all people in LA brainless fucks? I'm serious when I ask this, because the two people I know still grinding away West-coast style are acting like complete morons recently (recently = last four years or so.) So maybe it's just a personal bias/stereotype. Someone please answer, I'm collecting data for my book, entitled: "All People I Personally Know In Los Angeles Are Really Pretty Stupid."

-

Instant Message:

S says: I feel 65 today
G says: 65 yr olds are cute
S says: it's the Voltron theory
S says: all my medical short comings morphed into one powerful medical short coming
G says: ha

-

We went to a Pet Expo last year. The Chicken Man of North Carolina was there. See?

we could be the pillars of the neighborhood

1.) I went home for lunch and to take the dog on a mini-walk. Here's some advice, directed towards all those who will gently squeeze their heads from their lower intestinal track long enough to "make it all the way out to the suburbs" (DCist commentrollers, holla!): If you ever encounter a stoplight in the suburbs, and said stoplight controls not only the four major streets, but also a side/service road, and the service road has signs posted at every corner saying YIELD TO (NAME OF STREET), then do me a favor: don't be an asshat and cut me off. Because I have an emotional-stability issue, a mix CD with a Clutch song or two, an hour-long lunch, and a 9 year old car I am mostly apathetic towards. So if I may get all Fried Green Whatevs on you momentarily: I will pummel your Outback with very little rational thought. You have been sufficiently warned.

2.) Oh man, flashback cafe/wayback machine, completely unrelated to above: Ridicu-illest thing re: me. Something that will make all potential political aspirations end in a screeching halt.

There is a dude named Dan somewhere in Pennsylvania who posseses a mini-tape of me singing (drunk), at the top of my lungs, into my former roommates answering machine, "All I Want to Do is Make Love to You" by Heart. If it was a videotape it would be even worse, because I believe there was acoompanying modern dance arm movements. Big love, Dan! If you are still in the greater metropolitan Stroudsberg area, I would like a copy of that, please. I love Heart.

3.) If anyone is looking for holiday merchandise/birthday gifts for me, I can send you my Amazon list, newly updated! I just added Notwist and Prefuse 73, because I am pretending it's Christmas 2003. Also, update: I think my mom is already getting me that sweater vest I requested, so don't worry about finding one for me. I'm basing all of my fashion requests this season off stylemakers such as Lost in Translation and Class characters.

4.) Ha ha ha, Alicia Silverstone. That beats out the Chad Allen* poster I had circa "Our House." Of course, I was 9 or 10, and did not make out with it.



* (1. I went to college with a kid who looked JUST LIKE Chad Allen, hair part and everything. 2. Chad Allen was in a movie about sexy teenage kids who die. That is a novel film plot! And apparently it's full of mistakes. "Sadly, no nudity" says one commenter. I was totally prepared to re-update my Amazon list. Thank you anonymous IMDB commenter.)

Sometimes you have to show a little skin. This reminds boys of being naked, and then they think of sex.

The Post's article yesterday on the struggle in Afghanistan between advocates of press freedom and hard-liners in the judiciary branches raised additional questions for me. Like, if the Afghan constitution forbids the executive from obtruding in decisions made by a court system based on sharia law, how can Karzai effectively balance the concerns of Western government's who fear a kowtowing of the free press? Or, how can a woman's version of events be accurately weighed in a court room if Afghan law dictates it is half as reliable as the testimony of a man's. And most importantly, what is Alicia Silverstone doing on the cover of an Afghan magazine called Women's Rights?

Back in college, I had a suitemate who hung a poster of Silverstone's Cher on the wall outside his door. I caught him on several occasions kissing it quietly before he went to bed. He never knew his little affairs were witnessed and I felt weird about confronting him. But I also told everybody on our floor, so it's a toss up when it comes to karma.

Breaking News!

A friend may or may not have hooked up with Billy Idol over the weekend. More to come...

Update: Nothing. She ran into him in a hotel lobby and couldn't turn down a request for drinks. She reports he was "too gross" to even consider. Poor Billy.

Here is where everyone has a link to DCeiver's Wonkette entry on media bowling. Except me. You can just go find it yrself.

Good morning Watergate City.

Read this and this

* * *

Apparently, there is not a single alternate word to describe The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, so I'll just tell you that we went to the P'tomac Yards allegory theater on Saturday night to see us an allegory.

