Monday, July 31, 2006

boy, you better try to have fun no matter what you do.

My left arm is tingling now, along with the neck and shoulder thing. Like, bzz bzz bzz. Which can mean only one thing:

I am, potentially, having a heart attack right this minute on the internet. DAMN YOU GLORIOUS DISGUSTING CHEESE-COVERED FRIES FROM STETSONS CONSUMED AT MIDNIGHT!!!!!!!!11

* * *

In other news, it's been a few months. I just wanted to remind you how good Stereophonic's "Dakota" is. In case yr the forgetful type.

Also somewhere out there in Internetland: their cover of "Nothing Compares 2 U." I can't find it right now, because my arm's about to fall off. Apologies.

It was so hot…

That when I pointed out the ratty bumper sticker on a rattier Oldsmobile Cutlass that read “Guns don’t kill people, abortion clinics kill people,” she didn’t say anything! It was too hot! She didn’t even have the energy to let a sigh. Now that’s hot!

"I like pirates and Jesus kitsch"

Update to this:

Ladies, if you are single, and looking for a good man, I think I have your Prince Charming. I was exposed to him in Internet.

Spend money to make monies

I’m officially offering my services as a grown up to anyone wanting to violate the curfew tonight. It’s not cheap, though. $50/ hour between 10pm and 12am, during which you can complain that you didn’t know the new rules because the police department’s website doesn’t work and you don’t watch the news. $100/hour after midnight because it’s tough to argue your way around the normal summer curfew.

I also expect a 50% cut of any gains, be they legitimate or ill-gotten. And I’ll require 2 20 ounce bottles of ice water and hour, plus one diet Doctor Pepper every other. And no running.

I think you’ll find my conditions quite reasonable.

Sunday, July 30, 2006


I was going to limp down Weekend Roundup Ave, but in all honesty the past few days can be summed up in a single stream-of-conciousness word-grouping: sweat drove beer drink drive sweat stomach ulcer neck hurt hot car hot dog lazy sweat beer. *

And then last night I sat around w. K and LJG making throat-slitting gestures at each other, and wondering why people don't do that anymore when making either real or fake death threats? Because it's damn hilarious.

In other not very exciting news, my boss is back in town after a week-long camping trip, which means I can no longer spend the bulk of my days on the Apple movie trailers site.

* * *

Hear my proclamation! I have a pinched nerve in my shoulder/neck/upperback area. Believe it. At this point, all other guesses at self-diagnoses over the past 3 or 4 years have failed, and chiropractors are total fucking schmucks (sorry, but you know it's true) and my general practice person can't really be bothered with me, so I'm pretty much at a loss at this point. Pinched nerve! Done and done. It now has a label until someone tells me something better/different/more dramatic. What a girl to do.

* * *

1. clip art movie (from kottke)

2. The Ling: "...where she does off the heez research for Maureen Dowd."

3. The Year of Magical Totally Immature n Delusional Thinking.

4. On being torn apart:
"Fans of Curtis and Joy Division should rest assured that if there is one person on this planet who should even come close to creating such a portrait on the late singer – it is Corbijn who perhaps can frame the story best and over the years has been up close to the singer and band personas.

Corbijn was a fan of Joy Division from the beginning – he smoked Galouis and started internet chat rooms where the background was black and the font was courier, and he stopped cutting his hair and wore German-made death/metal motorcycle boots with trench coats, but not in a COLUMBINE way, just more in a EUROPEAN way, and he kept a journal moved from Holland just to photograph the band – and from there he developed a friendship that lead him to direct what was to be the posthumous video Atmosphere."

* eh, one more detail: we did attend a saturday soiree that involved a nacho cheese fountain (yes) and me almost getting in a fight. that was kind of great, too.

Friday, July 28, 2006

K-k-k-keyboard! Part 3 - Murder Most Foul

The swap out when as well as expected. There was cursing, whch is always good.


There’s not much of a follow up to this tale except to note that the prankee in this endeavor has the blackest thumb I have ever seen. And that includes the G who gives up on any plant as soon as the first flower petal falls off. (See our front stoop.)

Despite the advice of “water often” the Chia shriveled up like faster than one of those time lapsed biology films in reverse as soon as the keyboard came into his possession. Poor things. All the needed has water and all they got was Spears-like neglect.

I have enough seeds for another 5 doses so if you can think of something good to Chia let me know. I’m trying to figure out how I can grow them in a phone’s handset so when I call this guy Chia goes in his ear. But that’s for another time.

"This is a post-only mailing. Replies to this message are not monitored or answered."

Hi LiveNation,

The hell? I do not remember ever using you for, say, anything. So please to be explaining to me why I am on your goddamn mailing list, with an email address I NEVER use for ticket purchasing/list sign-up/internet transcations of any kind/etc.

I cannot fully convey how much I could care less about the following: WPGC Summer Jams Series, Eric Clapton, Kathy Griffin, Barbra Streis, or 311.

Okay thanks bye.

* * *

PS Unrelated: WOEF! Maybe our dog is Dutch!

there's a Filter song here somewhere

I've been dealing with my chronically fucked-up neck for the past few days, and the neck/back thing usually leads to insomnia, which means I've been cranky AND walking around like a Data/Ed Grimley hybrid. I know, I know. Don't get too turned on, internet.

Anyways, I've been scanning in some relatively ancient photos, since I've been up til 1 AM and all. My methods for scanning are this: stick hand in giant basket of unorganized/undated photos, pull out fistful, and scan whatever appears in my ravaged clutches. I'd say in a good 75% of photos I've found, I've been wasted. Yay '90s!

* * *

D: Today's beauty tip: Don't take a Tylenol PM and then polish your toenails. Trust me.
Me: Do we not recall the drunken hair bleaching of '97? Or maybe it was '98? Whatever. I feel yr pain.

Let's not discuss my photoshopping a truly awesome smiley dinosaur head onto my face. Let us all focus on something else entirely: HINT- I'm wearing some sort of dog collar/choker. Okay, and the fact that my noggin makes Tara Reid's colorist look like a Mensa leader. Are you dying inside along with me? Are you wondering where my true friends were, friends that should have staged some sort of alcohol/hair product intervention? Me too. Bitches.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

K-k-k-keyboard! Part 2 - The Sprouting

Okay. So it’s a go.

I actually had a Chia Pet when I was a young’en but like any elementary school science project it was completely done by my parents. And even though I could spend hours trying to make my neck move like the Walk Like An Egyptian video I couldn’t even handle the simple task of pouring a few ounces of water into its back hole to maintain the proper terra cotta moisture levels. My little pretties died almost immediately. I didn’t want the same fate to befall this prank.

I studied the instructions carefully and was instantly put off by the required 24 hours soaking process the seeds need to take before they can be applied. Damnit. I want chia now! And the ratio of seeds to water seemed a little extreme. How could these things properly achieve the proper “thick gel-like paste which will help seeds adhere to your Chia Pet/keyboard” with that much H20? Hopefully the 19th century Mexican scientists who I assume developed the Chia technology knew what they were talking about.

Precious gel.

Indeed, the seeds gooey-ed up to an appropriate viscosity. My next question was how get them all up in the keyboard as space between each letter looked pretty tight. I wasn’t sure if the seeds could slide down or if they could then get enough light to sprout up. I figured I had three options.
  • Force the gel in between with a letter opener
  • Pour the gel directly on the keys and let nature take its course
  • Remove the QWERTY row and let things ooze down
I figured if I wanted this to work that I better try all three and let God decide which option held the evolutionary advantage. So with my trust letter opener and Toten Chip badge I went to work.

Goo. Goo. Goo.

The instructions also suggested using a “greenhouse environment” to urge the seeds to cast of their gooey shells. Having no such thing I just removed the clear bag from the trashcan (after peeling of my lollipop sticks), gave it a good watering and wrapped the thing up.

Go Sun, Go!

Day One: nothing. Come on sun!

But Day Two!

That fuzzy white thing? That’s some sort of Chia thing.

Alas, it was time to go out of town. Will my babies survive the weekend without me? I was not dedicated enough to bring them on a road trip so I have to trust in a Mother Nature. A New Mother Nature. It’s a new splendid lady come to call. No sugar tonight in my coffee! Da Do Da Da Do Do Do Da!

Day Five: Success!

We have green and green means life. The seeds are growing in every venue offered to them, even up between the littlest cracks. The only problem is that the constant watering is making a terrible mess and the greenhouse effect smells a little bit off. The instruction specifically say “You can not overwater your Chia Pet” but make no warnings about overwatering your black Dell keyboard. But if some earthy stank is the least of my problems, then stink on you little Chia’s. Stink, yourselves on.

Day 7: This is a glorious thing. Behold the all images here.

In my previous experience with The Pet (24 years ago) I remember it dying rather quickly. I can’t find much about lifespan in the Chia literature and I fear that I am playing a delicate game only a week in. Sure it looks as illustrious as Selsun Blue commercial but how long will the tingling last? It’s time to get this prank on and swap keyboards.

Tomorrow: The tragic aftermath!

Schedule Conflict

As this site quickly evolves into all things Scruffy Bolton…

According to his testimony before Congress today Ambassador Scruffy claims that when the US, Japan, South Korea, Canada, Australia and New Zealand gather to discuss shared interests they operate under the acronym of JUSSKCANZ, pronounced Juice Cans.

