paradise island/chocolate city

Jenny Hoyston, solo.

hey guess where I've never, ever been: Phase I. who's up for a probably really fun time?

finally, some excitement

unconfirmed as of 2:29 PM EDT:

i may have just single-handedly crashed an entire network of media displays in conference rooms across Shanghai.

my life is so fucking dull i am forced to type up boring exchanges as some sort of placeholder for actual content. i want to kick myself in the face?

"So, when I leave boxes full of misc. work crap in the back of yr Jeep for a long time, (Ed note: just under two months isn't really that long, non?) what happens?"

"What do you mean, what happens?"

"I mean: what happens? Besides the boxes being a giant nuisance and me being apathetic about bringing them into work, because it's hot and sweaty out and I don't want to carry a big box of binders half a block to my office, and I'm lazy and I kind of forget they are even back there. What actually happens to the car? Anything?"

"Um."

"Nothing BAD, right? Nothing BAD happpens to the car."

"Right."

"So, say someone (Ed note: "that someone being YOU"), in passive-aggressive retaliation, leaves stuff in the back of MY car, what happens?"

"Um"

"You'd think nothing BAD would happen, right? Like how nothing BAD happens to your car when I leave a box of binders in there?"

"Right."

"Maybe you should go look in the back of my car."

"Maybe you should just tell me what's up."

"Maybe you left a Costco-size jug of laundry detergent in there, a jug I couldn't see, because it had tipped behind a Costco-size pallet of paper towels, and then proceeded to leak all over my back seat and now the rHonda's back bench is bright blue. Maybe that happened"

"I bet it smells better."

"I will kill you in your sleep."

"Let's talk about how you left a frozen pizza in my car last week and I just found it."

". . ."

". . ."


"fair enough. high five."


* * *


In other news, during our suburban drive last night, the G.p. and I made major progress on new business cards for ourselves. They'll have the PIFF blog url and our names, and our titles will be Vice Presidents of Hey. Is That Temp Supposed to be Here, Eating That Sandwich? Doesn't He Know That Catering is for the Biz Dev Meeting on the Third Floor?



Sigh. Friday.

"i just wanted to personally get in touch with mr. loggins on this"

patton oswalt on the latest C&M.

watching/reading/not working/misc:

- the Jena Six

- free fonts from Peter Saville, including the Joy Division "Closer" font.

- "People are repulsed by their appearance." Also, the fuckers hiss.

- Brandon Bird and friend head to ComiCon. Also, a new print I want. Badly.

* * *

("Did you bring your baby? Babies don't watch this. Take the seed outside. Leave it in the streets. Run over it after the show.")

So. In previous gossipy exhcanges, I have found out that classmates from my high school have been really into naming their children after dairy products (think: "Brie". "Colby". etc.) Soooooo. When you find out that, say, One Of Them has now dubbed their offspring the same as an inexpensive alcoholic beverage, what's the appropriate reaction? I mean, this is proving par for the course for Them? I just forget this ever happened, right? Wait. I can't just choose to ignore this, people. I can't. It's all a v. slippery slope, soon there will be a child somewhere in the Novalands named Red Headed Slut Smith, and we will know her roots, and they will be the same as mine, and we will be collectively and exhaustively ashamed, won't we? Won't we.

I would have assumed he got shotgun by default.

Missed connections

You – giant-headed former President riding coyly down Independence this morning in a silver Solara convertible.

Me – almost crashing into a taxi while trying to take your picture.

Where were you going? Please be careful. You make an incredibly tempting target for Hessian snipers.

Also, no motorcade? Even the Dalai Lama gets a motorcade.

bobby arpeggio!

it's official: i have a weird simmering crush on Mike Rowe. He has the best forearms ever. And if you haven't seen the episode of "Dirty Jobs" where he has to deal with some totally insane monkey conservationist woman in S. Africa, you are missing some quality talkybox programming right there. Also, there's this.

guess everyone gotta pay the bills, son.

big umbrella/always wet

Back when it seemed like a fond illusion, if someone were to ask me (and they did) what broken-up band I’d pay just about anything to see live, I would have said The Police. But then Gordon played the hurdy gurdy at one awards ceremony and wore a vest and no shirt at another. He also recorded several albums as Sting.