The allegory, true to form, raised some deep and serious questions on the car ride home. The N. was particularly troubled, not so much re-examining the traditional Christian faith by which he was raised, but instead wondering aloud who- if there's only four humans in this magical land- curled the girls hair? Also- why did C.S. Lewis not craft an entire book devoted to the trials of going through puberty in Narnia? Who's going to help out on that? The centaurs? Because, p'shaw.

* * *

In other weekend news, after my office party on Friday I slit my wrists dramatically and then headed out to pay for drinks, what is wrong with me. Highlight: I was the only person to remain sober after spending 6 1/2 hours in the same seat at chez bar, so something might be wrong with me. Wrong with me wrong with me, wrong wrong wrong. Seriously, did not move an inch the entire night, stuck in the corner like Baby, all sulky and sober.

I did, however, recant a hilarious story or two about the D. and also discussed opening a pie shop with one of her coworkers, where all the employees would wear hats like the Cheeseheads of Green Bay, but instead they would be giant slices of pie. Impressive, I know.

Last night, I ate tacos!

know your place

(PS. If you need me, I'll be busy reading Boundless. Thanks an f-load, Kriston.)

that's GOVERNOR Fuzzybritches to you

Seriously, you know what? Screw the panda.



Brown Dog could only be cuter if he were giving a baby a ride on his back. And the baby had a pet monkey. And the monkey was holding a stuffed unicorn. And all three of them were eating lollipops. Okay, that would be cuter. Maybe the panda could hang then.

Also, I just got around to uploading photos from camera to computer that date from (get this) July. There's hundreds of them.

I totally suck.

* * *

1. I am kind of excited all this might be caused by Danes. My people! (via this guy.)

2. I am going out tonight, people. U streetish. It is my favorite season to be in an imbibing establishment: sweaty-damp/overheated, wearing hiking boots and wool sweaters, hair plastered across my hat-marked forehead, sniffly, makeup non-existent. V. sex kitten.

3. Completely random sidenote/something I just learned yesterday (I'll hereafter refer to these stories as "ostriches," in honor of JR Cash): Goldcard's album was a side project of Pond's Charlie Campbell. Charlie Campbell is very, very reclusive, as well as maybe a part-time librarian (?awesome?) and never meant to have the Goldcard album see the light of day. After it was produced through urgings of friends (friends like Quasi and Grandaddy and VIPs and such and so forth), Mr. Campbell attended the release party INSIDE A BOX, so no one would touch him, and he interacted only through a tiny slot.

Please someone confirm this story, because if it is simply an urban legend I will be the most disappointed girl in the galaxy.

"it's helvetica, bitches."

YAY! TYPEFACE FIGHT! Only my favorite kind of fight, btw.

The baby looked at you?

I hadn't even considered it until Neal Augenstein or whoever at WTOP kept breathlessly announcing that there were day-of tickets at the panda house and ONLY ONE PERSON WAS IN LINE CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? ONE PERSON! Could Dimitri Sotis be right? Can I just wander up? I was going to be in Cleveland Park anyways today… extended lunch … a warm coat …


See, that's not fair...


License to awwww....

I'm not generally known for being effervescent or gushy or to prattle on about things, but that little Panda Express mascot is world class cute. Grinchy hearts grew three times all around me when he tried to climb that rock and tumbled off. I'll leave it to someone with a better grasp of creative writing adjectives to describe how adorable he was, but geeezz! Look!



Mr. Fuzzybritches wasn't even my favorite part, though. For that, Pyggy in da Blank proudly presents the Free Swag of the Tai Shan Premiere.

Tai Shan Fans!



I didn't really understand why they needed to hand out fans since it was in the mid-30's. There were some exicted kids there, but I think Hecht's overestimated the number of people who were going to catch the vapors.

Vinyl Recording of the Tai Shan Shuffle!



Actually, it's just a Frisbee brought to you by these friendly people at the Panda Express booth.



They also handed out plastic Chinese food containers. As appreciator of fine flying discs I have to say, for a promotional cheap Frisbee this thing flicks pretty well. Weighing in at about 120 grams it's well short of the standard of 175 for an Ultimate disc but still serves well when backhanding a coworker in the head on the street. (Why does Word need to auto-capitalize the word Frisbee? Is there any corner of this world that Whamo doesn't' extend their tentacled lawyers and copyright lawsuits?)

Delicious Tai Shan Chocolate Dipped Macaroons!



Not so delicious for us coconut pastry haters but the taxi driver who drove me home from the zoo said the package I gave him was top drawer. He said the real panda bits made it extra tasty. Well played, Whole Foods. If I get the urge to hang out with 38 year old Europeans and their Tintin loving kids, you're now first on my list.