As far as I’m concerned the UN, G8, African Union, WTO, ASEAN, CARICOM, NATO and the Artic Council can go stick it. From now on I want on all my high level international negotiations handled by Juice Cans. North Korean nukes? Juice Cans. Hans Island? Juice Cans. Michael Fay? Juice Cans.

And speaking of Bolton and Cans…

I believe the G is writing a long post on her new favorite video, Girls Gone Wild: Ultimate Rush in which the lovely ladies of low self esteem do crazy things to the extreme. These include, but are not limited to, sky-diving and floating around in zero gravity on the plane they used to make Opie vomit in Apollo 13. But Scruffy Bolton had this idea first.

Scruffy's gonna die the way he lived.

"elvis presley is style king number one!"

Hi, do you want something new to be totally obsessed with?

Try this.

"I'm wearing two former scout shirts – I've got a blue period now. I also like collars. I'm dreaming of a trip to South America."

"My style icons are George Harrison and Burt Reynolds and Hanoi Rocks."

LJG: it might be the translation, but I feel like I'm reading William Carlos Williams. But about H&M.
Me: I know, it's magical. Let's move there.

Anyways, you're welcome!

secret # 455506789-b

Every time I hear an Elliott Smith song, I'm disappointed.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006


A few days ago I heard about these two sisters that had been mailing an uncooked hotdog back and forth for a few years. Big deal. My friend and I have been prankish-ly passing a beef-flavored, Xmas-themed beef stick around and it’s way bigger than some little wiener. But since the ladies had been doing this for 49 years longer then we had before one of them died I figured I needed to step things up.

Unfortunately, the beef stick is not in my possession. Its last delivery was in a giant block of ice that appeared on my friend’s doorstep one cold February morning. It didn’t thaw completely until May. And even though it was hermitically sealed it still stank to high heaven and was shriveled. Ever since, I’ve been waiting for it reappear into my life. Rumor has it he attempted to rig a 5k and a raffle so I would win it as a prize but he was unsuccessful in swaying the judges toward his nefarious schemes.

But that was many months ago and I fear that he may have forgotten about the Stick. I feel I needed to kick start this again, but I needed something new in the prank war.

Presenting the PIAB Chia Keyboard Project

(Now, before I go on any further, I must preface this post by saying that what follows is not an original Pygmalion idea, say, like the Wedding Cake Viking Funeral. It’s been in my head for a few months after seeing it somewhere, maybe BoingBoing. This is just my attempt.)

The first step in my little scheme was securing a black Dell computer keyboard soon destined for the garbage. Fortunately, I have a high school friend in an unnamed IT department who is good at not asking too many questions. He just quietly pointed to a back closet and when I tried to explain myself he just shook his head and pointed to the other door: Exit.

With my keyboard in hand I honestly thought all the hard work was done. But, my friends, you have not tried to but Chia Pet seeds in the non-holiday/movie tie-in season. There were nowhere to be found in the major DC area. My first stop was Target but all I got were blank stares and silent, uncomprehending mouthings of the word “Chia” by employees who, let’s say, won’t be voting for Tom Tancredo. When I was finally directed to someone who understood what I was after, I got the store wide system call of “Do we still carry gee-yahs?” and the response “Naw, not no more.” (The triple negative, I believe, made it accurate.)

Most drug store chains in the area said the used to carry them but not since Christmas. I found one at a Lowe’s but the “pet” clearly sounded broken inside the box and I wasn’t going to pay $16 for just the seeds. (Even if it was in the shape of the zebra from some movie)

I was getting nowhere so I went to the one place that has everything: the interwebnet tubes. Unfortunately, the Chia Pet website is a piece of garbage. As of this writing the site is not actually functional and even when it worked it wasn’t able to show me where I could buy one. But through more research I learned a great deal about Chia history, salvia hispanica, omega-3 levels and the fact I could probably just buy these damn things at health food store. Finally, through a random google search I found a dead link with a phone number of Chia’s parent company Joseph Enterprises.

I called JoeEnt and while the nice woman on the other end seemed confused at my request she told me that it would be no problem shipping me only the seeds sans pet. Only $5 for a pack of 3, or enough for 6 keyboards. I was a little worried because it sounded as if she actually wrote down my credit card number on a scrap of paper and poured the seeds from a giant crate into the envelope herself.

However, a week later I got a fat, rustling envelope in the mail that the dog tried to eat.

Tomorrow: Chia keyboard is go!

if i hear "misunderstood" one more time today, someone's gonna get cut

I like Jeff Tweedy well enough, I guess, but I did not really see the need to add the "Live at Vic Theatre/2005" show to my IPod, because that would then mean I have 750 Jeff Tweedy songs, 204 Uncle Tupelo songs, and approximeately 8 million Wilco ballads on this dumb thing.

Oh, wait. The N. decided to add that album anyways. Thanks, dude!

Song Shuffle, NO MORE TWEEDY. I am DONE, you hear me?????

Eh, here:

loudQUIETloud Trailer

it's what we like to call "breaking news"

me: so, that happened.
S.: well I'm just glad it wasn't a new kid that came out. because that would have crushed my inner 11 year old.
me: hee
S: but since i've never made a sign that said "I love you Lance", I'm in the clear. I cannot say the same for NKOTB's John. I think that was his name. Not walburgh, not monkey, not little one, not jordan?
me: right. I think there was a little sing-song thing to remember them all-
"johnny jackie joe john jordache."
S: wait... donny.
me: donny wasn't monkey?
S: donny = walburg
me: Oh, yeah, no. donny was a marky mark sibling. right.
me: DANNY MONKEY. Danny. Wait, seriously. Why do I know this again?

* * *

My brother has an obsession with Nancy Grace that borders on extremely unhealthy. At first I was pretty sure that it was ironic, but the girlfriend reports he's really, really excited every time her big old freaky hairdo comes onto TV. Also, he asked for her book for Christmas. Anyways, awesome. I love teenagers.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Head Rocked

I wouldn’t say we “tricked” my cousin and her kids into going to Fort Reno last night. But I don’t now what else to call it.

The little ones enjoyed themselves. They saw a lady with red hair, a boy with a mohawk and met a guy with dreadlocks. And later when we were drawing pictures of what the monsters in Monster Inc. were afraid of he drew a little boy with a mohawk. Also, a beak. I was so proud.

It was also baby’s first show with a “message.” And don’t tell dad but there may have been some hip-hop. And indictments against how he makes his living and the things he stands for and our expensive coloring book habits. But he wasn’t around, so we put our hands in the air and waved them like we just didn’t care we had swim lessons in the morning.

Yeah, she’s three.

tresspasser 2.0

1. So remember a few months back where I was like "hey Internet, watch this!" and then I cut all my hair off? Okay, at least you remember me talking about it? Well, now I'm firmly in the "fuck - now what?" stage. Besides getting drunk and cutting bangs when I was 18 at 2:00 AM in my dorm room (on the second day of college, yes, I am rad, thanks for asking), this ranks right up there with Worst Hair Ever. I'll call it Worst Hair #3, because also when I was in fifth grade my mom cut my bangs short like emo girls in 2001 had crazy short bangs coupled with chin length bobs (dyed, red natch), but I was not emo because I was 10 and instead sporting a lot of oversized Op teeshirts and dangly earrings. Anyways, my latest styling choice is awesome, I have dubbed it "The Homecoming." *

The Homecoming is super easy, should you choose to be like me. It involves a buck's worth of bobby pins (that's a lot of pins, by the way) and total apathy.

Here are instructions:

1. Take a shower
2. Towel dry
3. Twist hair into a crazy mess, anchor haphazardly with aforementioned bobby pins.
4. Leave house, receive many stares from curious neighbors as to why you're going to Formal on a Tuesday morning, instead of, say, your job.

Approx time to execute such a head-turner: 13 seconds.

Look at that, you've just created your own Homecoming hairdo. Congrats, grasshopper. **

Hi again: Do you like Trebuchet, gradients, beveled edges, brushed-metal filters, drop shadows/reflections, etc? Yr gonna love design nerd humor re: Web 2.0, then. My favorites are "Wu Tang Clan Beta" and Pfizr. The Paris Hiltonizing of corporate logos.

* ("The Prom" is similar, but involves a buck FIFTY worth of bobby pins and also hairspray, which I don't own.)

** (Well done indeed, now you look like a 17 year old asshole, too. Way to be!)

Monday, July 24, 2006

i'm ironic cause i love steve perry

Itunes currently has Death Cab for Cuties member's playlists up for enjoyment and/or ridicule. Out of the 4 dudes explaining their musical selections, Nick Harmer is the only one to make a perfectly awesome statement:
Peek-A-Boo: "I have been saying this for years: Why hasn't this song been remade yet? If Beyonce got ahold of this, it would be a worldwide smash. But no matter who gets it, Siouxsie got it first and got it right."

* * *

Re: Statehood last night at Fort Reno: Eric Axelson is still one of my favorite people to watch onstage, ever.

the bourbon hour

the recently posted sarah brown podcast? kind of like sitting with K. and LJG and I last night at a bar doing crossword puzzles, but funnier, and with more dudes (1) talking.

Okay, much funnier. We didn't talk about Jefferson being a douche at all.

