Find some tape. Look at it for awhile. Study its texture; its weight, mass and sticky properties. Now, if you please, attempt to answer the following:
If I took a bunch of scotch tape, and balled it up into a wad that's about, oh, say, 6 inches in diameter, and then I crammed it into my mouth, what would the probability be that I would:
A) choke to death
B) giggle and sit there writing my latest magazine article with tape in my mouth for about an hour or so until it lost its stickiness
C) have my jaws stuck together and when you look at me, all you'd see is a sad, tear-streaked face, bulbous protruding cheeks, and a transparent mass of sorts between my lips... I cry, for I am stuck this way now.
Anyway, this would be a good question to pose to a second-year Probability and Statistics class. I wouldn't give it to the first-years; this sort of stuff is way over their heads. Let them ease into it, I always say.
(The answer is: A) 10% B) 50% C)1.67% I am almost positive this adds up to 100. I better check with a team of specialists. If you know some "math types" have them check this for me. Being a writer, I "don't do the Math.")
Thursday, August 28, 2003
This morning as I was sitting in the left-turn lane on my way to work, there was a guy with a mustache, wearing an orange T-shirt with a road worker reflector vest standing in the lane next to me, working a piece of equipment. (Road construction crew) As I watched, he turned this thing on and it cut through the pavement. It was extraordinary.
I realize that, to some, I might sound like an ass. But listen! This thing he was using was like a lawnmower-contraption, with one big spinning blade on the bottom. At first I thought he was drawing a chalk line on the ground-- remember those machines the maintenance guys that worked at your school used in order to make the white lines on the athletic fields? That's what it looked like. But I saw this blade just sort of sink down into the pavement. It looked so easy and so fun! So this guy spent his morning slicing through pavement, making big long cuts in order to do something that will undoubtedly be very important to the infrastructure of this fair city. Perhaps, fix a water pipe? Repair some gas lines? Who knows! But there he was, mustache and all, just cutting away at pavement.
This sounds very fun to me. Although I did sigh a big relief-sigh that my leg or unample bosoms weren't the things getting all sliced up by that whirly blade. Whew!
While we're on the subject, I also wish I had one of those chalk/whitestuff machines to make athletic field lines. I would just push it down the hallway at work here, whistling a jaunty tune (like the refrain from Metallica's "One") and coating the floor with perfectly straight lines for the 'game' later on. You should also realize that I am not wearing any pants in this scenario (just polka-dotted boxers), and there are crowds of adorable baby kittens following behind me as I go, making adorable baby kitten mewing-sounds. And the kittens are all wearing tiny hats-- English Bobby hats, pith helmets, sombreros, bucket hats, you name it. And the people from the correctional facility are still at least 20 minutes away from arriving.
I realize that, to some, I might sound like an ass. But listen! This thing he was using was like a lawnmower-contraption, with one big spinning blade on the bottom. At first I thought he was drawing a chalk line on the ground-- remember those machines the maintenance guys that worked at your school used in order to make the white lines on the athletic fields? That's what it looked like. But I saw this blade just sort of sink down into the pavement. It looked so easy and so fun! So this guy spent his morning slicing through pavement, making big long cuts in order to do something that will undoubtedly be very important to the infrastructure of this fair city. Perhaps, fix a water pipe? Repair some gas lines? Who knows! But there he was, mustache and all, just cutting away at pavement.
This sounds very fun to me. Although I did sigh a big relief-sigh that my leg or unample bosoms weren't the things getting all sliced up by that whirly blade. Whew!
While we're on the subject, I also wish I had one of those chalk/whitestuff machines to make athletic field lines. I would just push it down the hallway at work here, whistling a jaunty tune (like the refrain from Metallica's "One") and coating the floor with perfectly straight lines for the 'game' later on. You should also realize that I am not wearing any pants in this scenario (just polka-dotted boxers), and there are crowds of adorable baby kittens following behind me as I go, making adorable baby kitten mewing-sounds. And the kittens are all wearing tiny hats-- English Bobby hats, pith helmets, sombreros, bucket hats, you name it. And the people from the correctional facility are still at least 20 minutes away from arriving.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
You know what also equals comedy? Jumping out of human-sized boxes and scaring people.
Rob and Eric have been calling people to come upstairs all day to pick up "a package." When you get up there, Eric tells you to go to the fax machine to get it, and when you turn and walk to the fax machine, Rob jumps out of an empty cardboard box that a new file cabinet was sent in.
When they got me, I just jumped and gasped a little. Nothing too dramatic. But some of the other girls here have been screaming, jumping and stamping their feet. It's really funny, and the ultimate office ice breaker. And it's fun for the people in the neighboring office suites, who surely must be entertained by all the random screaming today.
Rob and Eric have been calling people to come upstairs all day to pick up "a package." When you get up there, Eric tells you to go to the fax machine to get it, and when you turn and walk to the fax machine, Rob jumps out of an empty cardboard box that a new file cabinet was sent in.
When they got me, I just jumped and gasped a little. Nothing too dramatic. But some of the other girls here have been screaming, jumping and stamping their feet. It's really funny, and the ultimate office ice breaker. And it's fun for the people in the neighboring office suites, who surely must be entertained by all the random screaming today.
So anyway, I am playing one of the nurses in M*A*S*H right now. I don't mean to say that I am sitting here at my desk, pretending I am an army nurse in the Korean War, but now that I bring it up, it does sound like a nice idea to get me through the day. Especially since I have all these spare catheters laying around everywhere.
It's a theater production down in Tempe that I speak of. I was at rehearsal last night and they told us we all need to learn the words to the theme song. Before I was cast in this show, I didn't even know there were words that went to that music they always played at the beginning of the show. Apparently, there are. And they are weird words, and maybe I am getting stupider all the time, but I honestly can't tell what this song is really saying about... suicide.
The name of the song, in case you didn't already know, is "Suicide is Painless." The chorus goes:
Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it
If I please...
So here's my quandry. Does the song advocate offing yourself, or is it a terse commentary on the meaninglessness of killing yourself? I was sitting there on the floor last night at rehearsal, half-mumbling the lyrics as the guy who plays Radar sat next to me strummin' a guitar, and I wondered about what I was really singing about. It makes my cerebellum hurt. It feels too deep for me. Like maybe I need a masters in English or something to get it. Although everyone in the cast seems cool with it, so that leads me to think that maybe the whole country knows what this song is about and I am just some kid that was raised in a dark closet with no access to pop culture, or something.
This was in stark contrast to a rehearsal last week, where we were pretending to operate on a guy, and as I am one of the nurses, I was standing next to the guy playing Duke. While we were waiting to continue with the scene, we were fooling around improving that whole, "Nurse, scalpel!" thing that surgeons do. So he goes, "Nurse, scalpel!" I pretend to hand him an invisible scalpel. "Nurse, swabs!" I hand him the "swabs." Next: "Nurse, tweezers!" I hand over some very small "tweezers."
Then, he leans over the guy who's supposed to be the patient and mimes lifting up his penis with the tweezers. And for some reason, I started laughing like a retarded kid at that one. This show is going to be a runaway hit! You can almost feel the magic!
In closing, even with the confusing suicide song, M*A*S*H is fun stuff. Especially when we can make the occasional tweezer-dick joke. You can't lose with a tweezer-dick joke.
It's a theater production down in Tempe that I speak of. I was at rehearsal last night and they told us we all need to learn the words to the theme song. Before I was cast in this show, I didn't even know there were words that went to that music they always played at the beginning of the show. Apparently, there are. And they are weird words, and maybe I am getting stupider all the time, but I honestly can't tell what this song is really saying about... suicide.
The name of the song, in case you didn't already know, is "Suicide is Painless." The chorus goes:
Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it
If I please...
So here's my quandry. Does the song advocate offing yourself, or is it a terse commentary on the meaninglessness of killing yourself? I was sitting there on the floor last night at rehearsal, half-mumbling the lyrics as the guy who plays Radar sat next to me strummin' a guitar, and I wondered about what I was really singing about. It makes my cerebellum hurt. It feels too deep for me. Like maybe I need a masters in English or something to get it. Although everyone in the cast seems cool with it, so that leads me to think that maybe the whole country knows what this song is about and I am just some kid that was raised in a dark closet with no access to pop culture, or something.