Other junk included hyper-sweet Panda Creams (now with cavity inducing goodness) and some sort of baby panda sized ruler, which I'd say is about as long as a stick of butter.

And notice that I haven't endorsed any nickname for this thing. But the zoo seems to be pushing this…



Finally, there was Tian Tian, chilling like I hope to chill when my first child goes on public display.



Except I'll be in hospital cafeteria with giant amounts of tapioca in my lap instead of bamboo.

Hot Dish

I will be MIA here at PygBloggy for the afternoon, and maybe part of tomorrow. I have two separate days (!) of MANDATED OFFICE POTLUCK FUN TO ATTEND TO.

On the bright side, I brought dinner rolls!


If you don't have fun, the terrorists win. Another question: will I ever stop finding the "terrorists-win" thing funny? It's not looking good.

science, daily.

Secret's out! Apparently if you vaccinate your kids, you're just asking for them to "catch autism." However, it appears Amish children are in the clear. If by "clear" you include genetic diseases and Amish in the City.

I am not a parent, nor a medical professional, so I'm going to stop right here about the evils of vaccinations. You know, Satan in a needle, all that, etc. Yep. Righhhttttt...... heeeeerrre.

knew you at 6 ft. tall

Nerdy things I laughed at this morning:

(via kottke)

(via I can't remember)

(really super-nerdy, so I'm going to go out on a limb and say kottke again.)

(I had an Enigkworm all yesterday in my head, so when I got to work this AM I immediately commenced looking for a free MP3 of "Abegail Anne," hoping for a floater around somewhere in Internetsdom. Instead I stumbled upon a Jeremy Enigk TRIBUTE PROJECT, which made my day/made me sad/weirded me out/etc, all at the same time. "Sloth," however, is a band name I can really see myself getting behind.)

* * *

I did not go to work yesterday, I just kind of woke up and then refused. I didn't even put my contacts in until 11 or so, just walked around the neighborhood all squinty-eyed in glasses and crazy hair and mismatched socks and such. Then I drove around, bought stamps (cards are in the mail, suckers. BITE ME, HOLIDAYS, THIS YEAR I WIN) and purchased some presenty-stuff only one of which needs to be returned. (Related - what is everyone buying for mother-in-laws this year? Is there a hot MIL gift I am not in the know about? If so, pls share.) Also, I made chicken for dinner and randomly ran into my mother, which was really surprising. Oh, yes. Um. Hi. What are you doing here? Neither of us were at work.

Brown Dog has officially had his first taste of snow, and while at first was quite hesitant, it is now coming in a hearty 6-ish high on his list. His list is:

1. Peanut Butter
2. Food, treats; category: other
3. Chewing on furniture/baseboards/misc. shit
4. Come to think of it, shit
5. Napping on couch he's NOT ALLOWED ON, OFF. OFF. OFF. OFF! BAD BOY.
6. Snow

Also, I have now seen every "Arrested Development" Season II episode, I think.

In other unfabulous life news, I have carpal tunnel from extended bouts with hyperlinking work stuff, and a cavity that hurts.

Are you sleeping? Can you hear me? AAAAEEEEGGGGHHHHH!!!

Shhhhh.

No one tell the Governess, but for the second night in row, she has woken both her spouse and her dog with dreamy-time ramblings.

The first night was maundering syllables and noises. But last night, she added a solid sentence, “that’s very nice.” It fit her M.O. of being the angriest sleeper in the history of rapid eye movement, since it was muttered in a tone similar to one my father used when I would pull him over to the table with the white yappy back-flipping toy poodles outside Spencer Gifts at Fair Oaks Mall. That and her tightly furrowed brow and comically exaggerated nocturnal frown.



Now...

Before a revengeful post by the Governess is delivered upon my head ten-fold, it should be known that I have, perhaps once or twice, been known to verbally express myself unconsciously as well. According to pool reports filed the next morning, I’ve allegedly awoken from dreams still in the mood continue the conversations with whomever is closest; family, roommates, neighbors. And at times, I’ve gotten out of bed in an effort to find someone to talk to. While these stories are plausible, I have seen little proof or confirmation.