When it was announced they were touring again and playing at the Virgin/Pimlico thing some people wanted to know if I was still among those willing to fork over the $100+. I have two answers. First, we are out of town so it doesn’t matter. Second, fuck no.

Our out-of-town-ness is also the reason I didn’t enter the DCist’s lolcat/Richard Branson’s teeth contest. Someone who really wants to see 311 and waste their day photoshopping can have the tickets. I just wanted to waste my day.


Smashing Pumpkins



2 TV on the Radios






Modest Mouse




Peter Bjorn and John




Spoon



And a bonus Arcade Fire since they’re not playing Baltimore.

sound salvation/cleaning up the nation

Just a reminder: if you are like me and are an anti-social hermit who doesn't believe in phones, you can always email yr senators too.

zombie of the ghost of the corpse

Writing and Dice Club, can you get any more awesome? I mean, zombie fan fic aside (awesome #1), who else will spend hours watching and rewatching youtube videos with each other (awesome #2)?

Last night (after "Serious Critique" but before "Semi Drunken Let's Start an Arts Journal OMG!!!!Brainstorming Session") we tackled all the weighty issues of the internet: Dramatic Chipmunk, Same Girl, Cute Ear Flicking Tickle Koala, Linoleum Knife (personal favorite), and some Brad Neely Bible History.

I was a toddler, every time a delicious piece of media ended I'd be all: "AGAIN! AGAIN!" Thank you, Kriston Capps. Thank you.

Then I came home and almost chopped my hand off at the wrist with a ceiling fan. Long story.

ibusy today, go somewhere else

got tix, you should too.

may i echo a commenter when i say: "i want to throw a baby chimp"

Until last weekThe G is not easily angered. There are really only a few pet peeves that will get her seriously riled. One of the few, however, is when I find forgotten cash monies in my laundered pockets. It infuriates her for baffling reasons.

Me? I figure Future-Nabob just received a Community Development Block Grant from past-Nabob, especially when HUD requirements dictate that it must be spent on Big League Chew and Garbage Pail Kids.


Like all of Asia, Future-Nabob loves the Pet Shop Boys.

But this one has me terribly vexed.



I haven’t worn this jacket in about 14 months. I’ve also never been to Sri Lanka.

echoing the entire blawgoworld

no really. The new Spoon album? Greatness.

If it rains in london, can you look at pron! in Baghdad? Chaos Butterfly says No.

Thoughts on five days of crutches:

If you leave RFK on the Metro, there is a cop at the bottom of the escamalator who say “no. you can not get on this first train. not yours.” That is unless you hobble down with crutches. Then you are welcomed aboard like Yuri Gagarin and given just as many medals. From now on I will carry crutches to every game so I can ride the handicap train.

The problems? First, every drunk wants to know what happened to your foot. Softball injury is unimpressive. Bear trap works. So does running through prairie dog town and stepping in a hole.

Secondly, even though you’re allowed on closest train leaving Stadium-Armory, you’re put off at the point farthest from the escalator at your stop. It all washes out limply in the end.


----------


My brother in law has mono. I can’t walk. From what I understand, I could still beat him in a 50 yard dash. And the sit-n-reach. Not the shuttle run, though.


----------


The best movie to watch on cable when you can’t go anywhere on a Sunday morning is The Hunt For Red October. Teh worst is Beverly Hills Ninja or that one with Tara Reid and Christian Slater and the bad guy from Blade in the Dark.

The best movie to watch when you can go somewhere on Monday morning is Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Blockbuster does not carry this and that is a disgrace. Fortunately, they just, just, just got in Battlestar Galoctopus Season 2.0 which is great since now I won’t have to join Netflix to watch it.

----------

Between my eyes and the TV, my big swollen toes peak out worthlessly under an Ace bandage. They are fat in the way I imagine George Wendt’s toes are fat. And on the TV, Kelly Clarkson new video plays continually on the channels that still play videos. The connection? Clarkson’s fingers are as gross and swollen as my and George Wendt’s toes but she doesn’t have sprained anything.

I’m sure the song is a pop masterpiece and that Kelly is wonderfully nice girl. But she has strange little hands. In the video she keeps rubbing them over some bald dudes head and it’s not appealing.