This was in stark contrast to a rehearsal last week, where we were pretending to operate on a guy, and as I am one of the nurses, I was standing next to the guy playing Duke. While we were waiting to continue with the scene, we were fooling around improving that whole, "Nurse, scalpel!" thing that surgeons do. So he goes, "Nurse, scalpel!" I pretend to hand him an invisible scalpel. "Nurse, swabs!" I hand him the "swabs." Next: "Nurse, tweezers!" I hand over some very small "tweezers."
Then, he leans over the guy who's supposed to be the patient and mimes lifting up his penis with the tweezers. And for some reason, I started laughing like a retarded kid at that one. This show is going to be a runaway hit! You can almost feel the magic!
In closing, even with the confusing suicide song, M*A*S*H is fun stuff. Especially when we can make the occasional tweezer-dick joke. You can't lose with a tweezer-dick joke.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
I've got to stop being this busy at work. Normally I have more slack time than this; I don't know what's been going on, but it's starting to cut into normal Blog time a little much. I need someone to write my boss a note. I need permission to cut so I can Blog.
Today's big news is the fact that our dog, Callie, broke through our living room window while barking at the mailman. Callie is most likely a mix between a golden retriever and a shepherd and/or Chow (we adopted her from RESCUE [link on right], so who knows where she came from), and she's easily about 60 pounds of red-and-black fur and muscle. She's really an awesome dog. Very affectionate and goofy, and very gentle with my 13 year old chihuahua. But when the mailman comes around, she drops the sweet and cute act and goes full-throttle Cujo (without the little kid from Who's the Boss. If you don't get the reference, don't waste my time).
Our mailbox is actually built into the wall of our living room, so mail drops into the wall. This is very convenient if you're home sick and don't want to get dressed to go outside to get the mail. You never have to set foot outside. This arrangement is good for me and my lazy ass, but bad for the mailman, who must walk perilously close to the big picture window next to the mailbox. Where Callie is usually lying in wait so she can enjoy the highlight of her day: Barking Menacingly At This Seemingly Harmless Man.
Today, she apparently busted through the admittedly-thin glass and knocked a whole pane out. The kid across the street said he heard the glass break from inside his house. Luckily the mail man didn't get bitten, and Callie didn't appear to get cut from the glass. (I have been at work all day, and have only gotten second-hand accounts from Tom, who happened to have taken the day off to go to the dentist this morning.) And I am also glad that Callie didn't escape completely and run down the street. We live mere blocks from a major freeway, and the indian reservation. She would have never come back.
But aside from all that: what excitement! I am actually psyched that we have a dog that can bust through glass one minute and slobber you with wet doggy kisses the next. She's like the Hulk, in a way. Without the gay purple pants. Or the inevitable lurking Nick Nolte.
Today's big news is the fact that our dog, Callie, broke through our living room window while barking at the mailman. Callie is most likely a mix between a golden retriever and a shepherd and/or Chow (we adopted her from RESCUE [link on right], so who knows where she came from), and she's easily about 60 pounds of red-and-black fur and muscle. She's really an awesome dog. Very affectionate and goofy, and very gentle with my 13 year old chihuahua. But when the mailman comes around, she drops the sweet and cute act and goes full-throttle Cujo (without the little kid from Who's the Boss. If you don't get the reference, don't waste my time).
Our mailbox is actually built into the wall of our living room, so mail drops into the wall. This is very convenient if you're home sick and don't want to get dressed to go outside to get the mail. You never have to set foot outside. This arrangement is good for me and my lazy ass, but bad for the mailman, who must walk perilously close to the big picture window next to the mailbox. Where Callie is usually lying in wait so she can enjoy the highlight of her day: Barking Menacingly At This Seemingly Harmless Man.
Today, she apparently busted through the admittedly-thin glass and knocked a whole pane out. The kid across the street said he heard the glass break from inside his house. Luckily the mail man didn't get bitten, and Callie didn't appear to get cut from the glass. (I have been at work all day, and have only gotten second-hand accounts from Tom, who happened to have taken the day off to go to the dentist this morning.) And I am also glad that Callie didn't escape completely and run down the street. We live mere blocks from a major freeway, and the indian reservation. She would have never come back.
But aside from all that: what excitement! I am actually psyched that we have a dog that can bust through glass one minute and slobber you with wet doggy kisses the next. She's like the Hulk, in a way. Without the gay purple pants. Or the inevitable lurking Nick Nolte.
Monday, August 25, 2003
Whew! If I had a red bandana, I would pause here and wipe off my sun-beaten brow, and take a good long look at all the rails I had just laid, a sense of accomplishment filling my chest as I drank some warm water from the pump over yonder.
Seriously, I am busy as all heck today at work. I'm getting pretty tired too. So the bloggin' has taken a backseat. I am not happy about it, I assure you. I would rather be blogging. And hey, wouldn't that make a nifty bumper sticker? Huh.
But I wanted to log in anyway and say hi to anyone who happens to read this silly thing. Hope your weekend was good, and that the lights stayed on if you're in the East, and that you got gas for your car if you're in the West. Maybe it was just a normal summer weekend, for once. I hope so.
I was jazzed about one thing this weekend, though: last night I was watching the "I Love the 70's" on VH-1 (c'mon, who's NOT watching that right now??) and it was 1979, and they did a small segment on how cool "The Jerk" is! I was so happy they gave Navin R. Johnson the credit he so richly deserves. No one slammed that movie for being bad or anything; all anyone could say was how funny it is and that Steve Martin is great. That made me feel good, since that movie is so intertwined with my childhood.
Better I reminisce about that, rather than that other movie I associate with my childhood, "Motel Hell." I remember people being buried alive in the ground with only their heads out, and a guy with a pig's head on his head running through a kitchen with a chainsaw.
I also saw some friends of mine do a very cool dance show on Saturday night. I can't explain how cool their shows are, so I will just give you the link here. Unfortunately if you don't live in Arizona, you currently will have a hard time catching their shows, but mark my words: give them a little time, and they might be on to something that will rival Cirque du Soleil. I sense that they will become famous somehow or another.
And, finally, on a super sad note, WESLEY WILLIS died last week. I wrote about him on this blog a month or so ago, and it's just very sad he's gone now. I laugh very hard at him, but overall it's admirable that a formerly-homeless guy with schizoprenia could produce so many albums, influence a bunch of famous bands and singers, and get a write-up in Rolling Stone . You rock and you roll, Wesley Willis. We'll definitely miss having you whup everyone's ass.
Seriously, I am busy as all heck today at work. I'm getting pretty tired too. So the bloggin' has taken a backseat. I am not happy about it, I assure you. I would rather be blogging. And hey, wouldn't that make a nifty bumper sticker? Huh.
But I wanted to log in anyway and say hi to anyone who happens to read this silly thing. Hope your weekend was good, and that the lights stayed on if you're in the East, and that you got gas for your car if you're in the West. Maybe it was just a normal summer weekend, for once. I hope so.
I was jazzed about one thing this weekend, though: last night I was watching the "I Love the 70's" on VH-1 (c'mon, who's NOT watching that right now??) and it was 1979, and they did a small segment on how cool "The Jerk" is! I was so happy they gave Navin R. Johnson the credit he so richly deserves. No one slammed that movie for being bad or anything; all anyone could say was how funny it is and that Steve Martin is great. That made me feel good, since that movie is so intertwined with my childhood.
Better I reminisce about that, rather than that other movie I associate with my childhood, "Motel Hell." I remember people being buried alive in the ground with only their heads out, and a guy with a pig's head on his head running through a kitchen with a chainsaw.
I also saw some friends of mine do a very cool dance show on Saturday night. I can't explain how cool their shows are, so I will just give you the link here. Unfortunately if you don't live in Arizona, you currently will have a hard time catching their shows, but mark my words: give them a little time, and they might be on to something that will rival Cirque du Soleil. I sense that they will become famous somehow or another.
And, finally, on a super sad note, WESLEY WILLIS died last week. I wrote about him on this blog a month or so ago, and it's just very sad he's gone now. I laugh very hard at him, but overall it's admirable that a formerly-homeless guy with schizoprenia could produce so many albums, influence a bunch of famous bands and singers, and get a write-up in Rolling Stone . You rock and you roll, Wesley Willis. We'll definitely miss having you whup everyone's ass.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
You GUYS!! Zach and Kelly are finally gonna do IT.
