Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Live SOTU blogging

Rehnquist got a lot of gruff for the Iolanthe-inspired stripes on his robes, but damn, now I expect every Chief Judge to be sportin’ them. Roberts’s robes are bo-ring. The bathroom robe I yoinked from the Hampton Inn after my cousin's wedding has more panache.

best week ever

Art! (via lindsayism)

* * *

I kid you not when I say MySpace is the biggest brainfuck ever. S. and I spent the entire morning IMing each other about our fellow HS alumni's (alumnus?) pages: the seizure-inducing glittery backgrounds, the spinny GIFs, the computer generated, big-eyed, "Bratz"-doll looking "weather pixies (??wtf??)", and last, but not least, one classmate's indescribable moustache. Really, indescribable.

So, just to let you in: the world is now calling being a hot soccer player in high school, then knocking up a bunch of 17 year olds, then growing an ironic 70s porn moustache at age thirty while living at home and raising all those kids, then creating a Myspace page about it: "The Bryan Peterson Effect."

* * *

Tomorrow, sweet PIAB followers, tomorrow is the most exciting concert event of 06. Do not argue with me on this. Even my dog agrees. If you have not read Britt Barton Lindsay's piece in the latest issue of Hit It Or Quit It, then you prob do not understand why my expectations are so high, and I really don't have time to explain it to you.

Obey Your Poo-poo Thirst

The family cookoff went relatively well on Saturday night with no monstrous news to report. Unless you count my cousin’s giant baby filled stomach, which I could easily describe as monstrous.

To note:
  • The broccoli soup recipe is too salty.
  • The pizza lasagna tastes better if you use spicy sausage.
  • Cornflake meatloaf is now the gold standard for any future consumed meatloaves.
  • Coco-cola cake tastes no different than chocolate cake.
  • There was no snapping turtle. I haven’t a clue where to get one. Safeway, Giant and Whole Foods were of no help.
The cousins’ babies were invited to all of this as well and while I feared some major destruction/dog ear pulling, nothing went wrong. I was concerned that the vintage Vader mask in the basement might cause some tears, but it turns out that the Sith Lord is not considered a villain in the minds of today’s 4-7 year olds and they lurv him. The children were in fact more delighted with it than they were with the Peter Pan or Muppet VHS tapes I hoped to deploy against them. The loudest giggles and screams came from the basement as this real-life bobble head doll came teetering up the stairs, one step at a time.

That Phantom Menace bullshit would have been so much better if that punk Jake Lloyd had been wearing the mask from the begining. And an argyle sweater.

The idea of re-child proofing our house was something I briefly considered before they arrived but it’s small enough that we could keep an eye or ear on everyone without too much to worry. (Plus, when we were doing the home inspection before moving in, I unintentionally ripped most of the kitchen cupboards’ childproof devices out of the walls because I couldn’t work them.) This poster caused the most consternation from the youngest one and I guess it could be little scary for a 4-year-old.

What I hadn’t considered was whether or not some of things I considered harmless would pose a threat to my cousin’s parenting decisions. Like the video game system. The 7 year old was enthralled with it, even though it wasn’t even on. He carried the wireless controller around for several minutes, trying to play with it, much to the chagrin of his father. I should have realized this considering video games have never been allowed among any of my immediate family. A used, inherited Game Cube is the first system I’ve own and that was in a so far failed attempt to improve my Madden skillz.

Something else I hadn’t considered was that my cousin has yet to introduce his children to soft drinks. A six pack of Sprite on the kitchen counter led to my favorite exchange of the night.

L’il Boy pointing at Sprite: Daddy, what’s that? Can I have that?
Cousin: Uh… that’s, uh, poo-poo water. You don’t want that.
L’il boy: Poo-poo water?
Cousin: Yes. And it tastes very bad.

Poo-poo water. Awesome.

code: selfish


Already added to my wish list.


Great story about The Fall.


K: Do you think it will have a working guillotine?

John D'oh

As a child, I pathetically lorded over my father was the fact that I was the last male in his family line and therefore the sole heir to his family name. My cousins and second cousins were either all girls or the inheritors of other strong, single-syllabled, Midwestern names. Something along the lines of Blörg or Thune.

While my name is by no means uncommon, my family’s Scandinavian tree would lose a major branch if I were unable to sire at least one male progeny. In a loaded conversation, my grandparent mentioned this the last time we were in Iowa for a family wedding. They also noted that, until I was born, there had been at least one John in the family going back 5 generations. I’m not sure if my parent’s choice to name me after a maternal grandfather and end this practice was discussed at my birth, but it was inferred that they thought it would be a shame if I killed the John tradition.

The thing is, even though I love my uncle John (the family member I most closely relate to and, depending on the lighting, resemble) I don’t particularly like his name. I don’t think the G. has ever taken a shine to it either. But I still feared that any future wee Pyggy would already pre-named John Surname upon conception. Or at least we would be pressured into doing so.

But not anymore. It was just announced that Uncle John and Auntie Em are in the family way. It’s too early to know the sex, but any onus to carry on the John tradition is now firmly on their strong farming shoulders. And let’s hope it’s a boy because any girl in future-Iowa* is going to get teased bunches if her name is John.




And John.

*Future-Iowa is just like regular now-Iowa except chickens have to wear diapers.

Monday, January 30, 2006

Dont' drink and Thank You Note

Please don’t consider this a speedy response to the awesome Toothpaste for Dinner T-Shirt. Thank you notes for Christmas gifts form Grandparents are being written on this late January night also. The only difference is I held off drinking until I got to yours. Thanks for the shirt. You missed a good time at the cookoff. Sorry you had to go skiing but you missed but there were some delicious dishes including some sort of jello Salad and a fried ice cream disaster. You missed much.
Good luck on the whole baby thing. Talk to you soon.

I scanned stuff at lunchtime whilst I ate soup!

Here, my very stern Danish grandmother takes the scruff of my be-hatted mother. Also, a tiny purse. Also, why do suits like that not really exist anymore? Fierce. I would totally wear a suit like that, and draw lines up the back of my leg with eyeliner to fake stockings.

Here my very weirdly-pattern-baldness-ish baby mother contemplates eating a flower, or perhaps a bug. DC rowhouses prominently featured; local girlz rep'sent!

My friend Justin spends a lot of his life in LA unemployed, which provides him ample time to bid on vintage 21 Jump Street playing cards on EBay for me. I have the whole set so that when you turn the cards over and place them together, they make a poster-sized full-cast photo. Also, the gum in these puppies is fossilized!

club sandwich

Mitch H. video archives, for those of you who have also recently quit yr job and can watch youtube and videos all day whilst pretending to "tie things up in a neat package for your replacement."

the ice of boston

(One other thing: Sitemeter drives the fact home, none of you are from Boston. But if you were, or you were thinking about being near Boston this week, or maybe have a VI business meeting in Boston, and instead of drinking at some sort of downtown Boston faux pub/Cheers inspiration, say on Wednesday night, you could think about buying tickets to this instead. Craig Finn et al are here in DC on Wednesday night, so your excuses are pretty lame. Boston, you have nothing better to do this week! Or so I haughtily assume.

[Re: the gallery: I pretty much love everything but the sonic fabric, which kind of looks like nothing more than a painters tarp one would buy at the Despot. Apologies, Mz. Santoro. I'm sure yr fashion talents just lie elsewhere.])


oh, yeah, and grandaddy broke up.

interview with a captain


* * *

1. Shameless Secret # I Actually Stopped Counting in 1984: That Trent Reznor song that Clear Channel insists on playing on every station's hourly rotation (probs even HOT CLASSICS 100 or whatever it's called, but I haven't checked). Well, it's very danceable and has a good beat, Dick. (Hey remember how I have been bitching about my broken IPod? Well, the car's CD player is now fried, so I'm about to drive it into a lake and just forget the whole thing.) I need music HELP, chickens.

2. Friday night included a killer parking space and a sketch-off at the bar in JW's book/on cocktail napkins. And a girl in a patchwork apron-top and bad too-green back-of-the-neck tattoo kept elbowing me out of the way, screeching like an injured seal toward the bartender about "MEETING HER BFF IN FROM SAN DIEGO!!1!" LJG's boyfriend; dressed like Jarmusch. Highlight: overhearing JW turn to the D. and said "I have something to tell you, and you might not like it. I think I'm really getting back into metal."

* * *

The deal with The Matador. It is an okay movie, nothing spectac, but a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon with a sulky spouse who's touch football game was cancelled and therefore he is unconsolable. Inconsolable. Consolableless. Etc.

Brosnan does an fair job at playing seedy as opposed to 007-y, although the constant jokes about him being a quasi-pedophile grow old about 11 minutes in; and the Catholic schoolgirl scene will give anyone with a slight feminist leaning/an ounce of humanity the shivers. Luckily, you are able to say to yourself, "Yourself: Pierce Brosnan does not dabble in such things as 11 year old Mexicans. Because he is Pierce. Brosnan." Acting-chops-wise, Greg Kinnear never stops being Greg Kinnear; who looks like a software salesman from Ohio even when he's not playing a software salesman from Ohio (Denver, etc.)