I'm not the only person to feel this way either. Kelly's on the cover of Elle this month and her portrait has been heavily photoshopped. I understand that this has been common ever since TV Guide put Oprah's melon on Ann-Margret's gams. (The most recent publicized example was Andy Roddick’s new guns on the cover of Men’s Fitness. Less noticed was the previous month’s issue where they airbrushed abs on the outside of the cover model’s shirt.) Still, I really think they touched up her fingers to make them seem longer. They are still gross.

and then avril says: "i think you need a new one."

You know, fair enough. This is actually a very good idea and I am all about such penance. I am going to actually have to listen to KW and the Game like 7000 billion times tho, until my brain actually squishes out my ears, mostly because yesterday I made the tragic mistake of introducing all 12 episodes of "Trapped in the Closet" to my spouse's ex-sorority-sis-type relative (pure as the driven snow, headband-n-kick-pleated-skirts, southern-mom-style) relative, and she ate all that up with a big silver spoon and is actually demanding more. I've been uncomfortable all morning. (well, uncomfortable as a girl making flowcharts by hand entitled "What Should I Have for Lunch?" can be.) I am so sorry for my sins.

(btw. I really dont think I'd like Kanye. Have I made that clear before? Maybe. I bet if I met him in person I'd be the biggest snarky piece of shit to him. Oh well.) Here, have more Lil Mama, gifts from Amanda.

Another confession: I have recently downloaded R's "I'm a Flirt" vs Broken Social Scene remix. And play it a lot. A lot a lot. GOD SEND HELP.

I SERIOUSLY LOVE FLOWCHARTS

oh man. my mornings are really always better than my afternoons nowadays, why is that? Look what I just found in the admin's desk while I was looking for candy a large knife with which to stabby stab the idiots on a certain work email chain i am having to moderate cigarettes and booze envelopes:



I didn't even know something like this existed. If you need me, I'll be spending my day flowcharting the SHIT out of some things.

PS, the Nats suck, in case you haven't been following their epic asskicking the past two evenings. Luckily I was able to drink part of that pain away last night.

We also didnt pay for parking since a) we didnt have the $4 and b) the G just drove right of the garage like she owned the place

4 things I’m glad my parents wouldn’t let me do as a 12-year-old.

1. Get a Nintendo
2. Buy George Michael’s Faith album
3. Get a trampoline
4. Hang out at comic book store with that guy who chewed matches

Last night, I did my best to make sure that “softball* injury” moved up past (stupid old Robert K trying to jump into the pool from the) “trampoline injury” in the 2007 calculations for emergency room visits. The swelling had not gone down after 4 days of ice and bed rest and some people were getting concerned that this may be more than a sprain. My agent also kept reminding me that I’m in the last year of my contract and it’s not the time to goof around with something like this.

The typical emergency room procedure occured: wait an hour to be recognized as a patient, read New Yorker from 2005, get scolded by nurses for walking on a clearly bruised and swollen ankle, get sent back to waiting area in a wheelchair, get laughed at by wife, challenge her to Murderball, finally get seen by doctor two hours after arrival**, get X-rays.

Verdict: Not broken. And not really that painful. The doctor offered to prescribe something for the pain but I replied that the Skittles I was eating was medicine enough. She did not find it very funny. There were few smiles anywhere at that hospital.***

Final thoughts: The G said that if I didn’t stop goofing off in the wheelchair that she would ask the staff to strap me into some of the exam room machines so she could then pull the plug. I responded “fine” since the most advanced instrument was called a Vacutron and at worst I may suffer from a hickey. They also had a tube labeled “MEDICAL AIR” but the nurse was unable to adequately explain the difference between it and regular air. However, she did confirm that there was a giant tank of Medical Air somewhere in the building.



*I found out when we were leaving that the triage nurse inferred that the ankle was injured during a baseball game and it was too late to change. Softball now moves further behind trampoline.
**Just like on TV, The Fray’s “How to Save a Life” played repeatedly in every room
*** Growing up, my best friend’s parents knew Patch Adams. I played with his son, Atomic Zagnut Adams, on occasion. He goes by Zag.

Works for TBS? Yep.

This morning's report:

I have thus far listened to R. Kelly's "Same Girl" 700 times. I think I can officially say my bad mood has lifted.

EDIT: H/T to DCeiver, who I hadn't noticed had posted the link to this, in case you want to waste your entire day watching it over and over like I am. They go play basketball about 2/3 in.

poll

hey heres a question internet: if I recently bought a shirt with pink polka dots all over it, obviously marketed to a 13 year old, should I be beaten to death with a shoe horn?