Okkervil River tour dates for fall:

10/16/06 Baltimore, MD
the Ottobar
w/ Elvis Perkins

the smokey turtle and cyclops girl

(Eyeball Skelton tonight at F.R.)

crazy/teh velvet internets

I'm kind of excited because I think we're getting crazy people for neighbors? Yay?

The house across the street was for sale for months, over-priced even though it was beautiful. When the real estate agents would hold open houses, I'd go over there to ogle the kitchen, which had built in wine coolers or whatever. A kitchen lovingly, painstakingly, beautifully put together by Well-Groomed Guy Neighbor Who Never Talked to Us, His Boyfriend, and those viscious hos at Ikea.

Anyways, his asking price was asanine, so he never sold it. It's been for rent for months, and thus far, no one's been biting. The blinds have been drawn, and I haven't seen anyone coming or going in weeks and weeks.

Saturday the dog and I were laying in the front yard area, slappin' mosquitos and waiting for the 6th-grade-ish summer boredom to pass/my parents to come over and buy me food, because I need adults to take care of me (seriously), when a purple sedan pulled up. The sedan had DC plates, a normal looking middle-aged dude was driving and in the passenger seat was a blonde woman in black formal overalls.

The woman gets out of the car and starts walking to the house. I am not paying much attention at this point because A) mosquitos!, and B) I was trying to gather up enough strength to get up and go inside/not be sprawled across my front porch like a drunken hobo? Just in case this woman, who I assumed to be a realtor or something, was going to show this rental to some nice young couple with shiny hair and I wanted them to think the neighborhood was higher class than an unwashed blonde chick passed out in her front yard?

So the dude is still in the car, and Overalls lady walks up to the front door of the house and starts fumbling with some papers and keys, and although at this point I'm trying to stop BD from treating a passing squirrel like a chew toy, out of the corner of my eye I see her insert the keys in the door. But she's having trouble: the door seems stuck.

And so she starts banging on the door. And then kicking it. And then slapping it with both hands. And then, she drops her pile of papers, and starts WAILING. Sobbing. Crying harder than I've ever seen a grown person a person in formal overalls cry. The dude in the car just sits there.

The dog has completely forgotten the squirrels and is staring across the street. I'm kind of pissed because any other nice Saturday afternoon like this, and the sidewalks would be swarmed wih my neighbors and their purse dogs and there would be some sort of evidence that I was actually witnessing a stranger's full-fledged mental breakdown, but at this moment, NO ONE IS AROUND. It's just me, the dog, and Crazy Screaming Overall Lady. I actually looked at BD and asked him "what the fuck?" out loud and I'm so serious, he looked back and was like "Dude, I KNOW."

Because I am totally inept at these sorts of things and mostly uncomfortable with strangers' overt display of emotions, I totally freeze. I suppose I could have yelled across the street to ask if she needed help, but by the time I though of it, dude driving the car had gotten out and was walking up to the house totes casually, as if he sees this kind of freak out all the time? And Overall lady finally gets the door open, pushing on it until she falls in a heap into the open doorway? And then BD and I went inside our house, and I peered through the blinds like a crazy lady myself? And if this lady moves in across the street, we might have to have crazy-offs? So many questions, internet.

In other housing association newsletter news, my favorite ridiculously nice neighbors J & C are moving to Japan and that is v. sad. And they're moving in like, 2 weeks. The hell.

Here, waste some more time:

- via our dogwalker's blog: Cats That Look Like Hitler.

- via Critical, darling ("L0u R33d iz teh r0xx0r!!11!!oneone!!"): Fark's MS Paint album cover thread.

Sunday, July 23, 2006


weekend breaking news via JH. Now don't you feel like a jackass for shelling out almost as much for that Dupont condo. 40 bedrooms will score you MUCH more tail, brothers.

Friday, July 21, 2006


Sorry i know it's kind of annoying to post lots of little things all day, but it's Friday. Would you rather me update posts I've already written? Because either way, it's obnoxious and actually I don't really care.

This is what I wanted to show you:

okay, happy weekend, bye!

oh no? oh YES.

Fact #1: I am wearing this shirt today.

Fact #2: but not the shorts. nor the nameplate necklace, nor the white richie-glasses, nor the white stilettos. Nor the s-eating grin.

don't let anyone try and tell you differently, either

on this we can mostly still agree, high school friends: trent reznor? still hot, even when trying to pull a semi-Rollins.

periscope eye

1. 1727 19th Street NW

2. So great! and jealousy-inducing! I live down here on earth, and can't get a pansy to live more than a week. Ask me how our garden's doing this year. Even with all the rain, the answer is: struggling. Tomatoes, the N's territory and somethig he's usually very skilled at growing, remain a mystery. They're getting good height and flowering pretty nicely, but they're also yellowing and thus far, no fruit. The first summer we lived in our house, tomatoes threatened to overtake us and I had to reclaim one flower bed in order to preserve some backyard sanity. The past two summers- nothing. Bah.

3. Attention Loudoun residents: You are NEVER GETTING TO WORK AGAIN. Thanks, and suck on it! LYLAS - Your Board of Supervisors.

4. I love Paul Rudd. I love him, love him, love him. If you didn't see his small cameo as "Guy Gerricault, Lamaze Coach ("I'll spell it out for you ladies since it's not the traditional spelling of 'Jerico'") on the latest Reno 911, you missed 2 minutes of brilliance.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

The title 'Go Snake!' was already taken

I’m not trying to get involved with all this inter-tubes Snakes On A Plane rigmarole but when Reuters runs an article just headlined "SNAKES" even I get a little excited. And although it’s only about human ocular evolution and doesn’t directly mention the movie, you know exactly what they’re talking about. Mother Fucking Snakes. Just look at these quotes from the scientist…
“But while some scientists believe these characteristics evolved together as early primates used their hands and eyes to pick fruit and other foods, Lynne Isbell, a professor of anthropology at the University of California Davis, believes they may have evolved to help primates evade snakes.

‘A snake is the only predator you really need to see close up. If it's a long way away it's not dangerous,’ said Isbell, who has published her theory in the Journal of Human Evolution.

‘There's an evolutionary arms race between the predators and prey. Primates get better at spotting and avoiding snakes, so the snakes get better at concealment, or more venomous, and the primates respond.’”
You know where snakes can get real close up? On a mother fucking plane is where. That movie is going to be like 100 million years of evolution concentrated on a single LAX to DCA red-eye. It’s going to be a Sam Jackson/Snakes arms race!

I tried to read the paper itself but the Journal of Human Evolution and Huge Rip-Offs is charging $30 bucks. The abstract's up for free but I’ll be damned if I understand a single word in it past snake and monkey and ape...
Malagasy prosimians have never co-existed with venomous snakes, New World monkeys (platyrrhines) have had interrupted co-existence with venomous snakes, and Old World monkeys and apes (catarrhines) have had continuous co-existence with venomous snakes. The koniocellular visual pathway, arising from the retina and connecting to the lateral geniculate nucleus, the superior colliculus, and the pulvinar, has expanded along with the parvocellular pathway, a visual pathway that is involved with color and object recognition.
In other words, GO SNAKES!

circle gets the square

Dear Graphic Designers of the universe;

It's been mentioned before, probably all over the internet, actually - but perhaps it's time for a review:


Also: I know it's not a film poster, but perhaps the most obnoxious of all, (if simply because it should have been designed 5 years ago when this shit was all the rage) I present to you: THIS. (h/t to lindsayism) Why this is the most annoying of all shouldn't really require explanation. If you've read more than two paragraphs of her blog, you know.

Y'know, that dance wasn't as safe as they said it was

I’ve had mustaches on the brain for the last 24 hours. But I’ve been especially haunted by John Bolton’s with all the wheeling and dealing that’s going on over at the UN over. I couldn’t figure out who he reminded me of, other than my father, of course.

But because the electric “dah dah DAH dah dadada DAH DAH” portion of the Safety Dance is constantly playing in my head, I got to thinking about Futurama. And that got me thinking about Scruffy, a lesser known character on that lesser known show.


"The United Nations ain't so bad. You can lift weights and make sangria in the terlet. 'Course it's shank or be shanked."

(we see you, ryan avent + wife)



1. I have one lone connection in the airline industry, and he is unable to hook me for less than $300 a ticket to Mizzoura in Dec. Cheaptickets.crap is of no help. I know this is a ways off, but I am a Capricorn with an itch for order. Anyone see any deals to Memphis or St. Louis in upcoming days, please to notify.

2. The N. is out of town this weekend, and so are the majority of my friends. It's 2006, i know - but question: still totally reasonable to drink alone in bars, yes? I'm not below that, I just wanted to check in on the whole social-order of things these days. All i need is Bud and old copies of People. Gross, I know, but I'm into the cold nasty truth these days. Besides, it's summer.

3. Black Cat: SAT AUG 5- THE GERMS (Pat Smear, Lorna Doom, Don Bolles, Shane West) $15 mainstage 9:30

who else hates fetus? pete yorn.

What do you want to hear about first: how I think most pedestrians hobbling along 18th St. between the hours of 5 pm and 7:30 pm are total douches (a few exceptions), OR my new theories on people who enroll in adult education classes? Vote early, vote often.

In other, more exciting news: you can all stop typey-typing away at your blogs now. Futile. You'll ne'er capture the same sort of sweeping internet popularity as Gp and I.