But here is why you should see the movie: Hope Davis. Her part is unfortunately smallish, although they give her as decent screen time as they could, I guess; when she asks repeatedly to see PB's gun you can see in her eyes she really, really, really means it. She wants to see that gun, dammit. Also, she's an adorable drunk. Like what my aunt looks like when she gets drunk on whiskey at 2 AM; and probably what I'll resemble drunk on whiskey at 2 AM when I'm in my 40s; except I will have a soccer mom haircut instead.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

i heard the dude blamed the chick/i heard the chick blamed the snake

Text message from my little bro, 1/28/06, 1:42 AM:

"Feb. 1. I am so there. I am there like bartenders like hard drugs. AND WE ALL KNOW THATS A LOT."


Friday, January 27, 2006

Ohhh snap!

This weekend, the Pygs and cousins and Gramps will get together for a family cook-off. Many years back, a grandmother and her sisters/cousins put together a fragile handwritten cookbook that’s been since handed down through the generations. The recipes are classic 50’s Midwest fare; casseroles, jello salads, main courses that feature animals that may have been playing on the range with deer and antelope hours before. Each cousin shall bring one dish and we will compare and contrast.

While I assumed the palates of today’s superhumans would have evolved in the past 50 years to handle most food stuffs, I have a hard time imagining anyone being able to stomach some of these recipes. I haven’t decided what to make yet, though it will no doubt contain large amounts of cream cheese, as it appears to be the main staple of many of these concoctions. And melted Red Hots for some reasons.

An entire new blog could be dedicated to this book, but for now you will have to settle for my family’s direction for preparing snapping turtle for consumption. Much more of this family treasure will come in the days ahead.
Catch a turtle in a fishhook – or however you can – and bring it ashore. Using your best method to handle the turtle and being VERY careful, poke turtle with long stick until head comes out and turtle grabs stick. Quickly chop off head with axe. There are of couple of ways to proceed from this point.
Method #1:
After chopping off head, put turtle under tub for 8 to 10 hours. (Suggestions for disposal of head will come later.) Raise tub carefully. If claws are still grabbing, carefully remove tub and turn turtle over. If turtle proceeds to walk off (which has happened) call for help and maneuver turtle into tub again and cover with boiling water for a few minutes. This method is usually successful but quite long and drawn out.
Method #2:
After cutting off head, nail turtle to a board by the tail – still being terribly careful – and allow to bleed out for about 2 hours. Plunge into boiling water for a few minutes. Then cut off bottom shell while still hanging. Take down and cut off top shell. Cut meat from bones and cook slowly in 4 quarts of water for about 3 hours.
You will have 203 pounds of meat and are numerous recipes for this delicacy, but I am too tired to go on.
Oh, yes, Disposal of Head: the general consensus of opinion on this problem is that is in not possible to dispose of the head. No matter what you do with it, the head will continue to pop up in the most up in the most unlikely places. If you come up with a good method for this, we would appreciate hearing from you.
If you had a hard time following that, you’re not alone. If I got to Hechinger’s, will they know what size nail I need to bleed a turtle for 2 hours? Is it possible for one person to pull the turtles head out with enough force and have the leverage to chop it off with an axe? Did Method #1 suggest that the turtle may still attempt to flee 8 hours after its head’s been removed?

Oh, I think a little bit that it did.


Owooo! Werevolves of Potomac Yard! Owwooooooo!

I played hooky yesterday and saw the noon showing of Underworld. And let me tell you, that’s some hot vampire on wolfman/vampire-hybrid action. The other twelve men (sitting alone, equal distant from each other in an otherwise empty theatre) seemed to enjoy the awkwardness as well.

There was a 6 year-old and his dad in front of me in the snack line. And next to us was a cardboard stand-up ad for that Bloodrayne* movie. As the child stared frighteningly at the giant Ben Kingsley head he said with startling cognizance:

Boy: I don’t think I should see that movie.
Father and Nabob in unison: I don’t think anyone should see that movie.

Then I yelled “JINX!” and the guy begrudgingly bought me a coke. I’m glad he understood the rules. He even upsized for 50 cents more and now I have a commemorative Tristan & Isolde plastic cup!

*I didn’t even know Bloodrayne was actually out in theatres but I guess it been showing for 3 weeks. Last week it was the 54th ranked film in the country, right behind a movie called Gay Sex in the 70’s.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

! ! !

Best line from an email, 1/25/06:

"I'm pretty sure he's not gay, so he must be super retarded."*

* * *

Hi! I would write more, but it's Friday, and all I really want to talk about with people is the Manchester/God parade (SEE BELOW), and everyone has pretty much rolled their eyes at this point and categorically refused to do participate in any such conversation. PEOPLE. JESUS WILL SING "LOVE WILL TEAR US APART."

! ! !

In other news, I think I've mentioned it's Friday. I am on high after winning the volleyball championship of the world last night (grand prize: acknowledged global volleyball dominance/forest green "SPORTSPLEX CHAMPION" teeshirts) I went and had a Wisconsin beer (unpronouncable/tasted like raspberry) at a teammates townhouse. He's a lawyer, and therefore we talked about crown moulding and granite countertops. YAWN.

So! It's Friday! I have no plans for tonight! I came to work with sopping wet hair and an attitude problem (slight)! My boss of only 6 more days n counting told me not to bother coming in next Friday!

I would say "life is radical," but I need to go to the dentist.

Okay, so Internet. If you are doing something fun tonight, do not leave me in the dark, watching shows on Oxygen by myself as my husband gambles away our crown moulding fund.

* Clarification, since apparently the N. assumes this comment is being made about him. One, it's not. B., it's not re: anyone I personally know. Three, I know the two are not always mutually exclusive. Four, yes, it does appear to be a comment from a 4th grader. So listen, all you gay super retarded folks out there should be worried, and the rest of you (my husband and friends and acquaintances and mailman and next door neighbor) can lighten up.

"wouldn't know a Buzzcock from a ballcock"

Everything about this is deeply, DEEPLY, legit.

While the event is likely to raise eyebrows among more traditional-minded Christians, it has the broad support of both the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church in the area.

Church of England spokeswoman Gillian Oliver said: "We are working with the BBC on this and are very pleased to be taking the good news of the gospel onto the streets of Manchester. If anything, something like this can translate the old story into new terms."

While I'd argue the "newness" of Ian Curtis and his saddyness, I guess time is all relative when you're spreading the gospel of big JC.

Through SP Morrissey. And Shaun Ryder.




a horse is a horse, of course, of course

PSA: when you Image-Google "horse mask," the first photo to pop up is Bjork.

something bigger/something brighter

1. Pretty Girls Make Graves The Nocturnal House, courtesy OneLouder, which is courtesy ILB. Basically, the bloggernet. It's getting complex, people.

2. Pancake Mountain is holding it's first dance party of the year, starring Deerhoof. Warehouse Next Door, from 2:00 to 4:00 this Saturday, January 28th. This would all be fine and good except for the fact that the email I received explicitly states "If you're between 5 to 25 and would like to attend please fill out this online form." AGISM! I'm going to show up with my walker and my mah jong tiles, ready to start a goddamn Zendik.* Maybe.

3. Nerdy enough to Wkpda "Kalorama" this morning after passing a Kalorama Street in Ffx county; and knowing there's another one in CA; then, of course, DC; and not having an actual clue as to what "Kalorama" means. Now I am learned!

4. Lost SUCKED last night.

5. Mark your calendars: Snakes on a Plane liveblog, August 18, 2006. The DCeiver and the G; in an unholy alliance of unbridled glee (the G.) and intense snark (the DC.)

The End!

* Those teeshirts make me want to learn kung fu, and not in a good way.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Livebloggen: Lost, 1/25

So, I was going to blog during Lost, but instead I made the very grownup choice to start drinking at a quarter til six, which then found me at a Fairfax restaunrat right before Lost was supposed to start, railing about elementary education reform and "No Child Left Behind," doubly hilarious since I have no idea what I'm talking about in that arena.

Now I'm home, but this isn't going to work out. So anyways, here you go: Charlie? Madchester? Giant Crib? Baby? Drugs? Water? Dur?


Pour out a little fr yr homey, the Reverend Bellewether Smacklesford. A mere year + 2 weeks after coming into possession of the little white trollop (that would be 2 weeks after the warranty expires, for all you math genii out there/those keeping track at home), and less than a month after spending $100+ to replace a shattered screen, the geeks whom the N. mailed it to called to inform us the very very very disheartening news: a bad hard drive. Death does not become her.

But I've got "GFP" tattooed across my washboard abs in Gothic/Old Eng. typeface, so I'll be purchasing a new one posthaste.

The N's earlier model? Crapped out logic board.

My brother's? Mysterious battery failure, never to be solved.

So best of luck and much congrats, G.p. And don't front. We all know you secretly own the Williams-Sonoma cookbook collection in it's entirety.

it's a sailboat! it's a hamburger! it's a boomarang!

Someone dares to go there, and poses the question, "Has anyone actually ever been to Rosslyn's Spectrum Theatre? Have they ever shown anything besides 'Defending the Caveman?'"

Hi. My name is Saddy Face, and I have seen... yes... Puppetry of the Penis.