YES/NO

middlin'

word.

And with that, I'd like to take this opportunity to quickly thank Mr. Reindflesch, a pretty scary Vietnam-vet-turned-Algebra-I teacher, who chose to ignore my boyfriend and I as we frenched at my locker post-7th-period-pre-volleyball-practice every afternoon. Except for that one time when he told us to "at least stop the clumsy groping." Oh, young love.

reno road

Fort Reno, you have magical healing powers along with yr Icee pops. After the mic was straightened out, the Boom Orangutangs did their thing (I want the singers "Cult Idol" teeshirt), Deleted Scenes made 17 year olds dance and assured all us old people in the back they'd "never play an 21-n-over show again cause they never dance!" (love it) and then Mass Movement of the Moth came on and made me laugh like I hadn't cracked a smile since...well last Thursday, or whatever, which is about right. The lead singer is like Rasputin crossed with a pterodactyl.

As I rained blows upon him, I realized there had to be another way.

I spent my entire weekend seething, which takes a lot out of a girl. Luckily there was a Cops marathon on for part of last night.

also: whoever invented "sitekey" can officially eat ass. I hate you. I hate the fact that you assign some random shitty clip art (a picture of Rome?) to my online 401k account, and then I HAVE TO REMEMBER WHAT I NAMED THE PHOTO in order to log in. Um... "The Coliseum Is Dumb"? "Lion Eats Gladiator"? "Skeezy Italian 30 Year Olds Making Pay by Pretending to Jerk Off in Roman Costumes Hit On Me Here in 1999"? "106 Degrees in the Goddamn Shade"? "College Drunk Hangover Drunk Drunk Headache Tour"? I certainly can't remember. I'm hoping I named it something awesome like: "Indiana!"







i'll be back when i damn well feel like it. I am going to fort reno tonight, and eating Popeyes, so I should be back in fighting form by 8:15 pm or so.

Hello, son. Would you want to try the flying motorcycle I just invented?

There’s been some major infrastructure repair going on in the streets near the stately Pygmalion Manor. Blacker and stickier roads! Bone-white sidewalks replacing the old collapsed ones destroyed by a winter of over-salting! Lego-like paving bricks to prevent baby strollers from carelessly rolling into oncoming Jettas!

The new sidewalks are the most exciting since wet cement is the most appetizing artistic medium to any 12-year-old boy and man-idiots like me. But time after time, the new sections were all dried up by the time I got home. It was like driving down Bladensburg by Hogs on the Hill and you smell the BBQ but you’re late and can’t stop. Also, you only have $3 in your wallet and there are no banks nearby. Plus Florida Avenue is still all backed up with construction and when you drive by this one house you see people just sitting inside on their laptops when they should be at real jobs. And your hungry and there was BBQ back there.

That’s what dry cement is like, Capps.

But then I found a wet patch a few weeks back. First, I pretended I was Remo Williams and ran across without falling in. Then I moon walked through it. Finally I had the dog do a little canine jig on it.

And you know what? It looks like pure Scheiße. I regret it up and down. If I catch my kid doing anything like it I will tan him six ways until Caturday.



I’m back baby!

or Klondike

Oh yeah, remember Writing Club? It's pretty much devolved into a lot of drinking and talking about dice. We're like Guys N Dolls all of a sudden. I was all set on renaming ourselves "The International Bone Rollers Guild" but apparently that's taken.

Screw creative writing assignments about zombies, let's focus on scumbag.

dare to stand up and shout hooray

- Something I am enjoying this morning as I drink my overly-sweetened coffee: Ted Leo Talking about exploding shower heads. I KNEW rock personnel had stage clothes! My stage clothes are reserved for walking the dog.

- This week has been chock full of family, since Higher Powers decided it would be really awesome to put two in-law birthdays and Father's day and Flag Day all in one week. Thanks a shitload. It's not like I don't love these people, don't get me wrong, but seeing my mother seventeen times in 6 days is a bit of overkill. She'd say so too.

- We won our volleyball game last night, handily.

- Everyone in my life is getting new jobs or looking for new jobs or thinking about new jobs or trying to decide if they' d like to start side businesses selling crocheted hats for lions. Or whatever. There's something with the moon or tides. Early summer brings change, along with those goddamn afernoon thunderstroms that have flattened my petunias into the saddest looking fuckers you've ever seen.