I was just checking my Amazon page, and I happened to notice that this was one of the "Your Recommendations"!!
How did they know? Amazon, you can see straight into my putrid soul.
By the way, this is the best review for this cinematic gem:
"I watched this movie just a few days ago, and it is really good! One minute you will be laughing, then crying, then gasping. It really is a great movie. I cried when they got married, it was so beautiful! And Mario Lopez looked HOT in a tux! LOL
Katie"
I was just checking my Amazon page, and I happened to notice that this was one of the "Your Recommendations"!!
How did they know? Amazon, you can see straight into my putrid soul.
By the way, this is the best review for this cinematic gem:
"I watched this movie just a few days ago, and it is really good! One minute you will be laughing, then crying, then gasping. It really is a great movie. I cried when they got married, it was so beautiful! And Mario Lopez looked HOT in a tux! LOL
Katie"
At random:
* RENO 911 on Comedy Central is so awesome, I almost choke on my own tongue just thinking about it. Last night the splendid cops on this show went and assaulted a guy in a big yellow beverage costume, while yelling: "Who's laughing NOW, Milkshake?!" and punching the guy. For some reason, this is MY KIND OF COMEDY. I have to put that all in caps because I can't stress this enough: I love the 'beating-up-people-in-puffy-costumes' humor. Sorry, Trish AKA Chuck E. Cheese. [Other great examples: "Mallrats"-- scene with the Easter Bunny getting beat up; "Encino Man"-- scene at the theme park where Pauly Shore and Brendan Fraser keep running up and smacking the guy in the panda suit and running away; "Nine Months" -- Tom Arnold and Hugh Grant assaulting a guy in a dinosaur suit.]
* It's cool that dogs and cats give you an audible warning before they vomit. You know what I mean-- that sort of deep, grumbling gulp-noise they make? If people could do that, we would be able to get out of the way and not get puked on. Oftentimes, humans don't give any warning; they just spew where they stand. Why the surprise factor?
* Why do credit card companies always include that little flap on the envelope that says you can get these "Free Gifts!" if you send just shipping and handling? And why is this stuff always such shit? Like a cheap-ass faux-leather day organizer, or a collapsable umbrella? My favorites are always the alarm clocks and/or AM/FM radios that you know would only work for about 4 hours before they melted from the electricity going through their sub-par wirings and casings. Does anyone actually order this "free" crap? Or, even worse, order it and then actually give it as a gift, as the credit card company has suggested? If I ever got one of these "gifts" I would pull a big ole' wad of spit up from the back of my throat, and spray down the 'gift'-barer, and then rabbit punch 'em in the eye. Oh hey, what will a "free gift" get ya? Spit upon and a rabbit punch! Not a good trade!
* I don't like to eat runny eggs. Or quiche. Or Jell-O. Anything that can be described as "quivering."
* Speaking of spitting, why can't women spit very well? I have rarely seen a woman who can really hock one up. Yet guys do it all the time. True story-- one time I was driving home from a day at college, and I had a bad headcold. I coughed and I had some phlegm. Ewwww! I had to get it out of my mouth, obviously, but I was driving, and I was out of tissues. So, I did what I had to do. I rolled the window down as far as I could, and when I thought no other drivers were looking, I pulled back and spit as hard as I could.
And, I guess I didn't get enough propulsion behind it, because I ended up with phlegmy spit all over the back window and dripped down my door for the rest of the ride. What an unimaginable breed of spazz.
* I don't know why I share this stuff. Somebody needs to get me my meds.
* RENO 911 on Comedy Central is so awesome, I almost choke on my own tongue just thinking about it. Last night the splendid cops on this show went and assaulted a guy in a big yellow beverage costume, while yelling: "Who's laughing NOW, Milkshake?!" and punching the guy. For some reason, this is MY KIND OF COMEDY. I have to put that all in caps because I can't stress this enough: I love the 'beating-up-people-in-puffy-costumes' humor. Sorry, Trish AKA Chuck E. Cheese. [Other great examples: "Mallrats"-- scene with the Easter Bunny getting beat up; "Encino Man"-- scene at the theme park where Pauly Shore and Brendan Fraser keep running up and smacking the guy in the panda suit and running away; "Nine Months" -- Tom Arnold and Hugh Grant assaulting a guy in a dinosaur suit.]
* It's cool that dogs and cats give you an audible warning before they vomit. You know what I mean-- that sort of deep, grumbling gulp-noise they make? If people could do that, we would be able to get out of the way and not get puked on. Oftentimes, humans don't give any warning; they just spew where they stand. Why the surprise factor?
* Why do credit card companies always include that little flap on the envelope that says you can get these "Free Gifts!" if you send just shipping and handling? And why is this stuff always such shit? Like a cheap-ass faux-leather day organizer, or a collapsable umbrella? My favorites are always the alarm clocks and/or AM/FM radios that you know would only work for about 4 hours before they melted from the electricity going through their sub-par wirings and casings. Does anyone actually order this "free" crap? Or, even worse, order it and then actually give it as a gift, as the credit card company has suggested? If I ever got one of these "gifts" I would pull a big ole' wad of spit up from the back of my throat, and spray down the 'gift'-barer, and then rabbit punch 'em in the eye. Oh hey, what will a "free gift" get ya? Spit upon and a rabbit punch! Not a good trade!
* I don't like to eat runny eggs. Or quiche. Or Jell-O. Anything that can be described as "quivering."
* Speaking of spitting, why can't women spit very well? I have rarely seen a woman who can really hock one up. Yet guys do it all the time. True story-- one time I was driving home from a day at college, and I had a bad headcold. I coughed and I had some phlegm. Ewwww! I had to get it out of my mouth, obviously, but I was driving, and I was out of tissues. So, I did what I had to do. I rolled the window down as far as I could, and when I thought no other drivers were looking, I pulled back and spit as hard as I could.
And, I guess I didn't get enough propulsion behind it, because I ended up with phlegmy spit all over the back window and dripped down my door for the rest of the ride. What an unimaginable breed of spazz.
* I don't know why I share this stuff. Somebody needs to get me my meds.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
There was a story on the internet "Odd News" yesterday about a burglar breaking into some house and getting all terrified because he found a face made of bacon floating in a jar of formaldehyde. He thought it was a real human head; but it was just an art exhibit or something.
Forget that. I would be scared just based on the fact that it's a FACE CONSTRUCTED OF BACON. You could make a movie about this bacon face and I would not be able to watch it because I would be too freaked out!
Forget that. I would be scared just based on the fact that it's a FACE CONSTRUCTED OF BACON. You could make a movie about this bacon face and I would not be able to watch it because I would be too freaked out!
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Right now there is a gas shortage in Phoenix. A pipe broke that brings the gas here, and they are at least 14 days away from having it repaired. What this has meant is that all the gas stations have bags over their pumps or are roped off with caution tape to keep us gas fiends away. There is NO GAS! No, no, no! No gas! (For full effect, say it like the guys in that Greek diner skit from 1970s-era Saturday Night Live: "No coke! Pepsi!") It's like 1973 when we had the Arab problems, with the embargo and all that. Only this time, people aren't having swingin' sex and disco-ing while in line at the pumps. At least, not at all the gas stations, anyway. Just a couple.
Whenever a station has gas, people are flocking to it like flocks of people that flock to things. Cars line up along the shoulder and sometimes block intersections. According to the news, motorists are following oil tankers to stations and getting into fistfights and sometimes even pulling guns on one another to get the gas. Prices are of course, really high. It's up to about $2.49 a gallon in some places! That's like, "whoa, man."
Last night I found a station with gas on my way home from rehearsal. (I am in a play right now, it's M*A*S*H. I'll have to blog more on it sometime) So I swung around and got on the tail end of a massively long line of cars. I ended up turning off my headlights so they wouldn't blind the driver in the crappy 1986 Mustang in front of me. It was hot, and the line moved incredibly slow. I did, however, figure out how to program my car radio at long last (I've only been driving this car for over 3 years, it's 'bout time I did this.) and listened to a bad jazz station while I watched a guy that had a face like Jack Palance walk back and forth in front of his car as he waited in line, anxiously looking off in the distance to the gas pumps. Every time the line moved, he had to get back in his car and move it 6.75 inches closer. Then he'd get back out and stand in his own headlights for another 5 minutes or so. He was also wearing one of those American flag-patterned bandanas around his aging head, and he had a big beer gut covered in a standard-issue fat-guy black T-shirt. So he was like suburban biker-Dad Jack Palance with severe anxiety issues. I was fixated, and the jazz music made a good soundtrack to watching him.