Also, two of my favorite internet reads (B. Smith and J. Hopper) have already mentioned it, but here: enjoy some serious hilarity. Best, of course, when compared to this. If you're asking yourself who "Moreovers New Trick" is, yr probably not alone. Just a guess.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

I heard it at the Mustache Parade

The reference to Congressman Phil Gingrey in Milbank’s God article today was rather obvious when you consider the Rep’s appearance: mustachioed. Although, the idea of a mustached gynecological lawmaker is something I find a wee creepsville. Or just a mustached gynecologist, period.

Mustachioed is one of my favorite words. It may be its closeness in pronunciation to another favorite machismo or the fact that mustaches are incredibly, high concept funny. And because my Viking heritage prevents me from growing a dignified mustache I naturally envy what I can’t have. (Strangely, although I share half my genes with my father he can grow an exceptional soup strainer. I have never known him to be without it, making it least 30 years old.) I envy most mustaches and their supporting adjective. Even if they are out of style.

It seems that the writers over at the Post enjoy a similar appreciation of the word. Behold the little graphic I was able to put together after a little Nexis research…

Outside the few odd spikes and random dips, the overall frequency usage of the word mustachioed has increased since 1980 in the Washington Post. So far, a little more than halfway through the year they’ve only had 12. But I have full confidence in the editors to pick up the slack in the remainder of 2006. They need at least 10 more references to keep the trend going.

Now let’s examine the specifics of my research. I assumed that there would be some particular people who would warrant the use of mustachioed often in the paper. For instance, Saddam Hussein. But there are only three articles that feature references to the former spiderholer and mustachioed:
  • His Mustachioed Statue
  • The Mustachioed One
  • And my favorite “mustachioed popinjay”
All of these occurred after 2000, as if the post reporters during the first Gulf War did not have access to a thesaurus.


Tom Selleck* – There were only 2 examples of describing the Magnum PI actor as mustachioed and they were long after his most famous show ended. However, it is the cancellation of this watershed mustache show in 1988 that I think caused the spike in references that year in my graph. I am of the opinion that the Post writers so mourned the show that the subconsciously filled that hole with more references to lip hair. As you can see once the shock of the cancellation had worn off the chart dips back down to 11, the second lowest for any year.

John R. Bolton – Surprisingly, like Selleck, Bolton and mustachioed only appeared together in the Post two times. One was in July of 2005, shortly before his recess appointment. But the other dated way back in 1988…
Fried, stepping off the elevator, had a ready description of his fellow presidential appointee. "He looks," Fried said of the mustachioed Bolton, "like Zapata."
The Brando reference shows that Bolton’s had his cookieduster for at least 18 years, putting him in the same league as my father. (The two share an uncanny and disturbing resemblance to each other. One that several people, including some long-lost friends through surprise email, pointed out during Bolton’s Senate confirmation.)

Swimmer Mark Spitz – once, also referred to as “swashbuckling.”

Craig Stadler – There was a disappointingly zero references to the PGA golfer nicknamed the Walrus.

Alex Trebek, Freddie Mercury, Dr Phil, Charles Bronson, Super Size Me’s Morgan Spurlock, Boston Blackie of Buffet’s Pencil Thin Mustache fame – 0

In conclusion, outside the few most famous individuals there appeared to be no solid trends in the paper’s use of the word mustachioed. I feel that this is probably for the best. The word hasn’t been diluted by any single writer or story subject, appearing only when it’s the absolutely most befitting to the story. (The Reliable Source almost crossed the line when they used it twice in one week earlier this year, but it was in correcting a mistake thei made in the first reference, so they are forgiven.) Still, Post editors, you only have 5 months to make sure the average doesn’t slip. The Sports section seems like a good place to pick up the slack. May I suggest profiles on the following figures:

Bill Cower
Jakes Plummer
Lanny McDonald
The National’s Nick Johnson
That crying Gonzaga basketball player

Or whoever wrote the article on wingmen in the Style section could write a follow up on guys who hope to set themselves apart at bars by having “things.” Like the fellow we saw last week at Buffalo Billiards. His things were: Civil War era Van Dyke facial hair, Sherlock Holmes-style pipe, dressing like he did all his shopping at a Belks black Levis jeans sale. Strange guy, you can only have one “thing” and you had us at pipe.

*Somewhere in the unpublished archives of this site is a huge post on Magnum PI. I was never able to get my head around the whole thing and it had no focus. But one day…


1. Awww, home sweet home. So here's a story about Coventry square: my bff lived off of Coventry, in Providence Village. (single momville/across the street from the Mormon church) There was a playground there, and I spent most of my high school summer nights breaking curfew in that playground, watching dudes 3 years older than I finish off cases of Beast and dealing with boyfriend drama. This was before eastern Loudoun apparently became gangland. Shot in HIS BED, yo. Worst thing that ever happened there before that was me rear-ending an old dude while trying to leave my waitressing job at the nursing home.

2. You want to see something awesome?

I'm kind of ridiculous.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Scenes From Fort Reno

i challenge yr previous statement

TOM: you're wrong.

BEHOLD! I would usually tend to agree with anyone re: all things Smith Point, but check out that tiara, homies. It is EPIC.

For all those interested in a roadtrip (as I am): the Marriott Kingsmill in Williamsburg, VA, is the place to be August 18-20. If I'm not mistaken, that might coincide perfectly with beach travels. OMG am I ever excited. PIAB, reporting on the road from the Elite All-America Miss pageant.


OMG Delaney Barr OMG.

kitchen: day 437

DC, hello summer, you and your truly crazy people. For instance: this morning, a pashmina. Really, a wrap? Necessary? I am curious about you, young lady on 18th street in black capris and what appeared to be a black tank top and Richie-glasses and flats and a BRICK-COLORED PASMINA wrapped around your torso. Were you naked underneath, girl? Are you suffering from a fever and therefore have the chills? Usually PIAB would ask you to explain yr fashion stee, but instead we'll let this pass, seeing as we are mostly just worried about you.

Related-sies/also-sies: the world isn't coming to an end or anything. It was actually quite pleasant last night. Warm, sure, but pleasant. Suck it up and sweat it out.

* * *


- WalSpace

- There was no large animal/rodent/other in my office this morning (re: below). I admit I was more cautious than usual when opening the door.

- Go, spread the gospel of Tom.

- New hobby: reading online magazines.

- the N. has a hopper of 700 things to post about. Please to be bugging him about it. I am spent.

- Summer reading opinions: Oh The Glory of it All - good choice? Slightly lighter than The Rape of Nanking, slightly smarter than Roberts, Nora?

- My cousin's getting married this winter, it's official, requiring yet another trip to the saddest southland town in existence. This time, I'm bringing my spouse. Any direction on how to adaquately prep him is appreciated, he grew up in N. Arlington. Think Talladega minus the racing economy, and add in my family. Yeah.

- Miscellani: Jesus and Mary Chain on DualDisc! Mojave 3! Greg Laswell and Sonic Youth! And MJ reports: The Robocop Kraus is very entertaining. And if you scrape the bottom of the barrel, invest in the Deluxe Edition of "Songs from the Big Chair," featuring such excellent remastering that you can hear the piano keys hitting their little hammers at the beginning of "Head Over Heels." Nonmusic related, I have drawing class tomorrow, my assignment was to draw a chair or a goat or something using negative space, so I need to get on that I guess.

let's tumble!

So, I can't stop watching the Amy Sedaris clip from last week's Colbert Report. I'll get back to you later.

Monday, July 17, 2006


(Say you're the only one left at work, and suddenly a massive thump hits the loudspeaker/vent thingy embedded in the ceiling tiles of your particular office.

And then a scrabbling sound.


! ! !

Fuck this, I am so leaving.)

zigazig ah

I can't believe I missed this.

I'm really excited to watch that video, because while at the time I didn't give two shits about the Spice Girls*, I am retrospectively totally fascinated by the whole phenomenon. The yelling, the pointing, the metallic lycra? Crazy! And whatever happened to Sporty? Cemet blocks and the Thames? (Oops. Nevermind.)

Happy birthday you incredibly fucked up piece of pop claptrap, "Wannabe!" Happy birthday indeed! Oh sweet Victoria Beckham, will you just LOOK. AT. THAT. VOGUEING.

* By "not giving two shits," I mean banging on the wall that separated my room from the dormmate next door, my RA, a lovely elementary education major from West Virginia named Sarah. Sarah used to invite her friends, the girls in the TAE KWON DO CLUB, over for kicking practice/Spice Girl dance parties at 9 am on Saturday mornings. At best, this woke me up; at worst, this disturbed my very important journalling/sulking to "Head on the Door." Sarah! What was your deal!


Okay. So as the G pointed out, I'm a little bit of a liar.

It turns out there are several thousand things I was scheduled to do tonight that don't involve seeing The Day the Earth Stood Still on the mall. First and foremost is the promise I made to see Meredith Bragg at Fort Reno.

It's going to be 10,000 degrees anyway and Meredith promised to bring Kool-aid.

Fort Reno. 7:15. Where it's at.

No cuddling, though. Too hot.

(no subject)

Hi DC. I was going to stick around the city for the first weekend in months, but when the going gets hard, the G. runs away. Back to the beach, where all problems are solved by 10% butterfat and copious amounts of aloe. And Connect Four tournaments. I kick so much ass at Connect Four.