- Tonight I'm gonna go weasel drinks of CatAn, since she has the best job in the universe. Courtesy her BTW: I wasn’t wearing a bike helmet. The only people who wear bike helmets are 13-year old girls and Tony Hawk, but that’s skateboarding and he’s doing flips and stuff. I’m going straight.

bad habits

something that needs to cease immediately, for the sake of my own sanity:

idly browsing midwest city craiglist real estate listings.

I might as well be shoving sharpened bamboo under each toenail while listening to scissor sisters. why yes, i would like to buy your lovely brick tudor for 89k. And stay at home at make apple butter or whatever. Where do I sign?

confession

i was just looking at the 930 club schedule? I did not know Rooney was a real band? I thought they were like the Monkees or something, for The OC gen?

? ? ?



(OH ALSO: MJ's already heard the leaked Beastie Boys album (The Mix Up) and reports it sounds like Paul Weller. Or Death in Vegas. I only have one Paul Weller track in my IPod and I didn't put it there, so I don't really know what to make of this. Anyhoooves, June 26th.)

i am too bored to actually post my innermost thoughts and feelings and desires

things google/blogs/ internets have gifted me recently:

- Steinberg doodles

- Bomb

- Take it from me: Last night we determined this stuff? will probably kill you. Kill you dead and how.

- I really need to start watching more of the Lifetime channel.

- Awesome.

Also, i had totally forgotten about the existence of Carson Daly until probably last week, and holy crap. What happened to that guy? He looks like a Saturn dealer. Or a guidance counselor.

simple life

the five second update:

I have two bottles of absinth in my house, my brother has been diagnosed with mono (at an extremely old age, it seems - "I just thought I was really bored") and last night I watched the E! news special on Anna Nicole Smith. And like five minutes of Supernanny. Okay, maybe seven.

or, the entire internet could committ spontaneous suicide instead of going to prom

h.t. to CatAn, this: the most hilarious thing, ever? Yes.

along again naturally

it's been single-parent-city at the Pyg homestead recently. The N has been gone for seemingly weeks, which has resulted in a severe lack of showering/grocery shopping (besides quick stops for limes gin-n-tonic limes, the entire fridge now overfloweth with citrus), a lot of bad television, some naps, and a trip to Dinosaur Land. Also, slurpees.

It will be nice to have an adult back in the house. The dog obvs. doesn't count.

you got served

Something i learned yesterday: the sand volleyball court near our house? i always assumed taking care of it was part of the Arlington Co. parks & recs employee duties. It's always been a shit court, may I add.

BEHOLD!!!! New poles, new net, perfectly maintained sand! And who does one have to thank for such a turnaround?

Apparently the court is now actually dug up in the early morning walkin-the-dog hours by at least 7 inmates from Arlington County Jail. Wearing orange jumpsuits! Guarded by officers! As they shovel the hell out of that long-neglected sand pit that now looks super super super terrific!

So thx, jailbirds.

harpy

if i live that long, please let me turn out like this guy.

"blaeegghhhhssssaaah. And Jessica Alba."

I cannot wait for this x a million.

The N: "just listening to Rudd read the cast list is worth $10"

proof i am a completely and utterly unfixable human

my most recent "i-get-beaten-by-a-roided-out-boyfriend-every-night" bruises are shaping up quite nicely, thanks for asking. This particular beaut is from having to choke up so far on the big heavy man-bats in softball, I actually hit myself in the left forearm with the knobby end of the stick every time I swing.

What is it like to be a graceful person? Is it a life full of whimsy and ice cream and perfect, unblemished skin? Someone tell me, I am aching (literally) to live vicariously through you. Ballerinas can skip commenting altogether and straight-up email me. I mean, I know yr feet are probably fucked up from years of dancing, but I bet you don't walk into walls.

hymns for the hopeless

GAH. internet, assistance, i beg for. i am looking for an mp3 of the song "feast of a thousand beasts," by william elliott whitmore and jenny hoysten (it's the first track on the hallways of always album*.) ITunes doesn't have it. All the other usual sources have failed me. I am planning on buying the album like a good n proper girl. But til it arrives from the internets, someone help.