At the Spectrum.

I'm going to take a long lunch now. You know, eat a pretzel, walk the dog, empty out the hot water tank attached to my shower as I scrub the soul-sucking filth from my tainted body because my eyes have seen men doing shadow puppets with their wangs.

It was a long time ago. Repression. I thought it would never come up again.

I was wrong.

A little bit like Meg Ryan's new face. A little bit.

I can’t trace the psychological root for it and I doubt if some scientific wordsmith has created a name for it, but I have a very real fear of animals with visible cancer tumors. Especially fish or chicken. Whenever I see one of those Animal Liberation Front-like posters with the deformed chickens, it doesn’t make me dislike delicious Popeye’s chicken but it makes me hate ALF for forcing me to look at it.

Fortunately, it’s not something I have to deal with on a regular basis. But I threw away the Post’s metro section today without reading it because there was a tumor-ish catfish on the front page. It’s only a tiny picture, but it’s fucking groady.

Here’s the thankfully gross-catfish-lips-free online story.

Water into Wine

"But why not have Kanye on the cross, with a boner, fucking a bag of gay Eucharist? Why not have the cross played by Terry Schiavo, and Terry Schiavo's life support machines played by the ghost of Hurricane Katrina? Why not have Pope John Paul II jerking off to it all?"

My favorite comment actually: "Your (sic) just mad that you aren't on ANY cover of ANY magazine. And you never will be." Also, the one where someone says he looks like he was attacked by a wolverine. Aces.


EDIT: Okay, and so I looked at the cover again? And instead of sporting some sort of ancient toga/robe, approp. for a martyr-on-a-cross, is Kanye wearing a ripped Cosby sweater? I submit yes.

The Passion of the West/NS's "Riff-Raff" (via JH)

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

This will be post 500

I’ve held off posting this for a few weeks in the hope that I can gain a sense of objectivity and divorce myself from this story’s perceived absurdity. I will try to present it in a fashion that is void of any bias, just stating facts.

A few days ago, I was late for an appointment near Union Station and an acquaintance (subsequently referred to as The Courier) kindly provided me with a ride. After stopping at a red light and before attempting to turn left onto a narrow one-way street, we entered into a distracted conversation about The Courier’s new job.

When the light turned green, we attempted to turn but upon seeing someone was crossing in front of us, we stopped. The front end of our car had entered the crosswalk, but had stopped well short of striking the pedestrian.

The man in the crosswalk was wearing a black pea coat, a dark yachting hat, a close salt n’ pepper beard and was smoking a pipe. He will subsequently be referred to as The Captain.

The Captain motioned to the crosswalk signal and indicated he had the right of way. The Courier rolled down his window and apologized to The Captain. The Captain, still in middle of the street, reiterated that he had the right of way. I rolled down my window, acknowledged The Captain’s right of way and apologized.

The cars behind us began honking their horns. The Captain remained in front of our car, preventing us from moving forward. Illegally parked cars prevented us from driving around him. The angle of our car had blocked most of the intersection and prevented anyone from driving around us.

The Captain stated that pedestrians always had the right of way and continued to stand fast. The Courier and I apologized again, pleaded that we were in a considerable hurry and asked if The Captain could remove himself from the middle of the street. He instead removed his cell phone from his pea coat pocket and claims to dial the police. The Courier and I exchangd looks of confusion and surprise.

(I do not know if the police were actually called or if the following one sided conversation was a ruse de guerre.)
The Captain: I’d like to report that I was nearly hit by a car. Yes. It was on the corner of # and #. Yes. The car license plate number is ###-####. No. Okay….

The Captain informed us that he will not move until the police arrive and turns away. I get out of the car and began to negotiations in the the hopes of convincing The Captain to remove himself from the crosswalk. I was careful not to insult or touch him.

Several minutes of asking, bargaining, pleading, arguing and attempted cajoling with the Captain yield no results. The line of cars behind us and my necessity to get to my appointment increased. The Courier steps from the car and begins arguing as well.

I contemplate calling the police myself but figure it would only complicate the situation and add to my lateness, especially if The Captain has note called the police as he’s claimed. Fortunately, I noticed two squad cars about halfway down the block. I excused myself from the still blocked crosswalk and walk with haste to the makeshift Capitol Hill police station that has been constructed next to the cars. The explanation of the situation does nothing but confuse the police officers on duty so I ask if one can just come outside and mediate.

The Police Officer asked for The Captains version of the events. He asked for our version of the events. The Officer asked if The Captain was hit by our car and he says no. The Officer looks confused asks what The Captain what his problem is. The Captain states he had the right of way and we violated that right. We offered an apology Officer asks if that was enough satisfy The Captain. He indicated it was not and makes a statement that suggests the Capitol Hill Police officer was not police officer-enough for him.

The Courier stated he is done arguing and goes and sits in his car. The Officer and Captain continued their conversation is the middle of the street, still blocking all traffic. I hail a cab and leave for my appointment.

At this point, my first hand knowledge of the situation ends. The Courier reports that the police officer demanded that unless this guy was hit by our car and needed help, he had to get out of the middle of the street. After a few more minutes of arguing, The Captain complied. The Courier was waved on and traffic began to flow normally.

Jesus, this has turned into a humongous post.

I’m still not sure what to make of this guy who was willing to block an intersection to make a point. (And I’m a little embarrassed about how I was not able to explain the situation to the police, instead leading them like Lassie to the scene of a little boy cornered by a lynx.) Like any city dweller, I’ve cast dirty looks at anyone who has nosed into the crosswalk whenever I’ve had the right away. I’ve even considered standing there until the light has changed so the driver misses his green light cycle. But to block traffic for 15 minutes is something I lack the patience for.

He could have been one of those litigious fellows who were hoping that either of the two of us in the car or another driver to assault him. There was a guy like that in college who obtained a permit to proselytize on campus but quickly began insulting people in the name of Christianity to an increasing degree. He did this for several days until someone at the paper turned up that he had done the same thing at VT and then sued the school when someone attacked him. When this becomes known, the guy packed up and moved on.

Update: After rereading this dry retelling of this story I realize that it loses its absurdity. I apologize for wasting your time. If we ever meet in person ask me to act it our because the wild hand gestures and my huffy attitude make it much funnier.

More ridiculously dated music typey type

I'm asleep at the eight wheel coach. I realize I am three months late/confused on this:

From "News":

[Tuesday October 25th, 2005]
Check out the new Reverend Horton Heat song, "Turkey Gotta Gobble," written for Boston Market who will be featuring the song in their new holiday ad campaign. You can hear it on their website www.bostonmarket.com and download it for free until Thanksgiving.


Please tell me someone has a copy of the "Rev. Horton Heat Boston Market Holiday Song" still on your computer. Because, what the fuck, people.

analogies for driving in a car listening to DC radio because you forgot CDs and your IPod is busted

Apples : Apples

Bloodhound Gang : Dynamite Hack

Monday, January 23, 2006

Our theme song will require more horns, one of those giant mexican guitars and Carmelo Anthony

For those households that have at least one functioning Ipod instead of two broke and busted ones, here's a way to rock out to your favorite local localness.

If you caught the latest round of Eastern commercials during the conference championships yesterday you may be confused to why LaVar Arrington is harassing the fine employees of car dealership that offers 20% interest rates. Rumor has it that Eastern wanted to tape an ad featuring various Redskins playing poker but he NFL nixed the idea because gambling = wrong image.

But Arrington leveling some poor sucker on a pseudo-campus is AOK.

Here's the whole batch, minus the most recent ones.

kinky wizards

- It appears I may have some free time in the next two weeks- the last free time I WILL EVER HAVE DURING NORMAL BUSINESS HOURS. I plan to spend it eating candy, feet propped up on my desk, while registering every single person I know on the Donny Osmond message forums. Truth.

- Briefly confused because I thought the Arctic Monkeys were those kids from Cusack's "High Fidelity." No "I Sold My Mother's Wheelchair" via cinema skatepunks? Vaguely disappointing.

- When do you think Chris Meloni is going to do another film? I love Chris Meloni.

- For a short while in college I was briefly intrigued by the Griffin & Sabine book series, until they turned a little... twee... for me and girls who wore came to classes shoeless and in backless apron tops, sporting homemade fairie wings really got into them, too. Not that there's anything wrong with that I just mean... fairies. Butterflies. Horses. Etc. Not my bag. Anyways, ol' Fairy Bantock whats-his-name has book covers on his site as well, and I didn't know he illustrated book covers. That's where I was going with this bullet, originally.

- Ha ha. I am not even yanking chains when I state I believe someone from my super excellent graduating class pulled this same stunt? Or maybe she ran into a cop while drunk driving. I can't remember. Either way - hi, Amanda.

seacrest out

turns out I'm becoming pretty damn good at quitting my job. I always knew I had a talent for... something.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Kill two for matching clogs

Final weekending bits...