The good news is, I saw no violence, no guns. I even paid only $1.89 a gallon for my gas. From the time I joined the line to the moment I pumped my gas, I was only there for exactly 58 minutes. The whole experience was sort of fun, in a twisted way. All of us were out there just trying to get a basic essential: gas. You really take it for granted until you don't have it all the sudden. And here we were, folks lined up in their cars.. some getting out and talking to other people in line, actually making real human contact in the age of e-mail and what-not... we pulled together, I think. I mean, this was some form of bravery, or heroism, right? By lining up to get gas, turning off the A/C (in Phoenix!) and consolidating our car trips so we use less gas, we are sending a clear message to the terrorists that says, "Guess what, terrorists? You can't win!" Yeah. I think so, sort of, anyway. I mean, what if terrorists broke the gas pipe line? Ahhhhh!!!!
This is like Arizona's big drama. The New Yorkers have got this side of the country beat when it comes to banding together to get through a something-or-other-event. This is Phoenix's Blackout 2003. So anyway, we are milking this for all its worth, and we're going to be brave and get through this. Together.
Whenever a station has gas, people are flocking to it like flocks of people that flock to things. Cars line up along the shoulder and sometimes block intersections. According to the news, motorists are following oil tankers to stations and getting into fistfights and sometimes even pulling guns on one another to get the gas. Prices are of course, really high. It's up to about $2.49 a gallon in some places! That's like, "whoa, man."
Last night I found a station with gas on my way home from rehearsal. (I am in a play right now, it's M*A*S*H. I'll have to blog more on it sometime) So I swung around and got on the tail end of a massively long line of cars. I ended up turning off my headlights so they wouldn't blind the driver in the crappy 1986 Mustang in front of me. It was hot, and the line moved incredibly slow. I did, however, figure out how to program my car radio at long last (I've only been driving this car for over 3 years, it's 'bout time I did this.) and listened to a bad jazz station while I watched a guy that had a face like Jack Palance walk back and forth in front of his car as he waited in line, anxiously looking off in the distance to the gas pumps. Every time the line moved, he had to get back in his car and move it 6.75 inches closer. Then he'd get back out and stand in his own headlights for another 5 minutes or so. He was also wearing one of those American flag-patterned bandanas around his aging head, and he had a big beer gut covered in a standard-issue fat-guy black T-shirt. So he was like suburban biker-Dad Jack Palance with severe anxiety issues. I was fixated, and the jazz music made a good soundtrack to watching him.
The good news is, I saw no violence, no guns. I even paid only $1.89 a gallon for my gas. From the time I joined the line to the moment I pumped my gas, I was only there for exactly 58 minutes. The whole experience was sort of fun, in a twisted way. All of us were out there just trying to get a basic essential: gas. You really take it for granted until you don't have it all the sudden. And here we were, folks lined up in their cars.. some getting out and talking to other people in line, actually making real human contact in the age of e-mail and what-not... we pulled together, I think. I mean, this was some form of bravery, or heroism, right? By lining up to get gas, turning off the A/C (in Phoenix!) and consolidating our car trips so we use less gas, we are sending a clear message to the terrorists that says, "Guess what, terrorists? You can't win!" Yeah. I think so, sort of, anyway. I mean, what if terrorists broke the gas pipe line? Ahhhhh!!!!
This is like Arizona's big drama. The New Yorkers have got this side of the country beat when it comes to banding together to get through a something-or-other-event. This is Phoenix's Blackout 2003. So anyway, we are milking this for all its worth, and we're going to be brave and get through this. Together.
Monday, August 18, 2003
What does an inflatable donkey, James Lipton and a "fake pussy made out of household items" have in common?
Apparently, these are all things people have typed into google in order to reach this site. See, technology has made it possible; I can check to see who's getting to this blog and what they used to get here. It's highly amusing to think of what people are looking up out there. It's also highly alarming in many ways. But why am I telling you this? Here, look at this list of recent searches and make your own mind up:
"Will Ferrell and James Lipton"This is actually a common search; I'm glad people are looking this up because it's damn funny.
Inflatable donkey:
References my swimming blog, and the one about Pearl, the white donkey. I saw Pearl this morning by the way, Pearl Fans, and she looks good. Not at all inflatable.
FAG written on his chest, Scottsdale:
Not so sure about this one... did I write about this? I can't remember all the sudden.
"Arm and hammer" "New Brunswick"
What makes this search funny is its use of quote-marks. I picture the person doing that thing with their fingers (not not THAT thing, the other thing) as they think out loud. I have seen people that do that. I have secretly tripped people who do that, by laying obstacles in their path that cannot be traced to me. Like, say, a traffic cone. Anyway... on to the rest of the searches:
Fraternity "paddled him"
Yet another good example of quote-unquote. "It's not so much that they 'paddled him,' Bob, it's more that they 'stuck a greased turnip up his anus and then we all put our penises in his mouth', really." Those frat guys, always up to sumthin'!
And the best one ever:
How to make a fake pussy using household items
Yeah, so anyway, how does one do it? I am willing to bet it involves tupperware, mayonnaise, a plunger and a belt taken from the motor of a vacuum cleaner. Or maybe it's just the vacuum cleaner, period. Oh, wait, those are the key ingredients to another funny story I know about "how to make a fake grandpa."
Are we so hard up for "pussies" in this day and age that poor sops like this fellow are looking for faux alternatives? I think we all need to take a look around at this society and see where the problem lies; that such a scenario should ever have to come to pass is a sad statement about our fancy 21st century lives, indeed.
Why, you don't need to MAKE an artificial vagina, son! There are many items in nature just waiting for you to look at them and see their potential as loveboxes. Look at that beautiful tree over there! Its long, sexy branches just swaying in the breeze... and look, it has a knotted hole in its trunk! Why not send Peter to visit the dark woody hole? And look at that pumpkin there, all carved up for All Hallow's Eve... that carved smile would be more than willing to take you in. (Just don't let the kids see!) And finally, need I bring up the hole at the bottom of the toilet? If you're flexible enough, it can--
OKAY, I can't do this anymore. The visuals have started to "get to me."
If I find out anyone did a search for "fetus stapled to chocolatey nutsack" I am gonna frow up all over my damn self. And sort of giggle.
Apparently, these are all things people have typed into google in order to reach this site. See, technology has made it possible; I can check to see who's getting to this blog and what they used to get here. It's highly amusing to think of what people are looking up out there. It's also highly alarming in many ways. But why am I telling you this? Here, look at this list of recent searches and make your own mind up:
"Will Ferrell and James Lipton"This is actually a common search; I'm glad people are looking this up because it's damn funny.
Inflatable donkey:
References my swimming blog, and the one about Pearl, the white donkey. I saw Pearl this morning by the way, Pearl Fans, and she looks good. Not at all inflatable.
FAG written on his chest, Scottsdale:
Not so sure about this one... did I write about this? I can't remember all the sudden.
"Arm and hammer" "New Brunswick"
What makes this search funny is its use of quote-marks. I picture the person doing that thing with their fingers (not not THAT thing, the other thing) as they think out loud. I have seen people that do that. I have secretly tripped people who do that, by laying obstacles in their path that cannot be traced to me. Like, say, a traffic cone. Anyway... on to the rest of the searches:
Fraternity "paddled him"
Yet another good example of quote-unquote. "It's not so much that they 'paddled him,' Bob, it's more that they 'stuck a greased turnip up his anus and then we all put our penises in his mouth', really." Those frat guys, always up to sumthin'!
And the best one ever:
How to make a fake pussy using household items
Yeah, so anyway, how does one do it? I am willing to bet it involves tupperware, mayonnaise, a plunger and a belt taken from the motor of a vacuum cleaner. Or maybe it's just the vacuum cleaner, period. Oh, wait, those are the key ingredients to another funny story I know about "how to make a fake grandpa."
Are we so hard up for "pussies" in this day and age that poor sops like this fellow are looking for faux alternatives? I think we all need to take a look around at this society and see where the problem lies; that such a scenario should ever have to come to pass is a sad statement about our fancy 21st century lives, indeed.