It was a busy weekend down in the tar heel state:

- BD and I witnessed a spectacular car crash that resulted in a denim-jumper bedecked mother and her four similarly attired daughters stumbling from a totaled Malibu in complete shock, (one of their heads hit the windshield, most def.), and an old man with broken glasses and a bleeding face. I tried to awkwardly help until, thank god, a real-life Mom type showed up and I was off the hook. The cops, apparently, did not want to question the dog or I, so we kind of stood around and gawked for a few minutes before leaving the scene.

- I read "Assassination Vacation," finally.

- I watched a drunk redneck couple, Cutoff Short Woman (Debbie) and Purple Man (Chrsitian Name Unknown), who must live nearby because they are ON THE BEACH EVERY TIME WE ARE THERE, get drunk and stay drunk and sing along to Journey, and have contests with each other to see who could "build the best tits out of sand."

PurpleMan and his Elusive North Carolina Sand Tittie. The PurpleMan's name originates from the idea that his skin is so tan, it now appears purple. It is a moniker he has given himself.

Also, I think they might have stolen beer out of someone else's cooler. (When we went to the beach on Sat. night, the D and I taught their teenage son how to keep his arm up in the air, because gnats fly to the highest point. He was so amazed by this information, he took off down the beach, cusswords a-flying, looking not unlike Arnie Grape.)

- After taking the dog to the beach Sat. night to chase crabs, I spent the next morning cleaning up poo. If your dog has a sensitive enough digestive tract that simply switching dog food brands leads to massive butt explosions, don't let him eat a crab.

- That kind of reminds me, we had Taco Bell on the way home. I haven't had Taco Bell since 1997. No worries, things stayed copasetic. We didn't let the dog have nachos.

- The D. and I helped the N. with a commemorative sculpture. More on this later. Kid is big into arts-n-crafts lately.

The N. may have invited you, Internet, to watch a movie with him on the Mall tonight. But instead the N. is going to Fort Reno to watch Meredith Bragg. He apologizes for the mixup, and invite you there to cuddle with him in the chilly, 97-degree night instead.

Friday, July 14, 2006

You'll be there because I'm holding a thermal detonator

If anyone wants to join up on Monday, they’re showing The Day the Earth Stood Still on the Mall at nightbreak. As a wee one, that movie and the old version of The Blob (was that reallt Steve McQueen?) scared the hoo-ha out of me after I sneaked and watched them in my grandparent’s basement. Surprisingly, as a child, I failed to absorb the not-so-subtle anti-nuclear weapons message that the movie delivers. All I knew was that the big robot at the Washington Monument made me skerred! That was right near my house!

(My grasp of what was “near my house” was a bit skewed, though. Whenever we drove somewhere in Maryland, I thought the Mormon Temple was actually Disney World and couldn’t understand why my parents refused to take me there.)

The movie also contains three of the biggest nerdlinger words ever to be uttered on a giant sheet near the Hirschhorn Gallery d’Art: klaatu barada nikto. See for yourself. The nerds love ‘em more than Peter Jackson loves forced perspective. One of the most famous references was these cats:

A real HT would know that two of these are actually the same species!

G.Lucas, you can color me unimpressed. Naming the Hutt’s skiff guards Klaatu, Barada and Nikto is almost a sci-fi cop out. You have to rummage a little deeper among the shelves in the back of the nerd store for us to raise an eyebrow.

And the same goes for the writers of the new X-files movie. Designating the facility in the final scene of the first one Tatooine was pathetic.

everyone's got a job.


In the final throes of planning a co. retreat, to take place tomorrow. Trying to scrape together a last-minute icebreaker activity. I'm thinking I give them three hours' head start and then hunt them for sport on my estate. Too old-school?

the amazing screw-on head

Hi, did you miss me? I have been in Very Important Business Meetings ("let's get hyped for strategic planning, people!") for the past few days. I emerged from my hotel bubble (chandeliers/recycled air/complimentary hard candy), and actually heard myself say, all quizzical-n-puzzled-n-vapid, my brow furrowed muchly: "Violence? Israel? Lebanon? Really?" I'm adorable, I tell you.

I've been through this kind of thing before, but my past life was all exceptionally boring blather on, oh, missile construction and homeland security programming. I took notes yesterday, and at one point I actually wrote "Smell-o-vision." I am in a much better place these days.

Otherwise, sometimes things got a little slow, as 10-hour-long meetings are wont to do. So here, I drew some penguins and hallucinating bunnies, dreaming of life-size carrots, for you. Unfortunately, I have yet to scan them. Check back.

- - -

... Also, in other news, I'm depressed. * My life is kind of a disaster right now, in the most self-serving yupp-ish kind of way. You can tell me to fuck off and die in the comments.

... Also, did you know there was a WORLD SERIES OF KICKBALL? I'm not even going to tell you how I found out about upcoming kickball nationals in Miami.

... Also/Which, surpisingly having nothing to do with the above: did you know Buffalo Billiards is reminiscent of Hell? It's so freaking hot and obnoxious down there. **

... Also, we saw a movie about sealife. And pirates. And an undead monkey. One film, so much learning. Thanks, Hollywood! Conch shell face will haunt my dreams forever!

- - -

1. New Luna and Minutemen dvds

2. When I was in elementary school, my best friend was named Val. She and I spent a lot of time experimenting with her older sister's day-glo mesh headbands, listening to parent-censored George Michael tapes, and staging dramatic music video reenactments on the foyer landing to a) Bananarama b) Bon Jovi and/or c) Madonna (ONLY the "true blue" album, usually only "la isla bonita.") MofS's Fraud in the 80s makes me think of all that. It also makes me think of the ending of 16 candles where they kiss over the birthday cake, even though that was the Thompson Twins, I KNOW. Val is old now and has a kid.

3. How many more bands can cover "Crazy?" STOP IT ALREADY/"fuck that noise" as the kids are saying. Grump grump grump.

- - -

I'm planning on not working all day, so maybe you should plan to hear more from me. Last night we had a PIAB brainstorming session, so I'll be starting a new blog soon called "MY OPINIONS" and everyday I'll just write one thing that I think is right, something I believe the rest of the world is stupid for not thinking the same thing. Charming, yes?

* Nevermind. Proven way to cure the blues.
** "Seriously, only my mom says 'freaking.' "

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Don't Smoke Buda, Can't Stand Pest

It’s hot again.

It’s the kind of hot that requires you to map each trip outdoors.

To be taken into account:
The distance to your destination
Walking speed
Daily traffic patterns
The shadier sidewalks
The number of Starbucks to step into for quick AC and free ice water hits

I nailed it yesterday, and even the DNC volunteers outside the strip clubs who wondered if I wanted to “help elect Democrats” didn’t even slow my roll. My standard answer to any organization that’s sent their college-aged interns/zealots to my street corner is “Sorry, it’s a conflict of interests.” Whether that means I’m either against whatever caper they’re selling or that their presence is violating my right to cowardly slip inside Camelot is up to them.

But while it’s been hot here in DC it’s not nearly as bad as a recent trip to Eastern Europe where everyday I wondered aloud if Freon was a banned chemical under some recent EU mandate. It was salt stains on your suit collar hot. The brief respites were the odd caf├ęs or hotels which advertised air conditions but merely featured a sorry fan blowing meekly over a small block of ice.

The people I was able to cobble up conversations with were not impressed with my complaints and seemed proud of their cooled internal fortitude. (Even though small beads of sweat dripped down their temples, betraying their discomfort like Superman standing on some sort of newly formed Atlantic crystalline island) And when I mentioned the heat wave that killed more than a 10,000 a few years back, to a person they said “ah, but mostly in France,” as if a few thousand less French were perfectly acceptable.

And nights provided no respite. On one particular evening we trekked* from bar to bar looking for a club that satisfied our stereotypical views of European nightlife. We finally fell into a place called the Qbar and stewed in our juices for a few minutes as a remixed version of Sweet Dreams provided motivation for a mixture of dancing prostitutes. Perfect.

(My accusation that they were prostitutes is based on two things. First, is this sign.

There was one about every 100 feet, some like this and some with a big red line across them. As far as we could tell some areas permitted hooking and some did not. I also don’t know if the man imaged is a john or a pimp but I’m leaning toward the latter based on the small change purse he seems to be carrying. If there is one thing I’ve learned from growing up in the mean streets of North Arlington is that change purse = pimp. The second reason I’m guessing they were prostitutes was their willingness to trade money for sex.)

Unfortunately, after running up a 150 Euro bar tab with whiskey, vodka, lager and cider drinks we were informed that our giant American credit cards were not accepted, cash only and we had about 20 shekels between us. Luckily, according to our waitress, there was an ATM just meters down the street and I volunteered to make a withdrawal. Unluckily, it seems my inability to decipher her accent found me walking kilometers to the described ATM. Of course it was out of service. I finally found one blocks away, inside a room that required a card swipe to get in. And that room, with all its complicated Wien computerized machinery, was about 120 degrees. And the directions were not in American. And I couldn’t find the button that unlocked the door. And I was almost a little panicky and had heatstroke.

I fully expected to find my comrades washing dishes when I returned but they were happily chatting away with the locals, including one gentleman with that awful haircut I hate. Once our tab was evened we stumbled home in a drenched state and fell asleep to the soothing sounds of a flowing Danube.

Actually, before I fell asleep, I watched a little bit of this program.