1. When the Nabob and his father typically gather together, the conversation sails into wildly bizarre and featherbrained areas. But our little talk yesterday means I know the answer to the Wonkette’s trivia question! It also yielded:
  • Albert Brooks was born Albert Einstien
  • Albert Brooks’ father was born Harry Einstien
  • Albert Brooks’ father went by the name Parkyakarkus, was a famous comedic radio performer in the 30’s-40’s and has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
  • Parkyakarkus died at the Friar Roast of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez moments after giving his speech. He collapsed on Milton Berle who, in all seriousness, asked if the there was a doctor in the house. The audience thought this part of the hilarious act.
2. Boo-urns. See my vest, see my vest, made from real gorilla chest! Feel this sweater, there's no better, than authentic Irish etter!
LONDON (AP) - British police say tests show that a coat belonging to a pop singer was made from the skin of monkeys that may have been illegally imported.
The coat was seized this week from Pete Burns, a member of the group Dead or Alive and currently a contestant on the British reality T-V show "Celebrity Big Brother." They acted after complaints from the public, after Burns boasted that the coat was made from gorilla fur.
Yikes. Yikes.

3. If you’re about, Galileo’s is doing their lunchtime grill next week.
The Galileo Grill will be open next Monday, January 23rd and Tuesday, January 24th from 11:45 a.m. until 1 p.m. Pre-orders will be taken by phone only until 11:30 a.m. each day the grill is open and are to be picked up at the bar.
Their email notification is touting their homemade ketchup, which is just about the grossest thing I can imagine, as any kind of ketchup is disgusting. But everything else I’ve ever eaten there was great.

They used to have the grill out front on the sidewalk but all the smoke caused the guy who runs the restaurant across the street to call the fire department. When the dispatcher asked the reason for the call he answered “spite.” So now you have to go get your chow inside, standing in line by the bar and staring at the fancy people as the try to eat. It’s just like eating at the Palm, only you get to be the real life poorly drawn caricature of Warner Wolfe or Fawn Hall.

And speaking of Galileo’s… One Friday night, I yelled at some bald headed guy to “move your fucking car!” when it was blocking traffic on 21st outside the restaurant.* As I glared and slowly drove by, Ari Fleischer casually handed his keys over to the valet. Turns out it was the day he told the President he was stepping down and he and his wife were out to dinner in celebration. His biography [BARGAIN PRICE!] makes no mention of it, but let’s hope it didn’t ruin his special night.

abstract rhythms



6 degrees of Carol Vesey

THE FRESH HELL. We watched Love Monkey the other night after eating potato salad straight from a communal bowl and watching as Zeke: Centaur of the Island of Lost, made an attempt at being a scary badass.

Oh. My god. Love Monkey.


People, it is so tragic. That Ed guy? Cute. Likable. Judy Greer? Funny. In other shows. Shows that VIP cancel. Shows where JG lifts her shirt a lot. Remember that show? Yes, those were the heady golden days of television, television that made us PROUD to watch television. The television programming that MADE ME BELIEVE IN A HIGHER POWER.


Love Monkey started with a not-too-shabby idea. Music guy, check.

Then it treaded heavily into "J. McGuire" terrority, only with less yelling and Cuba Gooding Jr. dance moves.

The writing, frankly, was terrifying.


Diagnosis: Suckage.
Verdict: God hates us all. Yes.

Wait. Oh no. I just read. Lee Ann Rimes and Ben Folds guest star next week.

I am fearful, people.

EDIT: It was on Tuesday night, not Wednesday night. Not that me stating incorrectly the nights it airs make my ears stop gushing brain matter.

EDIT II: I totally forgot this, from the credits: Nic Harcourt is partially responsible (thanks for the reminder, clap clap blog's commenters.) I brought this up to the N. And I believe the response was, "Who's Nic Harcourt? And why should I care at all?

* * *

In other news, the N. informs me of a Japanese Plott Hound Club. Osaka hunting! Yay!


note also: Wilson Pickett died yesterday.

LA face/Oakland booty

- Bret Easton Ellis interview yesterday at The Morning News.

- WaPo gets "filthy," blog comments shutdown, angry nerds everywhere on dirty, dirty soapboxes alternatively start spamming editor's inboxes.

- Jesus.

- Sold out Gogol Bordello/Tegan & Sara at 930 tomorrow.

* * *

Ya ya ya, weekend. It is on. Thursday nights is just practice, hombre. Consuming several billion liquid gallons of beer in 4 short hours is nothing compared to driving southward to watch college hoops, eating well on parents dime. Writing overdue thank you notes for Christmas checks mailed from Midwestern grandparents. Vacuuming area rugs. Etc! Weekend, I want more of you around.

bar nites

So, we were rilly late tonight to this proclaimed "HH." Like, i was promising 9:22, and instead it turned into 10:06. very heiress/chic/fashionable of we.

not really.

That being said: good time had by all. After coversation, there is some sort of contest "on?" Drinking contest? One would assume it would be the sort of contest who's rules would result from ++1 beers in a pool hall, but instead is like: gatorade? dairy? sheer volume?

Rules are unclear, actually. T. Lee and K. Capps, please contact at earliest convenience. There is a Sunday afternoon to organize, apparently I am acting as social secretary/keeper-of-calendar.

yawn, sleep, night.

Thursday, January 19, 2006


"dangerously naive propaganda piece whose logical arguments are quite dated."

I'm assuming this will appear in DC/local theatres after the 20th, and I'll bite - I'm intrigued. (thx Swtny)


More II. Director Eugene, brother of Andrew, who's Capturing the Friedman's won the same Sundance documetary prize (in '03, maybe?)

* * *

K. and I are IMing: How hard can it be to AVOID UPLIGHTING the "bad guy" on Lost last night? Becuase instead of looking truly evilish, like Ethan Rom kind of presented, he looked like an Aesops fable character/centaur. The beard looked fake. Shit, even the dirt on his face looked fake.

* * *

GWAR action figures!

* * *

" Maybe after 15 years in Hollywood, survival is the only skill you really have." Uhhh. Okay. Pauly C.? Please, never end another article with a "Hollywood is totes such a hard place to be/EXIST in, MAN, you have no idea. I lived there when I was trying to be a FILMMAKER. It was IN. TENSE. Dude. LA" sentence again. Ever. WE KNOW, already.

Thursday IM: International edition

Homies in exotic locales, doing exotic things. If nerdling along on their Dell's can be considered exotic.

* * *

S: The Africa national cup in futbal is going on now so the hotel is booked solid.
S: I took a pic out my cab today because the truck next to me had a bunch of goats staring at me over the side of the truck.
S: Also there's a floating TGIFridays on the Nile. FLOATING. I tried to take a picture but we moved too fast.

* * *

D: attached is a photo of me and my new girlfriend. From Newfoundland.
D: she wears capes and boots and other crushed velvet attire
D: and is over three/three fifty, and shorter than me. which is pretty short.
D: she my new girlfriend. soon to be wife. all of Korea is jealous of me.
D: she's also the reason you haven't heard from your husband lately. She ate him.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

You can call him Ray

As a favored pastime in the Pyggy household, the teasing of the G about her sub-suburban (read: rural) upbringing rarely leads to hurt feelings, though often ends with defensive huffs and pinched glares. The tales of her thrice divorced by 26 classmates, bastard children, cuckolded husbands, and failed Oxycontin pharmacy hold-ups are all hilarious stuffs. Often sad, always absurd or baffling, the tales of the characters who spot her high school-past make wondrous stories.

She sits quietly while my old buddies tell our tame stories of rowing trips or Young Life weekends before dropping a bomb like, “my high school’s wrestling coach was married with kids but was fired when everyone found out he starred in gay porn videos.” A hilarious tragedy to the end, I’m sure. One that outshines any possible thing we are willing to fess up to.


Shortly after graduating last decade, a former lab partner of mine shot a cab driver in the back of the head, dumped his body in the street and stole the car. He was picked up a few days later on unrelated B&E charges but something he mentioned during that investigation connected him to the murder. He is currently serving life + 24 in Virginia, only escaping the death penalty through a plea bargain. It is widely assumed he was on LSD at the time.

A few months before he did this, our class put together a slide show that was presented at one of the half-dozen pre-graduation ceremonies (minutes after our commencement speaker, Chief Justice William Rehnquist. I believe the G.’s school brought in Billy Ray Cyrus) and this kid was featured in several of the slides. The full slide carousel sat untouched in my parent’s basement for ten years until my recent reunion. I scanned the slides into the laptop, with the intention of playing them at the affair, but not before removing the pictures of this old classmate.

They were not missed. My feared censorship accusations remained unleveled. His name was not mentioned at the event and I doubt much thought was given to his absence. He seems to now occupy a dark crook of my classes collective memory, along with the guy who committed suicide our sophomore year.

Until this week. It was revealed on Sunday that one of the two men accused of killing at least seven people in Richmond earlier this month was also a classmate. I expected chatter among the group email webs of those graduates who still talk to each other. But no one seems to care much; everyone is still talking about who gave who herpes the night of the reunion.

But I’m really sure what I expected. Gossip is gossip and I guess herpes gossip is something people are more willing to come to grips with.