Why, you don't need to MAKE an artificial vagina, son! There are many items in nature just waiting for you to look at them and see their potential as loveboxes. Look at that beautiful tree over there! Its long, sexy branches just swaying in the breeze... and look, it has a knotted hole in its trunk! Why not send Peter to visit the dark woody hole? And look at that pumpkin there, all carved up for All Hallow's Eve... that carved smile would be more than willing to take you in. (Just don't let the kids see!) And finally, need I bring up the hole at the bottom of the toilet? If you're flexible enough, it can--
OKAY, I can't do this anymore. The visuals have started to "get to me."
If I find out anyone did a search for "fetus stapled to chocolatey nutsack" I am gonna frow up all over my damn self. And sort of giggle.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
The massive power outage on the East Coast has certainly gotten all us transplanted East Coasters out here in Arizona talkin'. Well, OK, to be fair, I really only talked intensely about it with my sister tonight. And, as it often happens when we are tired, we started to babble and go off on tangents no one should ever go off on. In fact, tonight's tangent had a complete song included, it was that elaborate.
Lemme explain somethin'. Trish and I can talk ourselves in and out of about 658 subjects in a matter of ten minutes. We have our own sister language-thing, consisting of movie quotes, voices and pieces of skits lifted from "Upright Citizens Brigade" or SNL. (For instance, if you're in "the know," we can reference the Hong Kong Danger Duo and finish up with Will Ferrell's voice saying, "Palomino... beautiful golden fur...") I know for a fact we have driven our mother, our boyfriends and other bystanders a little crazy with the endless chattering and laughing. You'd think we would learn by now to be stoic, uptight, rigid bitches. You'd think life had hardened us to a Janet Reno-like crust. Nope. We still crack up whenever one of us says we are in the mood for "mashed p'tats." (we omitted the o's one day several years ago and we never looked back.)
OK, so anyway, this was worthy of a rare late night Blog because part of our NYC power outage tangent involved everyone's favorite linked blogger pal, Mike Toole. Now I am probably losing a LOT in the translation, and I can accept that. Now it's your turn: give me the benefit of the doubt, and try to envision this stuff. If you need to go get a Smirnoff Ice or a big ole' spliff to get through this, go ahead and git it, 'cuz it might help, I don't know.
We were talking on the phone just now and we wondered how our New York Area Friends are faring this evening, and how they handled the loss of electricity this afternoon. I hope that Kristen and Ezzy are OK, and got home without any fuss. And all my NJ buddies are safe n' sound in their little NJ beds tonight without any looting or trouble. But... what of Mike Toole ?
For some reason, we started picturing a helicopter rescue. And now, Mike, for you and everyone else reading this, here's the scenario. Picture it like a movie, very dramatic with lots of sweeping orchestrations:
Mike is standing in the streets which are now full of people running, screaming, papers flying everywhere. The helicopter pilot spots him from above, and they get on a loudspeaker-thing and yell to Mike Toole: "(static burst) Michael Toole, this is your rescue(static). Please take the rescue line so we can airlift you out of here(static), Over."
Mike reaches up and grabs onto a rope-thing hanging from the bottom of the helicopter; there are straps attached. The voice in the helicopter says, "(Static)Please attach the harness for your own safety(static) OVER," and Mike fumbles and attaches the harness, and the helicopter floats away above the chaos.
BUT! There is a catch! For you see, Mike Toole, in this tangent, has a stalker/ unlikely buddy! It's actor Edward Burns! Of "The Brothers McMull...McMulligan, McMoleskin...?" movie fame!
Edward Burns goes running underneath, screaming, "MIKE!!" and reaching his hands dramatically up towards his now-flying-away "buddy." Mike is like, "Yeah, later, Edward Burns."
Edward Burns will not give up, though. With one triumphant leap, he catches onto a spare strap that is also dangling from somewhere under the helicopter, so he is flying away over the chaos now, too. Mike, still clinging to the rescue line, is like, "Oh, great, now I have to travel with Edward Burns."
But now they are coming out of the city. They are approaching some fields, or marshes, or swamps... hell, it's somewhere with reeds. Because at this point in the tangent, we imagined that the voice in the helicopter yells, "(Static)Michael Toole, please tuck up your legs, OVER. (Static) We'll be going through the reeds now, you might want to make yourself as small as possible(static), perhaps like a tadpole without developing legs, OVER(static)."
Shrugging, Mike, bends his legs up behind him. Down below, Edward Burns is flailing all over the place from the turbulence. Also, his strap is very low to the ground and he has no harness. So it's all in God's hands, here. (Mike, unlike the unfortunate Burns fellow, thinks about the rough patch of reeds coming up, so he has the wherewithall to ahem, place a hand over the, um, junk.)
Through the reeds they go, thwapthwapthwap! The chopper is beating furiously against the night sky, bringing Mike Toole to safety. Luckily Mike is able to maneuver around the various reeds, buildings, parked cars, and cellular towers they fly over, much like an Indiana Jones-ish guy. He also discovers there are Fruit Roll-Ups in the pockets of the harness-- the voice in the helicopter tells him these are his "rations" for the trip-- and Edward Burns somehow or other dies as he gets slammed into the pavement several times and flung around like a leaf in the breeze. (This is where Trish and I made up a South Park-esque song called, "Edward Burns! Travel'n Companion!! YEEEAAAH!")
I am sorry to report that we had so much fun with this tangent, we didn't really finish it. Was Mike Toole successfully airlifted to safety? (probably) Did the helicopter pilots ever figure out that actor Edward Burn's corpse dangled beneath them (not a chance)?
We may never know. But isn't it more fun that way? Hell, we were laughin' hard enough!!
Lemme explain somethin'. Trish and I can talk ourselves in and out of about 658 subjects in a matter of ten minutes. We have our own sister language-thing, consisting of movie quotes, voices and pieces of skits lifted from "Upright Citizens Brigade" or SNL. (For instance, if you're in "the know," we can reference the Hong Kong Danger Duo and finish up with Will Ferrell's voice saying, "Palomino... beautiful golden fur...") I know for a fact we have driven our mother, our boyfriends and other bystanders a little crazy with the endless chattering and laughing. You'd think we would learn by now to be stoic, uptight, rigid bitches. You'd think life had hardened us to a Janet Reno-like crust. Nope. We still crack up whenever one of us says we are in the mood for "mashed p'tats." (we omitted the o's one day several years ago and we never looked back.)
OK, so anyway, this was worthy of a rare late night Blog because part of our NYC power outage tangent involved everyone's favorite linked blogger pal, Mike Toole. Now I am probably losing a LOT in the translation, and I can accept that. Now it's your turn: give me the benefit of the doubt, and try to envision this stuff. If you need to go get a Smirnoff Ice or a big ole' spliff to get through this, go ahead and git it, 'cuz it might help, I don't know.
We were talking on the phone just now and we wondered how our New York Area Friends are faring this evening, and how they handled the loss of electricity this afternoon. I hope that Kristen and Ezzy are OK, and got home without any fuss. And all my NJ buddies are safe n' sound in their little NJ beds tonight without any looting or trouble. But... what of Mike Toole ?
For some reason, we started picturing a helicopter rescue. And now, Mike, for you and everyone else reading this, here's the scenario. Picture it like a movie, very dramatic with lots of sweeping orchestrations:
Mike is standing in the streets which are now full of people running, screaming, papers flying everywhere. The helicopter pilot spots him from above, and they get on a loudspeaker-thing and yell to Mike Toole: "(static burst) Michael Toole, this is your rescue(static). Please take the rescue line so we can airlift you out of here(static), Over."
Mike reaches up and grabs onto a rope-thing hanging from the bottom of the helicopter; there are straps attached. The voice in the helicopter says, "(Static)Please attach the harness for your own safety(static) OVER," and Mike fumbles and attaches the harness, and the helicopter floats away above the chaos.
BUT! There is a catch! For you see, Mike Toole, in this tangent, has a stalker/ unlikely buddy! It's actor Edward Burns! Of "The Brothers McMull...McMulligan, McMoleskin...?" movie fame!
Edward Burns goes running underneath, screaming, "MIKE!!" and reaching his hands dramatically up towards his now-flying-away "buddy." Mike is like, "Yeah, later, Edward Burns."