As far I can tell this young woman is named Cheyenne and is a big fan of football and taking her shirt off. And fake lobsters. But beyond that I had no idea what was going on, though I watched anyways.

*We had to walk as the cab driver refused to give our fat, American asses a ride. We believe the standard but disappointingly unoriginal “Bush is Hitler” excuse was given.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

There was also a guy who wore his sunglasses on his forehead. Not the top of his head or eyes, mind you, but forehead.

G punted and is making me do the weekend round out.

I spent the tail of last week in Catherine’s hood, exploring the Catherine’s hood museums, the annual Taste of Catherine’s hood and Catherine’s hood’s lakeshore. In fact, that’s Catherine in the sombrero right before I got in to my cab headed to some fancy pants bar.

In honor of Zunta, I used one of those cameras that make things look like models that they are always going on about. The club featured a friend who now works for Oprah and the obligatory Harpo fueled gossip meant I clocked a mere 3 hours of sleep on Thursday.

(The time spent attempting to sleep was also dissuaded by a cheapo travel clock with a terribly annoying second hand tick. Normally when snoozing I find some noise in the room comforting but there was something wrong with this clock. The next morning I timed the sweep and 30 seconds on my watch took over 33 on the clock. Now as a youngster my mother the PE teacher always had a stop watch nearby and would have me entertain myself by trying to see how accurately I could count 10 seconds. I can still do it to a few tenths of a second. I guess I was picked up on the clocks difference.

Also adding to the annoyance that day was the fax machine I was using had an incoming message alert that was the same noise the Hatch alarm made in Lost. Just as loud too. My eyes would dart to the wall hoping to see a day-glo map painted by Rawhide from Buckaroo Banzai with liquid detergent in the moments before my legs were crushed by the door. But all I got was a ad for a $199 cruise to Disney World.)

So by the time I rolled home I was too tired to do anything and effectively ruined Friday night for all my friends and family and pets.

Saturday featured the disastrous final game of the Pygmalion Softball league and we lost to our bitter rivals 9-7. By I we, I mean me, because the G figured she could either only play softball or get ready for my old roommate’s wedding and certainly not both. Needless to say, when I got home from sports she was watching TV in her pajamas.

We made ourselves dashing just in time for the arrival from my other old roommate who is on leave from Army and the DMZ in Korea. (He countered any accusations that he abandoned his post during the peninsula’s greatest crisis in 50 years with terrible stories of the sounds coming from the dog meat farm next to his apartment. The process for preparing dog is far from humane. Or dog-ane. But I guess we all fight the War on Terror in different ways.)

Having not looked at the invitation in several months (or ever, thank you) we were only partially aware that the wedding was in Faraway, Virginia and even less aware of the 3 ½ hour gap between the ceremony and reception. And while the wedding was delightful (although all any of us could remember was the strange Han Solo reference the minister made early on) the suggestions included with the invitation concerning the space between the two events were lacking…. A) Putt-Putt Golf or B) Explore the delights of Fair Oaks Mall! Slide down the bacon shaped slide!
We opted for a place called Logan’s Roadhouse, which offers all the blues rock, fried death and black flies of a real roadhouse but in a family-friendly and potato skinned atmosphere. And even though we pounded many beers and ate awful things, we still only ticked off single hour. We even tried just wasting time by flicking peanuts on the floor in the hopes that any potential pursuers would slip and enable our escape.

The reception itself was delightful and we all welcomed B and S into the club of the happily married. See? Don’t they look happy?*

I hope they realize when they get back from Hawaii and they move into their newly bought home that it’ll turn into a huge fucking disaster. They can use our lives as an example.

Everything we own, from home to cars to pet is either destroyed, dirty or growl-y. Our fridge, oven and dishwasher sit alone in the kitchen. There is no sink or cabinets or food. The car is smashed and the guy’s insurance company claims they can not find him. It’s the reason this blog has been neglected/not entertaining the last few weeks. Our lives are like the aftermath of a shit/chainsaw tornado and the mess scattered across the Virginia countryside.

There is a serious case of cheerlessness going on around here. I cannot promise that this site will get better soon.

*This is where I gave up on this post due to the crushing calamity that is our lives.

intro'ing the PIAB shopping blarg

(sidenote: hipsters, you have some explaining to do. In what alternate universe would anyone even attempt to fit this over yrsef?

okay, carry on.)

(one more thing, completely unrelated to short-shorts: NDA recipients say "no thanks." !!!)

Monday, July 10, 2006

darbs street


- Okkervil talks about filesharing; new album


- Our dogwalker? Has a blog. Our dogwalker? Flamboyant, excellent, wonderful, and apparently ran out of gas at our house a few days ago (something I only know because: I'm currently reading his blog.) Our dog? Doing okay, ate an entire wooden kitchen spoon last night.

- The answer to your last questions are YES YES, and WE CAN ONLY HOPE.

- Here is what is happening: we have no kitchen. The cabinet installers came, and promptly left, after telling us they couldn't start work because first, we needed to hire an electrician (fearsome-gruesome words: "NOT UP TO CODE") and a plumber. The guy who hit our car? Disappeared. The parking garage attendant who saw the whole thing go down? Sudden amnesia and unwillingness to speak English. Me? Well, I leave for a few days of work meetings soon, so - good luck with all that, roommate.

- The media (google it) has finally decided to cover Tiny Houses. I like to imagine I am somewhat responsible.

- Last night was an onslaught of hilarity. Long story short: an orange teeshirt was needed, pronto. This involved a Dukes-Hazzard style squeal into a Springfield KMart parking lot, a frantic run-in, grabbing every warm-toned clothing item I could find (a Reeses-Pieces decorated woman's sleep-top, a ruched crop tank, a little boys size M red teeshirt, etc.) Eventually something more appropriate was found, and within the 1 min 36 sec shopping time limit, and the N made his v. important soccer game. Which, by the time we arrived (30 minutes late) had been downgraded to scrimmage status.

NOTHING IS EASY/I NEED A DRINK. When we got home, we avoided responsibility, ate some Subway, watched the "World Series of Pop Culture," which, note: I would kick so much ass at.

* * *

Knowledge that probably would have come in handy about 10 years ago:

Recently, I keep finding out information that I should have already been aware of, leading to an overwhelming sense of - I dunno - stupidity. The past few weeks, I've just been kind of walking around in a flighty haze, but I feel like maybe it's not all my own fault? Like, the fact that an ex's parents own a B&B? Probably would have been a nice perk when I was 19.

The fuck, people. I know sometimes it's hard to share, and I'm not asking for major details here, just big facts. If my spouse comes home tomorrow and is like "oh, by the way, I own an island and have a 12 year old son," then things is gonna get rowdy round these parts.

Electricians and plumbing recommendations can be sent to pyginablanket (at)

YouShut v1.0

"No, but that's a pretty sweet idea for a podcast!" (via stereogum, i think)

And this racing stripe here I feel is pretty sharp

My friend Lenny took off his co-workers desk after the guy died in a weird electricity accident. I never learned his real name, so I just called him Stretch. Now I’ll always remember his name was Frank. Or Frank Grimey, as he liked to be called.

Such an awesome gift. Frank Grimes pencil, you will never be sharpened.

shamrock shake

I was going to write an entry about our weekend, since it was pretty eventful and involved both copious amounts of rum and hammer-wielding in-laws, but then some more important news came about.

S: So when I got home saturday night there was a basement full of boys watching UFC (61?) with Ken Shamrock. Seriously how can that guy still be fighting? He was fighting when we were in high school?

The G: no kidding. it was a new dvd? and then he joined the WWE, didn't he?

S: nope a pay per view 'event" tito ortiz wailed on him for about 10 seconds and they called the fight. it was very don king-esque.

The G: excellent

S: one of the guys after his fight said "I'm still not too confident about my fighting. I need to get my confidence back up" Aren't they just supposed to growl and wipe blood away in interviews? I felt it was an overshare

The G: who was the guy that carried the cross on his back? he always should have won because jesus was on his side, and not on the side of the Gracie bros.

S: the Gracie train! woot wooooooo!

Friday, July 07, 2006

Go Snakes!

The G: By the way, can we please throw a prom-themed party sometime soon. I'm going home for a night or two next week and I am so certain my mom still has fuschia nightmares up in the attic, begging to be worn.

S: Um, I'm in. The black velvet off the shoulder dress where i believe I wore the hanger straps? because i'm hip?

The G: Sweeeeeeeet. i'm thinking "SNAKES ON A PLANE VIEWING/PROM NIGHT." Tiny snakes instead of corsages.

- - -

I'm not really one for "kids are so cute/say the darndest things" stories. Kids are cute enough, but I'm kind of neutral towards children in general, unless said children are particularly awesome. However, I can't seem to talk about the below story without laughing, even though it's probably only funny to me and maybe one other person. It's terribly annoying. So, take note, One Other Person: S., this is for you.

Other People: If you don't care about humans under the age of 15, or short people, you may stop reading now.




Somehow I was wrangled into face painting duties a few weekends ago at a very exceptionally awesome 3-yr old's birthday party. Why me is never really explained in these sort of situations, but listen: if you are 18 and considering getting an art degree but are not really all that talented, this is what you end up doing with yr education. Your friends assume a lot about their sole peer with an art degree, like, oh, they may be artistic. This is a common misconception. In reality, 74% of art majors just were lazy and liked the scene and drank too much.