Carry on Class of ‘95. You can help me remove a new round of slides in 2020.

bttrfly. socialus maximus


I have spent the entire day in J. Crew Suiting Line from head to toe, walking from Golden Triangle building to Golden Triangle building, carrying an umbrella and a faux leather portfolio and a giant fucking purse, stopping for a Mocha Double Something with the hubs between talk sessions about where I see myself in 5 years. I feel v. sweaty-harried-grown-up, and my feet report feeling v. pinchy. WHO AM I/CRISIS OF IDENTITY.

(PS: I did not see the gun at 19th and I? I am completes oblivious???????)

At one point, I hid in the fiction section at Borders, to kill 30 minutes.

I hate interviewing. But I report it went well, and mad skills are in demand, although I did get one hilarious: "Print design? People still do that? ???"


And then I came home, and took my dog to the park, and now I'm making barbeque. And blogging.

I am watching "Lost" tonight, then I am going to bed. It will be awesome. This is all I can give to you, DC. An early bedtime. It is for the best.

But listen! Tomorrow, I am going to dinner with people at 8, and then hitting up Cue Bar/DCist happy hour, late. Like, prob after the actual 9:00 end/deadline. Let's say 9:22 PM. Will you still be there, DC? Will you wait for me, DC? Because, DC, I will want a beer. Please stick around. The District, do not let it sleep alone tonight after the bars turn out their lights.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006


via Mr. Sun: Art! Squirrels/ kittens/bunnies/athletic-gaming endeavors.

If I don't get my hands on a print of "Bunny School c. 1870s" then I don't even know what I'll do. Don't test me.

I'm lookin at you, sparklepony.

whatever is going down/will follow you around

Arco Advertiser: Butte County in danger of losing EMS service (note: "EMS Service" = redundant headline, AA. Hi, AA. I wish you'd bring your "police report log" back to the online paper, AA. I miss it.)

* * *

At age 22-ish something, it was teh hotness peak of the dot-com revolution (revolt!), everyone else I know was getting/had jobs (jobs we now all look back on a smile sheepishly and shake our heads, because when you are 22 and have a ponykeg/foosball table in yr breakroom and you can LIVE FOREVER, things are different. Now, we all work for the government, truth.) That was about the time people were getting flown to exotic locales for schmoozefest open bar group interviews and continental breakfasts, wearing tan-opaque hose to interviews and denim to the office, being taken to the fanciest of dining experiences (not P-Johns) company recruiting accounts could afford. BONUSES, people. SIGNING. BONUSES.

I did not have these companies doing such things for me, and I was not really jealous but happy for my talent-soaked friends, and def. broke, and unmotivated, and scared shitless, and not ready to return to DC/Metro just quite yet, and afraid of leaving college although by that point I hated it – the town, the campus, the people- but college was a bubble that I had turned to plastic: unbreakable and suffocating and impossible to leave. But I was done. I loved my friends, and that was all. The rest of it could go to hell. Yr girl didn’t want no stinkin part of it. Thusly, I decided against attending mandatory "job fair/portfolio reviews," even though it was field trip-style to Urban DC filled with Studio Job Promise and I think I was graded on presenting my portfolio to at least a few potential employers. Alas, it never happened and I spent the weekends of those trips playing NTN trivia at the wings place down the street. (Sorry, Senior Adviser Trudy!)

I took a minimum wage job and additional internship all the way across the country. I packed shorts and teeshirts, a windbreaker, six books, a self-made Charletons UK retrospective and a mixtape from the boyfriend, and walked off that stage with my fake diploma in hand. Four days and participation in one friend's local wedding later, I was gone. Plane tickets were my college graduation gift from my parents, flexible return date. I was gonna let them sticky wet baby wings soar. I was going to Be On My Own, (granted, with free housing and no real bills.) Soar as they could, wheel-less, dogg, Volvo-less. Soar as they could in a town of -600. Soar as they could in the blackest night and quietest place and sleepiest corner on earth.

And I was a little lonely those months, a lot lonely then, because there were no people, no machines, no college drinking buddies, no domesticated dogs, no radio signal, no TV, a solitary pay phone, no trees (I am so East Coast Brand) and empty vast land of black lava and dark and buffalo and stars and wolves and cows and potato fields, vegetationless, punctuated by occasional snakes and broken vodka bottles against the back wall, maybe flailed by a German intern/US Western-snake-expert named Elmar; and once in a while, a squirrel I named Fred, who would sit on the laundry line in my backyard.

I read every stupid mystery fiction left behind in the maintenance room that summer. They all sucked, and I devoured them. I probably read 45 books that summer. On my days off, when I would sit outside in an orange bikini and glance at still-snowcapped mountains in the distance, I would read 3. Maybe 4. Books. A day.

I also played as much solitaire.

For reals, I was alone. I was *the* alonest person on the planet on weekends, when my terrible young roommate, a college sophomore who had never left the state of Idaho, would finally drive the two hours home; leaving me in the desert with not a single solitary sound.

Good news! Your hero of this extra-lengthy tale, she can battle loneliness (insert Wilco riff herr). I made friends with the only two people my age, (and one person much younger than me), in the entire county. I babysat and braided hair. I joined the summer softball league w/ my coworkers. I went to the rodeo and barbeques at my boss’s house. I bought beer at the gas station. I lived three days without electricity or water, as fires burned in the desert. I puked outside a bar called the Mell-O-Dee club after drinking Jaeger while wearing hiking boots. I set off fireworks. I borrowed cars to go to go grocery shopping and attend Minor league games two hours away. I introduced myself to strangers. I called my boyfriend back home on the payphone, weepy-san, even though I (think) I hid the tears well. I invited myself into people’s homes for dinner and sleepovers, a lost orphan stuck in an empty, foreign land, broken and cared for by the kindest people on god’s greeny earth. I went to the rural hospital when I had strep throat and no insurance, and paid those goddamn bills for years afterward. I lived on government property, ate out of Visitor Center vending machines when I ran out of food.

When I finally made it back to DC, unemployed and overeducated, I was thoroughly sick of myself.

It was possibly the best summer of my life.

* * *

One of those black nights, a Friday, totally alone, again, a big burly man pounded on my door. The parkland where I lived was closed for the night. It was 9:00 PM, it was 17 miles and 200 yards from the nearest town. He wanted to use my phone. I did not have a phone in my apartment, I would not open that door, and he yelled at me through the glass panes.

I wouldn’t leave, and I couldn’t leave, and he could kill me and no one would hear a sound but Fred. I was scared to fucking death of dying alone at the hands of a scary yelly man. I was 22, and I wanted to be alive.

Fastforwardblahs. A vehicle had flipped yards from the park entrance, a common occurrence in a land without law and speedtraps and lots of top-heavy farm pickups. He had crawled out the front window. His wife and child, unhurt, were still in the car.

Long story short, I was able to get to another ranger, who had a phone, who called EMS. EMS consisted of a few locals who willingly drove an ambulance, and carted the truck folk off to the medical center, same site of my strep throat curing doctor/vet/transplant from Minnesota.

* * *

And this is where I should say that maybe funds will help, and donating to Lost Rivers EMT would help, but cash doesn't bridge the gap caused by population decline.

Mr. Mozes, I hope you find warm bodies. I hope they have hearts of gold and are willing to drive into the blackest night to pull farmers out from tills, machinists out from under cars, staunch bloodflow from gunshot wounds and rescue all those hundreds of Ford-flipping 17 year olds named Cody. I would hate to see that town, who's already struggled to keep a hospital, lose a service they so desparately need. I can't imagine being hurt and in that black land and hours from help.

That would be very, very lonely.

SEND MORE $$$$$$$

the "gibby haynes and his problem" website is awesome. it looks like it was constructed on Tripod. Or Geocities. By a third grader. Maybe.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Art Chicago/Cat dragging things back in/southern identity

DG: born of the Commonwealth and now crazing 'round Illinoise.

...Fellow alum/ever present sense of humor in many a snoozy undergrad class/advice giver re: dudes who leave half-empty forties as a reminder of their existence on your car after you've EXPLICITLY-blatantly responded "not interested"/completely genuine and naive? even? and def. "keeps it real" persona of the Quad/maker of sculpture/donner of ponytails-stripey-pixie-sock couture Statements/south pride but not Southern Pride.... yeah, that kid. He is online/makes good.

Things are for sale, crazy things. Gallery shows are, apparently, to be seen. BTW. Also, DG apparently enterprising hisself on Ebay.

Also selling at following retailers:

Artifacts (Artwork, Interior Wares) – Charlottesville, VA
Bittersweet (Rescued Clothing) – Charlottesville, VA
Cog & Pearl (Artwork, Interior Wares) – Brooklyn, NY
Habit (Rescued Clothing) – Chicago, IL
Heavenly Metal (Artwork) – Ann Arbor, MI
Seagrass (Artwork, Interior Wares) – Winnetka, IL
Uncle Freddy’s (Rescued Clothing & Artwork) – Hammond, IN

Wonders, never ceasing. The original Valley harajuku, right here along with everyone else, partying on the Internets. Hi, Dolan.

king death mask

1. I need a Burger King mask, if someone can please help me find one for v. v. cheap. Thanks.

2. I usually make it an Unspoken Rule to not post pics of myself on this herrr blog, but I just found 22 polaroids in the bottom of my tote from New Years. They are hilarious because they are for our "death scene" artboards or whatever, pre-prod New Years zombie-car-crash-movie. There are many 'roids of us three girls, with eyeliner-X's over our eyelids and lipstick blood running down our chins. Even more exist on digital camera, still as of yet un-downloaded (I am lazy.) Anyways, our total death mask poses are hilarity to the extreme, and way more entertaining than anything I've been actually writing lately, and look nothing like us (unless "us" of course were ZOMBIES.) We'll see.