Edward Burns will not give up, though. With one triumphant leap, he catches onto a spare strap that is also dangling from somewhere under the helicopter, so he is flying away over the chaos now, too. Mike, still clinging to the rescue line, is like, "Oh, great, now I have to travel with Edward Burns."
But now they are coming out of the city. They are approaching some fields, or marshes, or swamps... hell, it's somewhere with reeds. Because at this point in the tangent, we imagined that the voice in the helicopter yells, "(Static)Michael Toole, please tuck up your legs, OVER. (Static) We'll be going through the reeds now, you might want to make yourself as small as possible(static), perhaps like a tadpole without developing legs, OVER(static)."
Shrugging, Mike, bends his legs up behind him. Down below, Edward Burns is flailing all over the place from the turbulence. Also, his strap is very low to the ground and he has no harness. So it's all in God's hands, here. (Mike, unlike the unfortunate Burns fellow, thinks about the rough patch of reeds coming up, so he has the wherewithall to ahem, place a hand over the, um, junk.)
Through the reeds they go, thwapthwapthwap! The chopper is beating furiously against the night sky, bringing Mike Toole to safety. Luckily Mike is able to maneuver around the various reeds, buildings, parked cars, and cellular towers they fly over, much like an Indiana Jones-ish guy. He also discovers there are Fruit Roll-Ups in the pockets of the harness-- the voice in the helicopter tells him these are his "rations" for the trip-- and Edward Burns somehow or other dies as he gets slammed into the pavement several times and flung around like a leaf in the breeze. (This is where Trish and I made up a South Park-esque song called, "Edward Burns! Travel'n Companion!! YEEEAAAH!")
I am sorry to report that we had so much fun with this tangent, we didn't really finish it. Was Mike Toole successfully airlifted to safety? (probably) Did the helicopter pilots ever figure out that actor Edward Burn's corpse dangled beneath them (not a chance)?
We may never know. But isn't it more fun that way? Hell, we were laughin' hard enough!!
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
I came up with something for Dane Cook to do in a movie sometime. He works at a carnival in this movie, and he is in charge of the cotton candy machine. One night he gets a little caaa-razy and he sticks his head into the machine, and runs around the edge really, really fast. When he comes up, his head is just a big cotton candy cone. (Preferably blue)
He then procedes to eat through the cotton candy and sucks it all in and gets his own head clean again. He can scream and yell and pull his shirt off to add to the insanity, if he so chooses. [This movie would go on to outearn American Craniotomy, in which Jason Biggs gets a bleeding lesion on the surface of his brain and he is caught fucking his own IV stand as he is recovering in ICU. Stifler would show up and drink his urine out of the peebag-thing. Hilarity ensues, as it always does with those wacky guys.]
As you can see, I am editing some pages of bus articles here at work, and I am concentrating the best I can, but somehow or other strange images keep popping in my head for no reason. And so goes yet another day at the office.
PS: I also have the bass line for that new White Stripes single in my head right now along with the one line that starts, "I'm goin' to Wichita..." Don't know why. I only just heard them for the first time over the past weekend. But I guess I need to go find that "Elephant" album now. Speaking of which, aren't the White Stripes something all the young hipsters are into now, with their earplug cell phones and their touseled and moussed hair and their black-rimmed glasses? Well, color me a little late on the hipness, I s'pose. On Monday Mike coined the phrase of "Guy Who is Two Years Behind Everyone Else." I commend you for that, Mike, because it would appear there's more of your breed out there than you think, AND we come in both genders. How 'bout that!
He then procedes to eat through the cotton candy and sucks it all in and gets his own head clean again. He can scream and yell and pull his shirt off to add to the insanity, if he so chooses. [This movie would go on to outearn American Craniotomy, in which Jason Biggs gets a bleeding lesion on the surface of his brain and he is caught fucking his own IV stand as he is recovering in ICU. Stifler would show up and drink his urine out of the peebag-thing. Hilarity ensues, as it always does with those wacky guys.]
As you can see, I am editing some pages of bus articles here at work, and I am concentrating the best I can, but somehow or other strange images keep popping in my head for no reason. And so goes yet another day at the office.
PS: I also have the bass line for that new White Stripes single in my head right now along with the one line that starts, "I'm goin' to Wichita..." Don't know why. I only just heard them for the first time over the past weekend. But I guess I need to go find that "Elephant" album now. Speaking of which, aren't the White Stripes something all the young hipsters are into now, with their earplug cell phones and their touseled and moussed hair and their black-rimmed glasses? Well, color me a little late on the hipness, I s'pose. On Monday Mike coined the phrase of "Guy Who is Two Years Behind Everyone Else." I commend you for that, Mike, because it would appear there's more of your breed out there than you think, AND we come in both genders. How 'bout that!
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
I guess I got too accustomed to all the big celebrity death news that we were getting on a regular basis there for a few months. Because today I went out searching the internet for late-breaking news, hoping that maybe another celebrity has died. It was good this year: Gregory Peck, Hume Cronyn, Katharine Heppies (my playful nickname for her), Bob Hope, and just yesterday, Gregory "White Nights" Hines.
Here's some headlines that I predict will happen soon:
*Ashton Kutcher dies in car accident during episode of Punk'd: Dude, He Died in the Car.
*Annette Funicello Succumbs to MS (shit, this could really happen! M-I-C ya real soon, Annette.)
*Willie Nelson Chokes on Own Hair In Sleep; Thousands Mourn
*Nicolas Cage Drops Dead of Severe Lack of Charisma
*Jaleel White Dies of Heroin Overdose
*Why The Hell Isn't Mickey Rooney Dead Yet? Isn't Anyone On This?
Who do you think will win the Dead Celebrity Applause-O-Meter at the Oscars this year? My money's on Kate. But Bob Hope, man, he was out there with the troops and all, so he'll probably get a fair shake.
What's up with Mickey Rooney, by the way? Anyone know? Seems to me he should be nearing his expiration date here soon. I know he was in "Babe 2: Pig in the City" because I just watched that the other night. (Those damn monkeys, they make-a me cry!) Anyway, when Rooney bites it, I just hope the Oscar folks have the wherewithall to show a clip of him in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" where he's dressed up as that really obnoxious Chinese neighbor. It's really offensive stuff, but not nearly as funny as when Ted Danson painted himself up in blackface that time when he was dating Whoopi. Boy, that was classic. I love it when people are ignorantly stupid like that. I guess that's what Whoopi will do to you. Sure wish my name was Whoopi-- it don't get more fun than Whoopi. But if I was going to be a judge, I wouldn't be taken so seriously.
Good thing I am not a judge. I am but a mere mortal who has chocolate-chip cookie breath. Whom anxiously awaits a celebrity death.
Here's some headlines that I predict will happen soon:
*Ashton Kutcher dies in car accident during episode of Punk'd: Dude, He Died in the Car.
*Annette Funicello Succumbs to MS (shit, this could really happen! M-I-C ya real soon, Annette.)
*Willie Nelson Chokes on Own Hair In Sleep; Thousands Mourn
*Nicolas Cage Drops Dead of Severe Lack of Charisma
*Jaleel White Dies of Heroin Overdose
*Why The Hell Isn't Mickey Rooney Dead Yet? Isn't Anyone On This?
Who do you think will win the Dead Celebrity Applause-O-Meter at the Oscars this year? My money's on Kate. But Bob Hope, man, he was out there with the troops and all, so he'll probably get a fair shake.
What's up with Mickey Rooney, by the way? Anyone know? Seems to me he should be nearing his expiration date here soon. I know he was in "Babe 2: Pig in the City" because I just watched that the other night. (Those damn monkeys, they make-a me cry!) Anyway, when Rooney bites it, I just hope the Oscar folks have the wherewithall to show a clip of him in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" where he's dressed up as that really obnoxious Chinese neighbor. It's really offensive stuff, but not nearly as funny as when Ted Danson painted himself up in blackface that time when he was dating Whoopi. Boy, that was classic. I love it when people are ignorantly stupid like that. I guess that's what Whoopi will do to you. Sure wish my name was Whoopi-- it don't get more fun than Whoopi. But if I was going to be a judge, I wouldn't be taken so seriously.
Good thing I am not a judge. I am but a mere mortal who has chocolate-chip cookie breath. Whom anxiously awaits a celebrity death.