Noted instances:

• On several occasions, I’ve woken a partner, asked them confusing questions and fell back asleep before receiving an answer.
• On several occasions, I’ve woken a partner with hyena-like laughter.
• 15 summers ago, my parents awoke to find me attempting to mow the neighbor’s lawn while sleepwalking.
• 7 summers ago, I dreamed there was an alligator in my bedroom. Without actually waking, I took all the sheets and pillows off the bed wrapped up the “alligator” and threw them out the front door.
• 18 summers ago, during my first cicada invasion, mom and dad awoke around 3am to find me standing in their doorway. When my mom asked what was wrong, I dropped my jaw and shrieked for several seconds in a voice similar to our insect visitors/overlords. My terrified father yelled at me to go back to bed and I awoke with no memory of the incident.

In most of these incidents I don’t remember anything I’ve done. And if told to go back to bed, I comply. But it's at least better then my old roommate who suffered from night terrors and attacked several pieces of our crappy furniture and would rip his nightshirts off all Hulk Hogan style.

Sweet. Dreams.

While you were sleeping

You know what I love? Television shows about lawyers "looking for love." Aww. Love.

I see your "Skating with Celebrities" and raise you one "Jenna Elfman Show".


I hope everyone has their tinfoil hats ready, cause this end of the world is going to be a right doozy.

and a partridge in a something

my parents: get into car. drive to christmas tree farm, point at tree. cut tree, buy tree. drive home, setup tree. drink alcohol. entire process: 1 hour, 25 mins.

my husband's family: wake up early. leave house approx. 9:30 AM, after tasting homemade bread, leashing dogs, yelling, getting coffee refills, loaing laptop into car to use as navigation with mapquest, driving out to western loudoun to tree farm #1, which doesn't allow dogs and is too busy, get in car, pull off at side of the raod to consult computer, let dogs take bathroom break, attempt tree farm #2, which doesn't have big enough trees, get in car, head for tree farm #3, which is inaccessable due to road construction, spend an hour driving around the streets of Purcellville in search of an accessible road, laptop dies, drive off angrily, stop at library for human bathroom break, find a cut through a new housing devlopment to farm #3, which turns out to be some dudes house with like, 30 trees planted in front, talk to "farmer" and adorable daughter who is in first grade and has a tree house and highlights like I am willing to pay hundreds of dollars for but alas, never achieve, buy honey from farmer, get in car, stop at 7-11, drive back across county to tree farm #2, sigh, search for biggest tree on farm, eventually buy sub-par tree for too much money, cut another trtalk to farmers, rope trees onto cars, stop at Roy Rogers, head back home, collapse in sweaty heap in front of "America's Next Top Model." entire process: 8 hours, 55 minutes.

(EDIT: "But you left out so much! Like: when the jar of honey opened in your purse and spilled on your cell phone and unpaid mortgage! when I told the farmer I didn't appreciate the shame spiral she sent me into! when the D. allowed the dog to roll in bobcat feces!" -- The N.

So, right, and all that. People, it was a full fucking day, this is what I'm saying.)

Eleplunk

Hmmm.

Lady Lumps.

Dear Younger Nabob:

Remember back in 1998 when we sat on the grass at the Smoking Grooves tour and watched the Black Eyed Peas play? And dance? And we liked that song Puddles of H20? (And when we rushed the higher priced seats when the Fugees came on?) And before that, when they were the Atban Klann. And Fergie was still on Kids Incorporated? And they were legitimate and (mildly) respected hip-hop artists. Those were fun times.

In a tribute to you, I'm going to bastardize my Outlook signature, just like the BEP did to themselves.

Love,

The Nabob
What you gon’ do with all that junk?
All that junk inside that trunk?
I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
What u gon’ do with all that ass?
All that ass inside them jeans?
I’m a make, make, make, make you scream
Make u scream, make you scream.
Cos of my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumps.
Workity Work Place
(email) thenabob@gmail.com

Update:
Weekend conversation:

The N: As a representitive of the gender, when Fergie speaks of her lady lumps, it gives men the permission to refer to them as the same.

The G: Fergie doesn't speak for shit.

silver dagger

I'm not entirely sure that I haven't already mentioned this, but I caught an episode of Cooking with Paula Deen the other day where she made some sort of casserole/"salad" that contained, I'm pretty certain, 93% mayonnaise and 5% pimento-stuffed olives and 2% my fucking disgust/breathtaking awe. I can't find the recipe but I know it happened, unless I dreamed it? Can anyone else confirm??????

(Nevermind, I found it. I think. Nasty! But also kind of awesome!)