Anyways, this fete was out in the sticks. Gravel road, dueling banjos, etc. My BFF, along with being a prodigious procreater and living in a giant house in the woods, is a party-thrower extraordinaire. And while she insists someday I will also rent a cotton candy machine and have clowns with color/theme coordinated balloon bouquets for my precious toddler offspring, she is delusional if she honestly thinks that true. Also, I can't bake, so hello Sheet Cake City, how you doin.

So, S. and I drove to the party, and awkwardly hung out in the unoccupied rooms reserved for the childless until it was my turn to work.

Consider if you will, for a moment: me, in the driveway, seated on a plastic table/chair set meant for four year olds, armed with many many pots of nontoxic clown paint, the weather stormy and unpredictable, America's future Young Republicans eagerly lined up awaiting my artistic splendor. No lawmen for miles. Lo, the possibilities.

I behaved. Hell, I even took requests, and refrained from suggesting "patriotic donkeys" anytime some parents asked "what kind of animals I did." (Heh. Doing animals.) Apparently the other parents all thought I was hired? Do people hire this kind of entertainment for kids birthday parties? People, if you feed me unlimited cake and other sugary fooodstuffs, I so do this for free. Anyways, lots of requests for butterflies, a thomas the train whatever or two, and a tiger that turned out looking more like an orangutan.

Then the sisters arrived.

Although I love the kids of my friend to the Nth degree, (they are smart and terribly well-behaved and have insanely shiny hair and say "please"), they often times are overshadowed by another neighborhood family. Well, to me, at least - I'm sure most adults find my friends brood much more charming. But this other squadron of girls is intense. Like, you can feel the insanity radiating off their little ADD bodies. The oldest is 10 years old, and is thoroughly sports-obsessed. The next-oldest, C., has worn glasses since she was an infant and I think has facial ticks. She's probably 6. Both of them wreck mass havoc wherever they go, ole Four Eyed C. most especially. I once watched her slam her Big Wheel into a wall over and over for 20 minutes straight with a half-smile on her face. I've known her since she was 2, and I have never seen her cry.

I love her.

The oldest promptly sits her skinny butt down on a plastic chair and demands sports paraphenalia drawn all over her face (snicker #2: "COVER MY FACE WITH BALLS!") So, a football on the forehead, a soccer ball and baseball on each cheek. She comes back a few minutes later to add a tennis ball to her chin. Done and done.

C. sits down. She doesn't speak for a minute or two. It had been raining all morning, and her glasses are fogged up. She's staring at me. She's creepy.


"Just one snake?"

"Two snakes. Up both my arms. TO THE SHOULDER."

Awesome. So, I draw a nice healthy green snake on one arm. She then requests that the snake on her other arm be WHITE. (S. is behind me at this point watching intently and cracking up about albino snakes, and egging me on to draw a tiny plane on the child's shoulder.)

Two minutes later, C.'s back. Another moment of silence, some more blank stares.

"These snakes aren't long enough."

So I do some snake extension work. I'm beginning to feel like the tattoo artist who has a particularly weird customer he'd kind of like to avoid, but still has come back in every few days to continue color work on elaborate sleeves of satanic symbols, sexualized Disney cartoons, and Catholic imagery. Don't even say you don't know the kind of guy I'm talking about. Everyone's seen at least one episode of "Miami Ink."

The oldest girl returns for a second go-round herself. By this point, there are no other children in party attendance who are remotely interested in face painting. I exist simply to entertain the 2 sisters. Since her face is totally covered, she asks that I write "GO REDSKINS" on her right arm.


Then "GO NATIONALS" on her other arm (it has to says "Nationals", by the way. When I suggested "GO NATS," she rolled her eyes in a way that made me want to go warn her mother that preteen assholery has set in a tad prematurely.)

I start packing up my v. elaborate face painting supplies. It's late, and, as an artiste, I am temperamental. I have not had alcohol in almost 30 hours. There are 74 listless, whimpering children sitting on the driveway, splashing each other with a mixture of melted cotton candy, rainwater, ennui, face paint, and possibly diaper remains. It is eleventy billion degreees.

I make the mistake of making eye contact with Four Eyed C. across the yard, just as I've finished wiping red paint down the back of S's shirt. Her eyes light up, and she bolts over. I sigh.

"C., darling heart: every inch of your arms are covered in paint. Your face is melting. Don't tell your mom I said this, but you kind of look like a lady of the night after a particularly rough Sailors Week. Or maybe Gene Simmons. What else do you want from me?"

C. looks at her sister, and then looks back at me. The child bears an eerie resemblence to the girl on the bus at the end of the Ferris Bueller movie, the one who offers the principal a gummy bear? She points at her sister's arms.

"I want 'GO SNAKES' written on my forehead."




I'm totally in love with anyone rooting for the snakes to win. Win what, you ask? Who cares.

Such a foreward thinker. I'm considering offering babysitting services, and taking her to "SoAP" with me.

fight for glory, honors won, bright in the lights of PINK AND BLUE AND FLASH FILES

File under: things to be sad about:

1. Blowfly has no DC shows scheuled for 06.

2. The Madisons have a new website, but that doesn't change the fact that I am still not eligible for membership, which is only a lifelong dream and stuff. MADISONS! When will you'ns re-examine yr radical-n-oppressive anti-marriage stance that breeds single-extremism and a love of watered-down cosmopolitans. THROW OFF THE CHAINS OF LEGAL COMMITTMENT-ISM THAT MENTALLY AND SPIRITUALLY BIND YE! *

File under: things to be pleased about:

1. Bars named "House of Harkonnen."

2. Broken Mascis Scene.

* (see what happens when you dont let me into yr inner circle, Madisons? Over-hyphenation, that's fucking what.)

Thursday, July 06, 2006

she squirmed and turned

Hello 11:43 PM, it's been a minute.* Nice to run into you again.

1. It was delightful to see familiar DCist-ish faces tonight, all thems blogroll regulars, which - admittedly, I need to read more often to avoid embarrassing admissions like "oh, Bombay/Mumbai, eh?"

2. Tell us Pyg ladies the truth, now: is "Tessaract" too nerdy for a bar name? Would you imbibe there? Discuss.

3. My 4-Miller Lite parallel parking is.... unparalleled.

4. Do you want to know the song that has been my theme for the past week? Making me grab the half-rolled-down windows of the Jeep and scream along in time? Here you is. It will make you feel 22 again, this I promise. Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos - "Skeleton Key". Seriously. The best part is that super-special "WHOOOO!" in the middle/end. You'd think I'd hate a song like this, but I don't.

Eh, what the hell. here, have r. julian's "cheap guitar," too. Not as much my favorite continually-pressing-repeat-song, but I'm feeling late-night generous.

* what my high school classmates say on MySpace, even though they are 30 years old. Can someone please explain?


Oh, Fort Reno. I apologize. But I am single-parenting the hellhound tonight, so I needs to get my ass homeward, otherwise he'll eat my entire house down to the studs. Aaaaand I wore a dress to work. Stupid and uncomfortable and unlikely as hell that I'm gonna go frolic in this getup in yr boggy fields just to listen to 25 minutes of the Toast. Alas.

So, instead: if I show up at this Panda Party, solo, what do I have to do for a milkshake? Hells bells, it's all the 'Nets is talking about today: milkshake this, milkshake that, hers is better than ours, brings people to yards, etc. (Congrats Sommer!)

in my car to where you are/ i can't make it, won't make it

Got nada. Last night I was half-awake for hours, lucid dreaming about metal crunching metal. I can't, seriously cannot, take another car thing. I hate cars.

The good thing is that I was instantly cheered up by my dog, who appeared at my bedroom door this morning in a teeshirt. Is there nothing cuter than large, smelly hound dogs dressed like 10 year old boys?

Additionally, I've got a great story that floated around the 4th of July gathering we attended. I feel like I should get permission to post it or whatever. But seeing as it's third or fourth-hand at this point, total telephone-style, starting in the backyard at the grill and ending up being re-told and re-told, til it reached the v. humid kitchen. Does that make it public propety now? God, it was funny.

Oh. Also, I went to my first drawing class last night. It is... basic. But that is good, and it is truly fascinating people-observing. Roll call: myself, several goth teen girls who's parents are desparately trying to make them interested in something, ANYTHING (lots of eyeliner and jelly bracelets), a handful of wealthy-looking retirees/housewives in capri pants and gold sneakers, and, surprisingly, 2 or 3 middle-aged dudes in khakis who have "no drawing experience whatsoever. I can't even remember the last time I picked up a writing utensil that wasn't a PDA stylus." (direct quote) My instructor is my age, and spent most of the class looking nervous. I know he's taught a lot before, and I like his work, so I'm interested to see where this goes after trying to explain negative space & 2-pt. perspective to former MBA candidates.

Other stuff:

- rock and roll lifestyles, captured.

- Review of Chris Anderson's Longtail from the New Yorker.

- NEWSFLASH! Ann Coulter has a tattoo of dancing teddy bears around her arm. Above the tribal. Maybe. There are so many jokes here, I don't even know where to start.

- My new rotating email signatures, courtesy Joy Darville: "Yeah, unfortunately that was my fault, 'cuz when he heard us having sex, I told him I was fighting off the wolf man...unfortunately he got brave one time and walked in trying to save me and saw there was no wolf man. Just Darnell plowing me." You did not hear it from me that she totally reminds me of some of my relatives. Hi, Crabman.