Later on that night I realized K. and LJG played an hour or more of drunk Spit, yelling and slapping cards, still wearing zombie/death makeup.

My New Years was pretty fun this year, I may have mentioned.

gods of progress

I went searching for any old Trenchmouth interviews/articles I could find, and stumbled onto the latest Onion AV club interview instead (Fred Armisen.)

You may not read anything more boring in the next few years of your life. Personal opinion, of course, Ms. Gillette. Maybe it was your subject. I wanted hardcore FA adoration, wacky questioning stylee, interesting talk-talk that did not center around Tony Danza. OAV did not deliver.

* * *

I had so many socialite possibilities ramped up for my weekend, invites to veritable strangers parties (Fri), Music and dancing (Sat), mexican food dates, a potential bar or two. Instead, LJG and I committed ourselves to Flava Flav and his love life. Grrrl, you know what time it is.

* * *

Weekend emails re: Red Hot Chili Peppers:

Dear Supertrump:
1. Reason seventy eleventy billion there is love in our little black hearts for T.L.G.Web: teenage cognizance re: RHCP. It was at that precise moment that a certain pyginablanket member's HS boyfriend walked down the staircase pre-prom, wearing a (visible) RHCP teeshirt under a frilly-ish white prom shirt that royal we knew (I KNEW) we prob weren't ever going to be together after, uh, after-prom party.
2. "Future Home of Stucco Monstrosity?" NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- - -

Can we joint post about thsi -- about how all teen age boys --LUVVED the pairing of Keidis' eroticism (ahem) with FLEAS TECHNICAL SLAPFUNKERY! Uhn! Titties on the cover and skate rock relevent of the 88-89 season. fugggh.

* * *

Conan hearts Tarja.

* * *

That's all. Oh well, except happy MLK Day.

No one is computering today. I'm so mopey. It's like the office is piping early Depeche Mode straight into my amygdala.

Friday, January 13, 2006

channy chan chan can

via stereogum, stream the new Cat Power album, Greatest.

your parallelogram mouth

- M. Ward's "I'll Be Yr Bird"

- I have been watching "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" every night this week. He said no... WITH HIS FOOT."

- I was on Braddock Road this morning and passed a Camero who's license plate was NO COKE. Who are you, guy? Can you explain further? The people demand.

- At one point in my life, I could serve a goddamn volleyball. I'm pretty sure of it. It is Proven Fact, even. Yes, I spent years playing only front line. But I can receive relatively well, so why I can't serve is a mysetery from the wild blue beyond, as if I pissed off the gods royally and came back into this life as a girl WHO CAN'T SERVE. Last night, second week in a row, total chokesville. I like the game of volleyball. I like competition. I like elaborate defensives structures and the short middle hit and topspin and playing with dudes who have reach for a far-tight outside set. I like all these things. They are nice things. These things, these dudes, however, do not like it when I spazz out on serving, which is, the just most LEAST COMPLICATED PART OF THE FUCKING SPORT MIGHT I ADD. End rant, this is boring. PS Tachikara's are on sale at City Sports for $15, rumor has it.

- 14th St. Gallery Roundup, updated recently-ish.

- Are comments reccommending trepanation appropriate for a business meeting? Even if they're under your breath? I don't think anyone heard moi, but yr girl is curious.

- Stills from Snakes on a Plane.

- In other superfantastic news, after spending $100+ to replace my screen on my IPod, my harddrive is now wrecking the unholy vengeance of the damned on all those who dare touch it's pristine white body. Hey, here's an idea: paperweight. Hateful POS.

- In other-other superfantastic news, I am drinking tonight/heavily to prevent the onset of strep. My throat doesn't hurt (yet) but I have it on good authority it's that time of year, others may be infected, and I am highly susceptible. (This is what happens when your hippie mom, instead of co-signing to get your tonsils removed at a decent age like a normal parent, instead just gets a part-time job at an ear/nose/throat specialist who doesn't believe in surgery, but does believe in the all-healing powers of grape Dimetapp.)

- The last funny thing to be written about Frey. We can all stop talking abou thim now. Yay!

Thursday, January 12, 2006

temple of the dog

(Will someone please adopt her already? She is Brown Dog's female twinsicle, and this breed, although constantly hungry for particleboard and plastic bags, is tres adorable. They will willingly snuggle on a couch, and burp in your face. BD and her look so much alike, with that saddy face and big ole lovely paws. Awwww. I've already named her Susie, in my mind. Also, I want my dog to have a girlfriend. Well, as much of a girlfriend as a balless creature can have. Playdates, people. BD shares kongs very nicely.

Look, it's either you get her, or I keep talking about buying a farm for all these damn things, and A) there are no farms in Alexandria City and B) potential divorce/committment to mental facility by spousal unit. He's already called me crazy three times today.)

* * *

Related: An edit, for KAS:

One can only hope Isaac/Jules/Gopher are there, too

Listen, all I wanted was a little insight into Doughty tour dates. Maybe. Not even to commit to anything. What I DID NOT want was for my head to implode.

sitemeter, eh?

Hello, Gananoque, Ontario, Canada! I'm glad to see you found us! Especially by googling "Pure evil with great tits and nice ass!" I am nothing if not the answer to your prayers.

It's really quite amazing, Gan. May I call you Gan? The last time I saw you, see, I was but a young girl of 10. Maybe 11. I spent several summers as a lanky child in 1000 Islands, NY; and sometime in the 80's, I partook of a quick boat ride to visit our neighbors to the north. I wore Jams, and did not have the "great tits and nice ass" you are searching for this morning. I was, however, well on my way to becoming pure evil. Actually, that's a lie. But it was the only summer in my life that I could play the game of soccer with anything even resembling skills. I don't know that soccer has anything to do with being evil.

Did you see the potential in me even then, Canada? Did you know that someday, years later, you would look me up, because I was bound to be everything you hoped for? And so much more? Well played, Gananoque. Well played.


(PS. Guess who has tix to NP and B&S? Oh, that's right.)


Time for our quarterly commuter rant.

Listen WMATA. You do right by me, I’d say, 60% of the time. And for that I appreciate you and your lack of dedicated outside funding. But when the bus comes 3 minutes early (leaving three riders standing jaw agape a block away) and the next one doesn’t come for 30 minutes and it’s packed with the heat stuck on Gobi and I have to sit between two sweaty Pentagon schlubs (who probably weren’t supposed to be talking about their involvement in the Able Danger program so openly) while that Information Leafblower gets to sit next to the cute blond (who just started wearing an engagement ring, too bad) and the Metro platform sign (convenient) says the next Blue line train won’t come for another 27 minutes (inconvenient) and will only have four jammed cars, well, then I get a little crazy and write the Post.

But the next day it’s back to normal so all is forgotten.

What is not forgotten, though, is my little insane grudge against the WMATA for not writing me back when I had a simple question about how their buses work.

I was not a bus rider when the natural gas buses hit the street back in 2002 so I may be a little late to the game on this one. And only recently have they been added to my route. But as a frequently-occasional bike commuter, anything that lessens the amount of bus exhaust black-lunging my trips to work is appreciated. And I like the seating arrangement in the CNG over the diesel. (More “accidental” eye contact with the until-recently single, cute blond.) And the fact they run quieter is something everyone loves. Who cares if they cost more to maintain. Less exhaust means less chunks of federal buildings 'roding and falling on me.

If you’ve ridden the CNG buses, you may notice that at times they occasionally admit a sound that is relatively difficult to describe. A whooo-whooo or hoooowooo, perhaps. But no exclamation points because it’s too sad sounding. As in “I’m tired of driving around Washington Circle again, wwooo-woooo, sigh.” It’s a noise similar to the one the controls of the Death Star made when Obi-wan was balanced over the chasm and powered down the tractor beam. Or what I imagine King Hippo would sound like if he was a real person and you punched him in the stomach in a manner that would cause his pants to fall off.

I wanted to know what this sound was. So I researched natural gas engines on the web, looked at the John Deere, Bluebird, WMATA, et al. web sites to no avail. Then I did what any crackpot would do, I sent an email to Metro. And they never wrote back. I even talked to a friend who just started to working for WMATA and he told me to bugger off, they had more important things to do.

Screw you Metro, you’re not the only game in town.

So’s I looked up who sold WMATA their crappy buses for jerks. Enter the awesome Cummins Westport and Westport Innovations Inc. I wrote the wonderful people there and they wrote me a nice letter back…

Thanks for your recent inquiry to Westport about the noise pattern you are hearing on the WMATA buses you ride frequently. I work with the fine people at WMATA and, thus, have been asked to respond.

Without sitting next to you on the bus and hearing the noise, it is difficult to pinpoint what it may be. There is a lot going on in the engine compartment and the noise you hear could come from a couple of sources. I'll take a stab a what sound you may be hearing.