* (note: i found this album in the backseat of my closing-in-on-60-yr-old father in law's car. who is significantly cooler than me (the man, not the car), and would probably school me in like a competition of erase errata trivia or whatever.)

UPDATE ALREADY!: Resolved! Tom Lee, as usual, pwns the internet.

Gilheney - the worst a hemophiliac can get

The thought of buying a replacement mattress for the one destroyed by the Mangler was so undesirable that these little Pyggies opted to repeatedly leave the state in search for a more pleasurable and sandy circumstance. Unfortunately, the time has arrived (summer) where guests have begun inviting themselves to come to Washington, see the Ronald Reagan building, go on unlicensed Segway tours, and beg their crooked congresswomen to expedite their passport applications since that Hantavirus isn’t gonna spread itself. I guess we can’t ask them to sleep in the bath tub any more - I am almost 40, for fraternity’s sake.

Sigh.

In the same vein, mattresses are no longer things you just sort of inherent from your cousin when she graduates from college. It’s one of those annoying purchases that require you to talk to a salesman while he makes you sit there at his desk since he still writes the receipt out by hand, for some reason. There’s also the repeated insistence that seriously, dude, we just need your cheapest mattress and no bedspring and we don’t want an upgrade to the newest Swedish bed technology you guys are pushing. Or maybe NASA’s.

That’s why I whole heartedly endorse whatever the Mattress place is that we went to in Bailey’s Crossroads. The salesman wasn’t aggressive. He gave us what seemed to be a good deal. And he smiled the whole time, even though it was clear he wasn't having a good day.

Case in point:

• Our mattress was at the bottom of a big stack that he had to move by himself.
• He ran out of string for car roof tying.
• While we were maneuvering the mattress out of the backdoor, it slammed closed and locked us out. Our salesman just stood there and stared hound-doggedly until I volunteered to run around the mall to the front and open the door.

While I was gone, the G reports that when she told the salesman that this was a “comedy of errors” he laughed so hard and enthusiastically, she got nervous.

The fact that he was out of rope was also a little suspicious since he instantly suggested we try the Dollar Store next door. Even more so, when the lol-Dollar Store!!1! guy was all, “O hai! You need has rope now? One dollar k bye,” as soon as we walked in the door. But if there was some strip mall collusion going on, it was a pretty sad scam. One dollar for every mattress sold is not going to keep 1,2,3 Dollar! in business.

But maybe this will.



I can’t find any record of Gilheny brand razors anywhere except for an example of their availability in the Guangdong province. There were no instructions on the back but I imagine they would just show a happy man with a beard on his face followed by a sad man with blood, tetanus and lockjaw on his face. Also, the aloe strip was replaced with lemon juice strip.

no crying

PFork interviews Will Sheff, more on The Stage Names.

PIAB- yr DOS updates

(Defenders of Stan: episode 8 up now.)

(And after you're done digesting that, please watch Lil Mama's "Lip Gloss." )

and then Bono showed up.

Chris Rock writes about his first trip to Africa, when he met with Nelson Mandela. "I went to Mandela's house, but I didn't have a sense that he knew who I was; I didn't have these great accomplishments or anything," Rock, who helped launch (Red), says. "His kids, grandkids, and security guards knew who I was, but what do you say to Nelson Mandela? This guy's so great, what the fuck is he doing meeting with me? Is Ja Rule coming in next? Mandela should be meeting with Bono and Oprah … He shouldn't be meeting with the guy from Pootie Tang."

S. pointed me to Annie Leibovitz's Vanity Fair covers. It's a great idea, and I love the way V-F worked the term "shout-outs" into their subhead. Nice work, writer squad! To recap: Condi looks like zombie hell; Chris Rock is treating Warren Buffet's ear like a lucky rabbits foot; Oprah is having an orgasm over the shoulder of Clooney; Clooney, in turn, is sharing his latest lyric ideas with Jay-Z; Iman is on loan from Madame Toussauds; and so on.

But this one is my favorite: WHY IS DESMOND TUTU ABOUT TO EAT BRAD PITT???? He looks like he is gazing upon a delicios Thanksgiving turkey or something. I'm mildly concerned, and massively humored.

(Noted: S. also likes the one of Madonna about to stick her tongue in Maya Angelou's ear. Hot. )

Jan Delay covert Nena!

The N and I have a new favorite artist: Jan Delay.