- French Toast, tonight. I have never been to a FR show that doesn't start off with pouring rain.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

the H, believing in it

1. All the reasons I love Amy Seadris are clearly outlined here, including the pantyhose/cowboy hat thing.

2. Who isn’t frequenting The Hype Machine these days? If the thousands of billable hours spent clicking around on here gives you nothing else, please note Scheff and crew in Others-style theatrical makeup being et up by a cardboard sea monster/octopi.

Watching that video gave me chills- like finding an old high school English project on VHS, forgotten behind your parents entertainment center- the one where you recreated the myth of Proteus or illustrated a chapter of The Old Man and the Sea while swilling Boones Farm.

Don’t even pretend you didn’t do that.* Anyways, Hype Machine--> great.

* Somewhere there exists a Loudoun County-style remake of the movie
Mortal Kombat, ** starring many of my high school dude friends + their older, unemployed brothers. I know it was rilly hilarious to own a camcorder at age 18, but personal to Nick B: here's my request to have that particular tape burned.*** Luckily, I believe my role is small, playing someone's girlfriend in the first five seconds of taping before my grisly murder, so even if it isn't set on fire, I should still be okay.

** Not school-sanctioned.

*** Oh. Yeah. This past New Years Eve drunken-zombie-movie-making. I do not have "being 18 and a total chowderhead" to blame that particular cinematic finery on.

class request

Dear 11-year old boys of Cardozo: You are awesome. Thanks for not killing me, even though you tried. Setting off backpacks full of bottle rockets while you are riding crazy skateboard/bike combos with yr three year old bro hanging onto the back wheel? INDEED awesome. Better than those non-existent "national fireworks on the Mall", which no one could see anyways.

Dear IKEA: Why are you holding my kitchen cabinets hostage? What is wrong with you people? Why do we have to take 3 days off of work in order to meet a phantom delivery that probably will never arrive? Why do you make me write long, elaborate letters to your customer service department about how I won't pay your delivery fee until SOMETHING ACTUALLY GETS DELIVERED? At this point, hell, I'll take anything. A can opener. A heart pillow that has arms to hug me with. Whatever, Ikea, just send me something, for the love of all that is holy.

Dear Maurice, public works dude who, this morning, despite several loud beeps and hand gestures, still felt the need to back his giant van up into my poor Honda, which, you might remember, is just returned from 2 1/2 weeks at the body shop from an encounter with a similar jackass on Rt. 66:

I hate you and you can go to hell.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Barf. Seriously, barf.

Since I seem to be the only one in this city at a terminal today, I’ll post something that surely won’t be read until tomorrow. A little favorite something-something here at the Pyggy site. Pseudo-live blogging of the Nathan’s Hotdog Eating Championship.

This is considered a Great American Event? Apparently so, as it’s been given that classification by the producers at ESPN.

The commentators are predicting a new record either Kobayashi or some new guy named Joey Chestnut? Eww. They just mentioned that the rookie Chestnut is from the asparagus circuit, which I have to imagine has the worst smelling purge rooms in all of the Major League Eating arenas. They also mentioned he’s the current grilled cheese eating champion. They’re really up in Chestnut’s jock.

The ESPN graphics department has wisely chosen a mustard bottle for their wipe effects. I approve as mustard is the most superior of all condiment. Ketchup has no business anywhere near a hotdog. However, I don’t approve of the number of commercials they have so far run. I got places to be! Little bits of America to blow up! Let’s get to the eating!

Man, there some pretty obnoxious jingoism going on here by the commentators. You know that’s always been the problem with the professional eating MSM, they are so slanted toward the US gurgitators. The just called the Americans the Axis of Eating and Chestnut the great American Hope. They are desperately willing the Mustard Belt back to the United States with their pathetic words. I don’t like much about Kobayashi, he’s vain as hell, but I’m starting to root for him out of spite for the announcers.

More commercials.

It looks like they’ve brought all the contestants to the site on Cooney Island on a bus for some reason. They’ve also dressed some guy as a Secret Service agent to provide fake security. This whole production has the feel of a college access TV show and they’re just throwing any gimmicks they can think of on camera. Except they have expensive mustard graphics and crane booms for wide sweeping crowd shots, which are totally unnecessary.

They just grabbed Chestnut for a sideline interview
Guy: How have you been training?
Chestnut: I haven’t eaten a real meal in several days. I’ve been drinking a lot of water.
Guy: When you hit the wall, what must you do to beat Kobayashi?
Chestnut: I must embrace the wall.
Jesus, I can’t tell if these guys are for real. The actual eaters seem to be having a fun time with all this, yet they’re still focused on the competition. But I have no idea if the commentators are saying these terrible things in jest.

Alright. They just cornered hometown favorite and the only female competitor Sonya Thomas or THE BLACK WIDOW! as she's known out on the road. (That has to be the worst and most unoriginal nickname for a woman. At IFOCE committee nickname meeting, "Black hair, unknown Asian descent? Let’s go with Black Widow." However, looking at the list of other names in the eating community shows there isnt an original one in the bunch. ) If memory serves, she’s actually a neighbor of ours from Alexandria and works as a manager at the Burger King on Andrews Air Force Base when not smoking fatties in chicken wing devouring contests. Sho'nuff.

She was asked if the heat up in New York is going to bother her.

“The heat doesn’t bother me. I love the hot.”

She loves the hot.

(I have a friend who stumbled into a bar the same night one of these contests was happening. The picture of him and Thomas is now in his safety deposit box along with his passport and his autographed Ron Jeremy VHS cassette.)

According to the on-screen graphic there are three different styles of eating – Solomon, Dunking and Tokyo. But the thing wasn’t up long enough to take note of the difference and a quick Google search didn’t produce a clear explanation of each. But I think Kobayashi employs the Solomon method in which you split the wiener (like a baby) and consume each half at the same time. Eating the buns and hot dogs separately is called the Tokyo style or “Japanesing” and I assume the dunking is when you submerge both in water so they slide down real easy.

Favorite moment of speculation so far: “Oh, we’re definitely going to see some 8 dog minutes. But I’m actually expecting some 10 dog minutes.”

Again, I can’t tell if the commentators are joking around: “He (Kobayashi) is the finest practicing athlete any where in the world right now.”

What this whole thing needs is the reverent tones of hushed British analysis; appeals for quarters asked and none given, wheat bidding farewell to the chaff, etc. Anything more subtle then this exaggerated American braggadocio would be appreciated.

Cutaway to the crowd reveals the hand drawn sign “Chestnuts are for boys. Hot dogs are for men.” I don’t exactly know what that means but I’m on board for any jab at Chestnut. I predict the rookie will crumble like every other American who’s faced international competition in the last few months.

They’re introducing the other contestants by announcing their current World Champion titles. One guy holds the green bean crown. Sonya Thomas has the Turducken belt, among others. Another guy seems to specialize in desserts, ice cream and key lime pie. But he didn’t get the clean sweep because there’s still another older guy who has the claim on the birthday cake championship.

(So far birthday cake speed eating is the only one of these I’d be willing to try either proffessionally or as a hobby. I’d bring entire sheet cakes to work and the new guy would be like, “Why is that guy eating an entire cake? Is he going to share?” and the old timers would be like “No, you can’t have any because he’s training” and the new guy would be like “Damn. Because it’s my birthday too.” And then I’d feel bad and let him have a piece with a candle in it because I would naturally now carry birthday candles in my shirt pocket. But I would also be quietly pissed because it would have thrown off my schedule. I’ll have to double up on a wedding cake tomorrow. Stupid new guy.

I’d also eat them when I drive, but not in stop and go traffic because it would probably get in my hair.)

Okay. This one competitor is trying to claim that he’s a vegetarian and only eats meat when he’s on the hot dog circuit. I’m a bit rusty on the levels of vegetarianism but I don’t think that cuts it.

Sonya Thomas: The Gloria Steinem of the gullet? That’s the claim.

My sarcasm-psychogalvanometer needs realignment because I’m having a real hard time getting a reading from these announcers. Can that Steinem claim be for real?

Here we go!

Best lines during the actual 12 minutes of eating…

  • He is going to cement his place with other great Italian athletes like Tomba, Andretti and DiMaggio!
  • He’s starting to show fatigue. Not jaw fatigue but mental fatigue. See how his head is shaking?
  • Kobayashi’s looks like he’s slowing down. +He’s not Japanesing or solomoning. It’s not good to change your style halfway though. OH! There’s a double Tokyo style!
  • Now it all comes down to hot dog management, Paul.
And in a frothing panic of 4th of July nationalism…
  • Joey Chestnut has the blood of patriots in his veins.
  • He is the best eater America has ever seen.
  • If Joey can win this, then the nation will take notice. This is the kid who’s doing it for the USA. He’s got a brother in Iraq and he said he really wanted to bring it (The Mustard Belt) home for him.
And we have a winner! Like I predicted, Chestnut withered but it was a good showing for the rookie and apparently the most hot dogs shoved down your maw ever by an American. In the end it was Kobayashi’s day and his sixth consecutive championship ties him with Lance Armstrong as the greatest athlete in the history of non-gilled breathing. Or at least according to the announcers.

Now, let's go watch the Germans cave in the literal final seconds.