The C Gas Plus Cummins Westport engine installed in the buses uses what is known as a "Waste Gated" turbocharger. With this design, the turbo-charger assists the engine in getting up to speed quickly to allow the bus to accelerate but, at times, releases some of the exhaust gases through the bus exhaust system to prevent the turbocharger from going into an overspeed condition. What you may be hearing is waste gate cycling which impacts on airflow through the engine turbocharger and, in turn, bus air intake system. It makes a distinct sound and this may be what you are hearing.

It could be how the hydraulically driven radiator cooling fan cycles on and off to respond to the engine cooling system needs. The buses use a hydraulic pump to drive a remotely mounted radiator fan. There is a hydraulically driven pump mounted off the end of the air compressor that supplies the hydraulic pressure to drive this cooling fan. When the electronically controlled pump pressure modulates the fan speed, you hear the rush of air through the cooling radiator. Depending on the outside temperature and air conditioning demands, the fan may or may not be running...

As you can imagine, there are a number of different systems on a modern bus all designed to make for a quite, enjoyable ride and allow the driver to concentrate on your safety. I may or may not have hit on the exact one with the above response that creates the noise you are hearing but I'll bet I've planted a few seeds for some additional listening on your part.

Best wishes for the New Year.

David C. Super-nice-guy

Yeah. So my guess is it’s the Waste Gated turbocharger. And even if it’s not, it’s still a kick ass thing to talk about next time the bus makes that noise and people look up curiously. You can say “oh, that’s just the waste gated something or other and it blows to the turbocharger.” And that cute blond will cast of her engagement ring go home with you, happily ever after.

And if you’re ever in the market for a large bus or people mover of any kind, I can not recommend Westport enough. What a great company, doing their part the save the environment and to appease idiots like me.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

More livebloggenn/spoilers

SO. Hi.

Liveblogging isn't so much errrr, "liveblogging," if it consists of two shitty entries. In my defense, I also spent precious commercial time trying to read Fark. In retrospect, perhaps I should have stuck to talking about the Alito hearings. Oh wait, I didn't even do that. Did I. I suck. (of note, I've gathered all I feel I need to know from herrr. So if you aren't into TV and are into.... other kinds of TV, you can read all about Ted Kennedy on that blog. Here, we stick to Damon et Co.)


(visions in the smoke as it passed over Eko's face:

- woman selling Virgin Mary statues
- church facade
- his brother dying
- the older man being shot
- the other bad dude staring out from the plane
- Vrgin Mary
- Christ on a cross
- Something else)

What did I miss?)

Now it's over, and SOMEONE is playing Madden. Get me a dancepad, quick.

PIAB Liveblog: Lost

So, K. and The N. and I are sitting here, drinking Chard and watching video clips of drunk people on New Years Eve. Oh, and watching "Lost." I just tried googling "BLACK SMOKEY SNAKEY WTF." Surpisingly, no real answers.

Also, the DC101 commercials make me murderous.

the 5 trubbles mambo

Hilarious and awesome things to look at before you leave work in 25 minutes:

1. Paul Sahre bookcovers.

2. Old: Various Mike Patton interviews.

3. There's an Epinions thread on... SOUTHPAW. Seriously. My personal favorite: "Also, if something is wrong, pour a little paw on it and everything will be okay." Well said, dude. Well said.

EDIT: How could I neglect to post this?

"This is how I felt when I found out Vanilla Ice was really Robert Von Winkle and that Miami wasn't really his town that created all the bass sound"



i meant that joke to be funny and lighthearted like that movie, you know, Spaceballs, but it came out cold and heartless, you know, like that movie Police Academy

((I totally forgot. DC NOSHERS: last night; Corduroy. For restaurant week, it was probably a pretty good deal. My mozarella thing was really tasty, but I love cheese. Unconfirmed that some people might be freaked out because it appears to have ratty hair on top, but welcome to CUISINE, uninitiated. [I only say this because of my aunt's aversion to Shredded Wheat.] The wine was decent. I had the scallops for entree. They were cooked perfectly. The sauce was a delicate creation of salt and sodium, garnished with brine. I et most of it up, but along with natural sea creatures saltiness + sauce, I drank more water then humanly possible and spent all last night a watery bloat. The creme brulee was nothing mind-blowing, but I am a great consumer/connoisseur of CB, so I am the picky. The service was great, friendly, and the wait for food was pretty minimal. It looked like they had definitely beefed up their staff for this week; there was only one empty table while we were there and at times it seemed like a fish tank - 2 swirling dervish staff to every patron. The company I kept was sensational. So, all in all, a B+++ or A- maybe? It was def. something to try, since I think for three of us, even with a forty dollar bottle of wine, split the check evenly and it was 60ish bucks or less with tip.))

Okay, go about your day. Find me some slutty Vegas clothes. Etc.

riding in cars/boys

D says:
you would have loved this - i went to go see king kong, and before the movie they played the national anthem and we all had to stand at attention and it was called: National Anthem - A History, and they showed all this video and briefly showed WWI and WWII then they devoted 8/9 of the song to George Bush I and Desert Story and George W and 9/11 and Iraq

D says:

D says:
amazing trash

The G says:
i thought you wrote amazing FRESH

The G says:
so fresh, it's amazing.

The G says:
Also, I so wish it had really been called "Desert Story." Like "A Wedding Story" and all that. Now that's amazing trash.

D says:
i have no idea what you're talking about

* * *

Other stuff for you'ns:

- The Lilys play Black Cat 2/3 (listen to With Candy)
- Ted Leo writes showtunes.
- Stylus review of Apollo Sunshine, which I still don't think anyone in my house has purchased.
- I think I'm going to Vegas in Aprilish, so I probably need some slutty clothes that I can wear with great disregard and abandon in VIP rooms while cavorting with naked young models. Do women still wear glittery napkins as tops? Can a 74 year old ladee get away with that? The last time I was in Vegas and there were half-naked young models, I found myself at Tabu watching half-priced models strut their stuff for Playboys' new fashion line (?) and I was wearing Pumas. There had to be a rule broken there, somewhere. Help a girl out.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Taps/ride the nostalgia wave

Snapshot! The G. @ 13: V. tall, v.skinny, v. short haired, v. blonde, v. committed to wearing a long tweed coat with sleeves, raglan. V. Watts. Also, ginormous tortoiseshell glasses. Okay, maybe more Stef.

Royal we spent 3 (long) years not only being a foot taller than any other creature my age, but also dragging this to school. It involved a walk down a highway (other school buses; construction workers) to a bus stop, and then a bus ride, where I could only sit up front because of my behemoth case size. I talked mostly with a late-to-come-out kid named Craig and the bus driver, Irma, who wore giant plastic earrings and smoked out the vent window.

I was driving to a meeting today (after, wait for it: conducting a pre-interview on the phone while navigating the Wilson bridge. PROFESH) and realized I can still use these lips for good, and not evil. I still got my buzz on. Does anyone have a trumpet they aren't using? I would like to re-learn an instrument. I am thinking trumpet, since many moons ago I conquered the shit out of some Glenn Miller on it's larger and supposedly more difficult cousin. Please email if you have trumpet I can borrow.

Pennsylvania 6-5000, peace.

stellatrix/demanding satisfaction

Re: Cigar smoking lesbian poets:

I don't think I know anyone who wouldn't find Amy Lowell a total charmer.

* * *

Synonyms- apprehend, comprehend, construe, decipher, dip into, discover, explain, expound, express, flip through, gather, glance, go over, go through, interpret, know, leaf through, learn, make out, paraphrase, perceive, peruse, pore over, put, refer to, render, restate, scan, see, skim, study, translate, understand, unravel, view:

- I don't use a pen," Waldo snaps. "I write with a goose quill dipped in venom:" Fake movie products.

- Jamie Oliver reveals he is BORING and TOTALLY NEEDS TO LOOSEN UP, man.

- NPR: you hear it here... first. PS, journalists: NelSEN. -SEN. -SEN. Not everyone Americanized their names at E. Island, okay.

- Seriously, I have nothing to blog about, since I went to bed at 9:30 last night. All I have done in the last few days is watch TV. So, starting tonight, I refuse to watch any more television, as it is ruining my life. I also refuse to wear swishy athletic pants that are a size men's large, so I have to tie them up around my upper ribcage just to have them stay on my body. I am wearing silk today bitches, and my hair is not in a scruffyass ponytail. I am young and fabulous, and TYPEY TYPEY TYPEY TYPEY TYPEY boring PARTY I will be leaving my little mouse house on Friday AND Saturday nights boring resolutions boring stupid PARTY PARTY. Life, getting one. 06.

- SF/J:"I cannot remember the rapper's name but there is a terrible English rapper who is right now rapping terrible rhymes over The Cure's "Close To Me." I think it is called "Assess Your Life" and it is reassuring, this song, because it takes us all back to the time when neither white people nor British people could rhyme, when the subway was a penny, and a nickel could get you a roast pig and a close shave."

- Can you turn a cell phone into a laser pointer through Real Life Technology, and not just by, I don't know, duct taping a laser pointer to the back of your cell phone? Especially if your cell phone has the gayest little black leatherette bra-thing on it? Duct tape leaves gummy markes on my cell-bra.