* * *

This weekend: I am buying a festive tree tomorrow for my dog to urinate on throughout the holiday season, which I'm looking forward to. Also, I'm going out tonight and that involves beer, unlike the workday, which is nice. And then I have an invitation to go drink with old-old-old friends on Sat night in Ad-Mo, so I might instead electrocute myself accidentally? And then a holiday "open house" (???) at my former bosses place on Sunday?

Anyways, wish me luck.

* * *

In other kind of similar-to-Paula-Deen news, TR and K and I are making plans to meet up in Gatlinburg and then head to Dollywood next April, maybe in place of our previously planned Chicago trip. Goals to reach!


(PS: And I had totally forgotten about the cave, too. People, that might be more important than the ostrich.

hold me close my tony danza

I've decided the only thing more tragic about the story of the Exploding Hearts demise is the fact that for a very long time I thought the second line in the lyrics to I'm A Pretender were "pizza parties just shatter my heart."

And the only cure is more..... eh, forget it.

See? It's a DISEASE, jerkies.

take bishop/jab

The first round is always chess. "That's because," says the Joker, "if you go down in boxing there is no chess."

Mountain Goats

ENERGIZE:

Hi. Guess what happens when you google "Von Dutch Energy Drink?"

Yeah. I know.

* * *

ABOUT TO NERD OUT VIOLENTLY ON YR SHOES RE: BLOGS/SPOILED LIB. TWAT/HUNTING SEASON:

Okay, so, if you actually have a blog vs. just spending your workdays reading blogs - has there ever been a time where you were stuck without a camera or word or anything to describe the spectacle of what you were experiencing in real life? But you felt you needed to share? My example would probably be the Cabela's retail store in Owatonna, Minnesota. I just don't know how you blog about something like this, yet it's great source material.

"I think you should start the story by telling everyone how we were closing in on Mnpls before I decided we just HAD to turn around; doubleback to take our retail chances/soak in the splendor of it all? Because you were so annoyed by that and thought we were going to miss our flight." – The N.

Cabela’s is brain-bending. There really is no story I have to related about our Cabela’s experience, really, except for the fact that we visited once, and the fact that yesterday afternoon I discovered that Cabela's has an online virtual tour/photo gallery for the Owatonna store. The Moosonee post must have triggered something.

Cabela's encompasses, in one giant Lincoln Log building:

- Guns, lots of
- Fake mountains being climbed by stuffed Rams
- An aquarium with ugly eels
- Two restaurants, one with linens
- Lots of bronzey sculptures
- Camouflage for any environment (except for "Suburban Mall Camoflauge", which if I were to design a camouflage pattern, it would be my claim to camo-fame [blinking neon and Dockers- khaki])
- Antler coat racks, lots of
- Misproportioned exhibits (tiny trees/buildings, large figures)
- Down, in many forms

Courtesy their webpage:


Welcome to Cabelas, home of indoor mountains/plaster of paris


Diorama cha cha cha.


Yum/Elk buffet

Oh but wait, there's more. One more time, Cabela's website, and with feeling:

Cabela's is asking for your help in compiling a collection of taxidermy mounts, memorabilia, and antique hunting, fishing, camping, and boating equipment. This will help us to celebrate and honor our nation's outdoor heritage. These items, to include vintage books, photographs, art, magazines, trophy mounts, fishing tackle, firearms and archery equipment will be enshrined at Cabela's world-famous retail stores. It's a great way to participate in a unique historical commemoration while preserving your collectibles and sharing them with generations to come. If you have any items you would like to donate, please send a description and, if possible, photos. If you have any items you would like to sell, prices and photos must be submitted.

Get on that shit already! Help Cabela's save the modern diorama! Cabela's begs of you! Esp. vintage books and firearms, neither of which are easy to get rid of at Salvation Army.

(PS: Via IL: and only my favorite song, like ever. Weird, I know.

wherein technology fails me, again

I would be extremely appreciative if the creators of this year's "little show that could" (sarcasm, my old friend), would, you know, let completely retarded people such as myself KNOW when the show is going to run an extra five minutes. That way, people such as myself can ask their in-laws to please record television until, say 10:05 PM, so they don't MISS THE MOST IMPORTANT LAST MINUTES + SCENES.

No fear, I'm all caught up now, but when the video went to fuzz and then straight into an old episode of "Will & Grace," someone almost died. You can't imagine the heart-stopping fury that occurs when one goes from Sweaty Sexy Kate Stroking Large Magnificent Beast to that asshole with the "jazzhands."