If you're wondering how Armsweat came about, I'll tell you. Whether you like it or not.
It was 7th grade. A group of us chicks were hanging around the lunch table at Bayshore Middle School, talking and eating smelly tuna fish sandwiches. Someone said, "I hate my last name, it sounds like Snausages."
Another girl piped up, "Yeah me too. Everyone always says Marshmallow."
Just to be cool, I wanted to get in on the conversation. But the truth was, no one made fun of my last name, except to say it with an overexaggerated lisp to mock the way I spoke with braces: they would call me Lisha Arnshesh. Har-dee-fucking-har.
Still, that wasn't as witty as Snausages or Marshmallow. I wanted a "sounds-like" word that could be made out of my name too. Why? (sigh) I really don't know. I think I had some sort of vitamin deficiency.
So I pipe up with the first thing that comes to mind. I lie. I say, "They call me Armsweat."
Silence. Then, giggles.
A few days later, I get picked last for kickball (again). I sit on the bench awaiting my turn up to punt the ball at some pimply kids. I get up there, get into kicking position, and one of the boys yells out: "Hey everyone, MOVE IN. Armsweat's up."
Whaa--? I had only said that amongst girls. How'd the boys find out? As the kids all lumbered in sarcastically, moving closer to the home plate because of my rep as a lousy kicker, I got angry. There be traitors in them mists. I narrowed my eyes, and when the ball came chugging across the dirt towards me, I swung my leg out hard. Only to miss completely, and have my foot land right behind the ball as it rolled to the catcher, so I looked like a spasmatic Clydesdale horse stomping my foot. Never mind. I had other things on my mind than winning a dumb kickball game. I grumbled to myself the whole way back to the locker room, where I shoved my clothes into a dirty old Benetton sack and trudged to class, picking at the rubber bands on my braces and sucking on apple Jolly Ranchers.
I never discovered the traitor in this case. Much like a dorky, female version of Richard Kimble, I am on a quest to find the perpetrator. One day I'll find her. And I'll make fun of her supremo-retarded married name. Der! This ain't over, bee-otch! Grrrr!!!
The point is: I made up my own nickname that the kids tortured me with later. It takes a very special breed of doofus to pull this off with this sort of success.
I'm proud of it. Although I'll still take out that traitor if I ever find her. Ass to the wall, ladies; ass to the wall.
It was 7th grade. A group of us chicks were hanging around the lunch table at Bayshore Middle School, talking and eating smelly tuna fish sandwiches. Someone said, "I hate my last name, it sounds like Snausages."
Another girl piped up, "Yeah me too. Everyone always says Marshmallow."
Just to be cool, I wanted to get in on the conversation. But the truth was, no one made fun of my last name, except to say it with an overexaggerated lisp to mock the way I spoke with braces: they would call me Lisha Arnshesh. Har-dee-fucking-har.
Still, that wasn't as witty as Snausages or Marshmallow. I wanted a "sounds-like" word that could be made out of my name too. Why? (sigh) I really don't know. I think I had some sort of vitamin deficiency.
So I pipe up with the first thing that comes to mind. I lie. I say, "They call me Armsweat."
Silence. Then, giggles.
A few days later, I get picked last for kickball (again). I sit on the bench awaiting my turn up to punt the ball at some pimply kids. I get up there, get into kicking position, and one of the boys yells out: "Hey everyone, MOVE IN. Armsweat's up."
Whaa--? I had only said that amongst girls. How'd the boys find out? As the kids all lumbered in sarcastically, moving closer to the home plate because of my rep as a lousy kicker, I got angry. There be traitors in them mists. I narrowed my eyes, and when the ball came chugging across the dirt towards me, I swung my leg out hard. Only to miss completely, and have my foot land right behind the ball as it rolled to the catcher, so I looked like a spasmatic Clydesdale horse stomping my foot. Never mind. I had other things on my mind than winning a dumb kickball game. I grumbled to myself the whole way back to the locker room, where I shoved my clothes into a dirty old Benetton sack and trudged to class, picking at the rubber bands on my braces and sucking on apple Jolly Ranchers.
I never discovered the traitor in this case. Much like a dorky, female version of Richard Kimble, I am on a quest to find the perpetrator. One day I'll find her. And I'll make fun of her supremo-retarded married name. Der! This ain't over, bee-otch! Grrrr!!!
The point is: I made up my own nickname that the kids tortured me with later. It takes a very special breed of doofus to pull this off with this sort of success.
I'm proud of it. Although I'll still take out that traitor if I ever find her. Ass to the wall, ladies; ass to the wall.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Sometimes I type too fast and I end up leaving out important letters or letting really massive typos just slide. This is because I am a friggin' genius, and the thoughts have to GETOUT! of my head right now! No time to stop! I might miss something if I slow the hell down, so here I go! (Deep breathe, in through nose, out through mouth...much better now...)
OK, that being said, I typed something sort of funny to a co-worker this morning. Instead of "online banking" I typed "online baking." Now this seems like a good idea. And not just any type of good idea, but a Blimp at the World's Fair kind of idea. (I have no clue if the first blimp to appear at a World's Fair caused a fuss or not, but for the purpose of my analogy, let's all just collectively assume that yes, it was a big hullaballoo! Thank you.)
"Why would online baking be a good idea?" you may find yourself asking.
"Because it would allow us to share the experience of baking with those around the world!" says I.
"Aha!" you say. "So you mean, you could be preparing a delicious batch of ice cream cone cupcakes--which, by the way, I am crazy about-- and little Zimbabwean Billy could be logging on to his laptop in his grass hut and he could experience the details of the baking experience with you?" You pause. You lick your lips and look around for some change in your pocket so you can run down to 7-11 and buy a Hostess cupcake, now that you've got the mental taste of cupcakes.
"...I'm waiting for you, lard ass," I say, after about a half hour goes by with no activity.
"Okay, I'm bacxk," you say, and I can tell you are typing with fudgey fingers because every now and then your fat fingertips hit two keys at once (like t6his).
"Good," says I. "Yes, as I was saying, I can set up a video camera and let people see the hot baking action all over the planet. They can see me pushing a toothpick into the delicate, tender chocolately surface of a virgin cake to "test" it. Or, if they're a little more daring, they could see me whipping up eggs and sugar with my high-speed blender."
"Mmm, that sounds like a delici8ous idea. I think online baking will be the new porn!" That cupcake was good. Especially the little white swirly frosting on top. You think you'll just go ahead and eat the second one in the package too.
"Yes, you are right. I am on to 'something,' as the kids say today," I grin proudly from atop my new pedestal I built just for myself and my new idea.
You think about it for a second. "You're getting a little high and mighty there, aren't you? I mean, it's just baking. It's not like you are pioneering Online Peace and Cures for Diptheria."
"Well, baking is important. Like you said, how else could starving children in other countries find out what they are missing? See, here's my theory," I say, pulling up a chair now and climbing down a little unsteadily from my pedestal (which was really just some stolen milk crates upside down, to be honest.). "Those starving children only know how to starve. They could be in danger of growing up thinking, 'Hey, it's okay that there are flies in my eyes and my belly's distended; life isn't so bad. After all, we do have this putrid cow-runoff water to drink.' They might start to think life is fine where they are. BUT, if I present to them to beauties of baking, they'll realize their life could be better an that food does, in fact, exist! This might inspire them to go out in search of a better life. And food. Then, when the goodwill folks show up, they'll actually appreciate the food they're being given instead of just allowing the warlords to intercept it!" I jump up now in excitement. "You see? My plan is a gateway for higher awareness and democratic uprisings! I will inspire them to great measures through my online baking!"
"Um, yeah. Your plan? It's okay, but you're forgetting one thing," you say with a slight air of superiority.
"Oh yeah, buttbunny? What, pray tell, did I forget?" I say in my usual sarcastic voice.
"They don't HAVE the internet."
Silence.
A little more silence.
"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat. "Maybe we could--OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING!!" I point down the street.
You look.
I run the other way, knocking over a trash can in the process.
****Until next time, I am your friendly goodwill ambassador,
Cupcake O'Snackeater.