- This gum, while initially delicious and full of citric acid crystals which I enjoy, tastes like paste after 2 minutes and 37 seconds. I timed it.

* * *

Office space:

This is a three-hole punch.

Every office in the world has one.

Exception: your United States Government.

Who's employees apparently. Go to Kinkos. To pay. To have something. Three-hole punched.

Monday, January 09, 2006

PSA: king o bling

It would take a long time and a couple of drinks to fully explain why I was searching for Liberace clothing, but I was. And then this popped up on my browser. Do with as you see fit. (the online store also has furnishings [!!!!])

And then she asks me/Do I look all right

1. Last.fm seems relatively spectacular. But I am semi-ignant when it comes to such crazy future things like "internet" and "music." For rills. So, opinions? Has anyone been using l.fm for a while? Reports? Challenges? There used to be that other site... shit, what's it called. The blue and orange website? That was the same theory as this? Personal music profiles? It was a few years ago? I can't remember. Anyways, I want to hear about L.Fm happiness, people.

2. Sundays are sad and make me want to cry, because they mean (MEAN!!! grrr) the weekend is over. Sunday nights are poop. This resulting bluesbrain might be because I didn't leave my house on Saturday, and spent Sunday at a MALL, which makes me insane because those of you who know me know my big frights in life, in this order:

1. being buried alive underground like in The Vanishing, or that one CSI episode
2. claymation
3. shopping malls

Anyways, all those things make me sad and scared and anti-social, and then lead to me watching "Miami Ink" marathons and feeling sorry for myself. Tonight, however, I go to the gym. Tomorrow, I go out to dinner with nice people at a place that has linen napkins. Thursday, my volleyball team (who made the PLAYOFFS, natch) is going to kick some white ass.

3. Is there anything more excellent than prom photos? Esp. those from the early '90s? A mental snapshot for you: I once had a promenadetastic mental mindfuck involving hot pink Dyeables from Kinney's complete with rhinestone clip-ons. SHOE JEWELRY, people.


I will leave it at that.

oh it's a blue savannah song

For all those still following/giving half a shit, a JT Leroy update.

and in other news (from ILB.)

Saturday, January 07, 2006

sleep tight internets.

1. Run on sentence: So, talking makes you yawn and maybe yearn for the past when all you had to worry about it yr in offsprings life was Homecoming dress funds, so instead my ma popped open a bottle of Reisling and she and my dad and I watched Hands on a Hard Body, a movie my brother's girlfriend has my entire clan addicted to.

2. Want.

* * *

Remember when I used to write long, dramatic entries about housing prices and concerts? Yeah, I'll get back to my roots eventually, I promise. There are several ideas floating round in the air here at PIAB headquarters, like so many dandelion puffs. It's really just a matter of trapping them in my tiny fists.

Friday, January 06, 2006

Don't take this the wrong way Millie, but if I catch you in here again I'll ban you from the ballpark.

Well would you look at that.

And here I've been bidding on DVDs and belt buckles.

* * *

I am going to dinner at my parents house tonight. There will be much talk of Life Direction. I have yet to tell them not to fear, that I'm pretty much going to dedicate the rest of my working years to batting cages. The Batting Cage Industry is an industry I can really feel passionate about. So if you work for a batting cage manufacturer in the greater DC/Va Metro area, and are hiring people, please let me know. Much obliged.


The Black Table is shutting it's doors. URL. whatever.

I am SAD.

Regarding THS...

(...or as The Newbie calls them out: TSWGB (Talky Shouty White Guy Band) - watch the "Swish" video yet?

(Completely unrelated: "Transamerica" is freaking everywhere tonight. Letterman and E! and all sorts of other media plug-ins to my weak little brain. Woman plays man plays woman. Head hurty. Confused. D. Housewife say what? I'm tired, and need to go to bed. Goodnight, Felicity, if that IS YOUR REAL NAME.)

Thursday, January 05, 2006

"Anyway, a real great movie. I wish Citizen Kane had been this good. I'm not joking."

Hi blog. How are you today? There is nothing on TV, and I am sad.


1. Oh, snaps, no you di-int Christopher Buckley. "Pigmalion?" Pliss.

2. Please to explain to me what kind of person decides to schedule a volleyball game at 10 PM? I am ancient, hoary, wrinkled and haggard; I do not play silly games involving big white underinflated balls and saggy nets at 10 PM. (Yeah, you heard me. Balls, saggy, 10 PM.)

3. Mean, briefly: go to stephaniekleindotcom. CHECK IT OUT, yo. Go ahead, I challenge you to find more a more saddy-sad-funny photo on the Interwebs this evening. She is oozing orangina, peeps. Is there a Superfical.com site, except instead of teen celebs it's about bloggers? Um, can we make one? Cause right now I've only got four terrible blogs going, and that just isn't enough, you know?
< /mean. >

4. Misc: The spousal unit is out of town, Fluxblog's got "Archers of Loaf" up, my dog's going kind of apeshit at the beeps, and it kind of feels like my freshman year in college again.

5. Remember not that long ago where I had that weird Bento obsession? Yeah.

6. Does anyone have any details/insight into ""Dance Dance Revolution" for Gamecube? We scored a free Gamecube recently. I know, it's bound to be tragic. You think I talk about my dog a lot? WAit til I get my hands on some sort of outdated gaming system. It. Is. On. Anyways, I need this game, that much is obvious. I am planning on becoming BFF with my 11-year-old next door neighbor, and then systematically annhilating her pre-teen dance move confidence.

7. Best movie review ever.

Okay, now I need to go find sneakers because my usual ones are missing. I cannot play in Converse. OR CAN I.

* * *



VM from the Nabob:

Why has no one pointed out that the two protagonists in this whole tragic tale are Hatfield and McCloy? Do you think it's just in bad taste?

(I might mention he's not using his "isn't this hilarious" voice. He's using his "oh. god." voice.)

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

And nobody flinched down by the arcade

Like, 15 minutes ago? I drove K. back to her abode after eating some sandwich/beering/talking New Years stories. Right as I was dropping her off, she related how back home over the holidays, she started asking all of her hometown old school friends if they remembered the little Midget village in Milford, you know, with all the tiny houses they used to go and spy on as teenagers and then the little people would get mad and throw things at their cars? Remember those good times?

And she was confused because she got blank stares, like her HS peeps and possibly her sisters thought "Themselves, her head should start spinning in three... two...one..."

Okay, this is awesome. We have officially turned her into a NoVa-ite if she starts adopting TEENAGE MEMORIES OF FAIRFAX YOUNGINS AS HER NEW ENGLAND OWN. Dude, Midgetville* is totes Vienna. Please. Do not even front all Connecticut style on me.

Anyways, she is exceptionally cute and apologetic for trying to steal Midgetville** mems from the kids of the Commonwealth. Project Date My Best Friend*** is so on. Who's ready to fall in love go out for drinks with a Yank?

* (More on this.)

** (I know. There's no vertically-challenged people who live here. Or rat-faced men, or ladies with tails, or whatever. Just tiny houses. Be nice and stay away, you rascally hooligans.)

*** (she is going to kick my ass.)

That's the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

PC, you nasty bitch! (Extra-fun fact: the word "correct" is used 10 times in this story.)

[Brown] also claimed "political correctness" had "allowed the creation of alienated Muslim ghettoes which produce young men who commit mass murder against their fellow citizens" and public debate on how to provide better health care had been suppressed because "the NHS is one of the few organisations that actually runs on the principle of political correctness..." Political correctness is literally killing people.

Man, if I had a dime for every time I accidentally stated something "factually correct" but "politically incorrect."

Anyways. "There's no publicity, so there's no people; Gutter never showed up, so there's no beer; instruments just blew out, so there's no band; and I think Raji and Deege may be dead."

in a cabin on a hill/in Butcher Holler

I had weird dreams all night about black lung. I don't really feel like talking about it. So here:

- The Torch Marauder talks Metal. "I’m a proud member of the Iron Gang and I’ll continue to 'turn up at maximum volume level for true Metal feel' TO THE DEATH."

- The most fun voyeuring since what's-her-name made out with Andy what's-HIS-name in the corner of Dave's basement in 9th grade. ON THE POOL TABLE. (via JH)

- For K. (via sweetney)

- I am almost through ATHF Seasons III & IV. I'm considering this next.

- Pitchfork's Les Angles Morts review

- Potential solutions to recent trashcan issues? Besides electro-frying? Also, this guy's dedication to hair product is... intense.

In other news, I have reservations at Corduroy next Tuesday. Fancy.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

trashcan sinatra

So say someone needed to make a dog afraid of the giant kitchen trashcan, so said dog wouldn't knock it down the basement stairs in order to roll around in trash/glorious trash all morning. How would one go about doing such a thing?

1. Do you think putting a Frankenstein monster mask on the trashcan would work?
2. Does anyone have a Frankenstein monster mask they can lend me?

In related numbered list/Dog news, the dog is not afraid of these things:

1. Alarm that goes off when he jumps on the couch when we aren't home.
2. Me yelling.