Here, Jan walks hand-in-trunk with an elephant, while channeling UB40.

Here, Jan frolics surfside in winter garb with indifferent mod ladies, his dachsund, and a seashell. That he raps into.

Here, Jan joins the Campfire Girls, or maybe the Nazi Youth. Or maybe Soundgarden. I'm not sure yet. Anyway: fire, and cavemen.

And here, Jan dresses like Yassar Arafat while making friends with clown protestors and a Revolutionary War marching band.


Obviously, neither the N or I speak German. We also don't speak reggae, so all of this is just a best guess. But JAN DELAY, people! Catch the fever.

Things My Father Hates (Updated):

- Balloons
- Parades
- Macy Gray
- Roadside Memorials dedicated to drunk driving crashes/hit-n-runs/other tragic teen deaths, especially if they involve stuffed animals and/or fake flowers from Michael's (NEW FOR SPRING 2007!!!!)

ding ding ding

Yesterday I was going to post a lot, but then I got wrapped up in some serious IM's with Amanda regarding ghosts. Did you know the Virginia Paranormal Conference was cancelled this year due to lagging ticket sales? WTF. If I had known, I would have been there.

Amanda: did you watch Angel at all? one of the characters had a ghost, dennis who totally took care of her. drew her baths, teleported the phone to her when it was ringing, etc

The G: ah, no. angel was on tv during an alcoholic phase where i didn't own cable because it interfered with bar tab money. but I NEED A DENNIS

Amanda: yeah he's the shit

The G: i'll look into that. recruiting a ghost. you think ghosts read craigslist?

Amanda: oh my god. i was typing the exact same thing. jinx

The G: wanted: one ghost (kindly)

Amanda: you owe me a ghost!

The G: also, a magician. OH! OH! WAIT! Ooooh..... LOLGHOSTS.



More later. Until then, muskrat feet earrings, please.

a celebration of blog

( btw: for those who care [3 random internet strangers who have emailed me], I have resurrected [kind of] the abandoned Chi-Chis blog.)

hollywood

Intereviews like this solidify my belief that Matt Damon is a super nice dude and probably fun to go drink PBR with/start petty arguments with about like, the Justice League, mock-fights that end in smiles and shots and headlocks/hair-ruffling. Please, no one email me with tales of him acting like a typical Hollywood d-bag, I'm in a fragile state these days.

I saw 2 movies this weekend: Knocked Up (relatively funny, Seth Rogen is Al Brooks Jr., all the Apatow-alum roomates stole the show from the lead roles, and I am pretty sure I went to college with the "Jody" character) and Pirates (sucked, not surprisingly.)

i need a date

i have 2 tickets to the nats game tuesday night. my spouse and bff are both out of town. who's in? too late suckers, I am a hot commodity apparently.

Take that, Hamilton!

If my understanding of DC history is correct, the grounds where the Ronald Reagan building stands have been:

1. a swamp-assed forest
2. an awkward triangle in L’Enfant’s partially realized dream
3. a neighborhood of brothels, flopboxes, scratch cribs, bordellos, saloons and other piles of kindling.
4. the failed re-realization of L’Enfant’s dream left uncompleted due to a crippling national depression.
5. a parking lot
6. the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center, opened 1998

If this is correct, then I don’t see why there are 8000 middle school kids coming to visit it every day in the spring. President Reagan, yours is the only building within the District’s borders to house a Smoothie King. The metal detectors and mile wilting sun walk, I can abide. But when I wants my smoothie I wants it now. Not after 30 minutes worth of line waiting and dozens of children have pawing over your Smoothie King brand Estrogen supplements, which they sell for some reason.

But on the plus side…

On my way back from “lunch” I saw three young teenage boys lifting up their shirts and flashing their skinny pale stomachs and chests through the fence outside the Treasury Department. Oh hell yeah, I thought, non-violent political protest and disobedience! I sure hope Deputy Assistant Secretary for Critical Infrastructure Protection and Compliance Policy D. Scott Parsons is looking out his office window right now. These boys want him to know that they think his policies are pure bunk! In your face!

Unfortunately, this was not the case and I doubt the little scamps even knew what building they were in front of. They stood there long enough to allow the rotating jet sprinklers to splash across their soft bellies. Then their teacher yelled at them and they scampered off. You win this round, Secretary Paulson.