OK, that being said, I typed something sort of funny to a co-worker this morning. Instead of "online banking" I typed "online baking." Now this seems like a good idea. And not just any type of good idea, but a Blimp at the World's Fair kind of idea. (I have no clue if the first blimp to appear at a World's Fair caused a fuss or not, but for the purpose of my analogy, let's all just collectively assume that yes, it was a big hullaballoo! Thank you.)
"Why would online baking be a good idea?" you may find yourself asking.
"Because it would allow us to share the experience of baking with those around the world!" says I.
"Aha!" you say. "So you mean, you could be preparing a delicious batch of ice cream cone cupcakes--which, by the way, I am crazy about-- and little Zimbabwean Billy could be logging on to his laptop in his grass hut and he could experience the details of the baking experience with you?" You pause. You lick your lips and look around for some change in your pocket so you can run down to 7-11 and buy a Hostess cupcake, now that you've got the mental taste of cupcakes.
"...I'm waiting for you, lard ass," I say, after about a half hour goes by with no activity.
"Okay, I'm bacxk," you say, and I can tell you are typing with fudgey fingers because every now and then your fat fingertips hit two keys at once (like t6his).
"Good," says I. "Yes, as I was saying, I can set up a video camera and let people see the hot baking action all over the planet. They can see me pushing a toothpick into the delicate, tender chocolately surface of a virgin cake to "test" it. Or, if they're a little more daring, they could see me whipping up eggs and sugar with my high-speed blender."
"Mmm, that sounds like a delici8ous idea. I think online baking will be the new porn!" That cupcake was good. Especially the little white swirly frosting on top. You think you'll just go ahead and eat the second one in the package too.
"Yes, you are right. I am on to 'something,' as the kids say today," I grin proudly from atop my new pedestal I built just for myself and my new idea.
You think about it for a second. "You're getting a little high and mighty there, aren't you? I mean, it's just baking. It's not like you are pioneering Online Peace and Cures for Diptheria."
"Well, baking is important. Like you said, how else could starving children in other countries find out what they are missing? See, here's my theory," I say, pulling up a chair now and climbing down a little unsteadily from my pedestal (which was really just some stolen milk crates upside down, to be honest.). "Those starving children only know how to starve. They could be in danger of growing up thinking, 'Hey, it's okay that there are flies in my eyes and my belly's distended; life isn't so bad. After all, we do have this putrid cow-runoff water to drink.' They might start to think life is fine where they are. BUT, if I present to them to beauties of baking, they'll realize their life could be better an that food does, in fact, exist! This might inspire them to go out in search of a better life. And food. Then, when the goodwill folks show up, they'll actually appreciate the food they're being given instead of just allowing the warlords to intercept it!" I jump up now in excitement. "You see? My plan is a gateway for higher awareness and democratic uprisings! I will inspire them to great measures through my online baking!"
"Um, yeah. Your plan? It's okay, but you're forgetting one thing," you say with a slight air of superiority.
"Oh yeah, buttbunny? What, pray tell, did I forget?" I say in my usual sarcastic voice.
"They don't HAVE the internet."
Silence.
A little more silence.
"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat. "Maybe we could--OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING!!" I point down the street.
You look.
I run the other way, knocking over a trash can in the process.
****Until next time, I am your friendly goodwill ambassador,
Cupcake O'Snackeater.
Friday, August 08, 2003
Today's a casual Friday. I am wearing pants. Yippee! Pants are fun. I can be extra flexible in these pants, and do feats of amazing... amazingness. Well, anyway, guess I should try to think of something to talk about for today.
I know. Swimming. I wish I could go swimming right now. But alas I am at work, and there is no pool here. Not even in the "break room". Huh. Some "break." When I think of breaks, I think of swimmin' breaks. Of course, I only want to swim in a pool, as it's a controlled environment and no fishes can come and git me. Did you ever imagine you felt a fish swishing next to your leg as you were swimming in a pool? Or see a shadow through the water (probably from a tree branch or plane going overhead) and think it was a big shark coming to git you? Even though your rational brain knows there's no way a shark, trout, flounder, manta ray, minke whale, or orca could possibly be in your pool? Well, I used to do that all the time back when I had a pool. It got so silly that I couldn't swim in the pool alone for fear of what my imagination would do to me.
[I am using the word "git" a lot in this note. That's because I just like the sound of "git" as opposed to the formal "get." It's got a panache that a lot of today's real words just don't have. Git on outta here!]
Back to pools. Pools are cool. I like the smell of chlorine, the sound of the filter chugging along to break up microscopic algae, the feel of sun-stained pool toys. Most of all I like to swim along and not hear all the chatter for awhile. Underwater you can't hear things like your Dad telling you to mow the lawn, your sister quoting "Newsies", or Sally Jessy Raphael or the Giant Guy in the Rat Suit from "Beekman's World"-- rather, it is a quiet, serene place and sometimes, if you coast along near the bottom of the pool you can find pennies, rocks or earrings. You make a good living selling the stuff you find at the bottom of your pool. This is, of course, dependant on the fact that you find mentally-damaged youngsters to purchase these "deep sea treasures."
Fun things to do in a pool:
*Make a whirlpool by running really fast along the outer edges of the pool with your friends. When it gets really strong, drop down and float away in the currents you have created. (Note: Only works in round above-ground pools. You'll be there all day if you are in a fancy-schmantzy inground pool.)
*Turn your little inflatable boat upside down and swim underneath and hang out in the air pocket. You can even use this as a sneak-attack to go bump into other people. They'll never see you coming. Total stealth.
*Dive for items like sunken pool chairs and car tires. Don't let your mom & dad see you throwing tires off the station wagon into the pool-- drug your parents first.
*Run around the edge of the pool with a giant inflatable alligator. Pick out a target in the water-- preferably your friend, who's swimming along without a care in the world. Bop 'er on the head and scream "Crikey!" really loud. Mount alligator. Jump on top of same friend. Call paramedics when she sinks.
*Put a baby in an inner tube and spin it really fast. Skim out baby puke.
*Float Barbie heads on surface of water. Make a sign that says "Lagoon of Dead Souls" with an arrow pointing to the pool and nail it into the side of your house.
*Release the hippos!
I know. Swimming. I wish I could go swimming right now. But alas I am at work, and there is no pool here. Not even in the "break room". Huh. Some "break." When I think of breaks, I think of swimmin' breaks. Of course, I only want to swim in a pool, as it's a controlled environment and no fishes can come and git me. Did you ever imagine you felt a fish swishing next to your leg as you were swimming in a pool? Or see a shadow through the water (probably from a tree branch or plane going overhead) and think it was a big shark coming to git you? Even though your rational brain knows there's no way a shark, trout, flounder, manta ray, minke whale, or orca could possibly be in your pool? Well, I used to do that all the time back when I had a pool. It got so silly that I couldn't swim in the pool alone for fear of what my imagination would do to me.
[I am using the word "git" a lot in this note. That's because I just like the sound of "git" as opposed to the formal "get." It's got a panache that a lot of today's real words just don't have. Git on outta here!]
Back to pools. Pools are cool. I like the smell of chlorine, the sound of the filter chugging along to break up microscopic algae, the feel of sun-stained pool toys. Most of all I like to swim along and not hear all the chatter for awhile. Underwater you can't hear things like your Dad telling you to mow the lawn, your sister quoting "Newsies", or Sally Jessy Raphael or the Giant Guy in the Rat Suit from "Beekman's World"-- rather, it is a quiet, serene place and sometimes, if you coast along near the bottom of the pool you can find pennies, rocks or earrings. You make a good living selling the stuff you find at the bottom of your pool. This is, of course, dependant on the fact that you find mentally-damaged youngsters to purchase these "deep sea treasures."
Fun things to do in a pool:
*Make a whirlpool by running really fast along the outer edges of the pool with your friends. When it gets really strong, drop down and float away in the currents you have created. (Note: Only works in round above-ground pools. You'll be there all day if you are in a fancy-schmantzy inground pool.)
*Turn your little inflatable boat upside down and swim underneath and hang out in the air pocket. You can even use this as a sneak-attack to go bump into other people. They'll never see you coming. Total stealth.
*Dive for items like sunken pool chairs and car tires. Don't let your mom & dad see you throwing tires off the station wagon into the pool-- drug your parents first.
*Run around the edge of the pool with a giant inflatable alligator. Pick out a target in the water-- preferably your friend, who's swimming along without a care in the world. Bop 'er on the head and scream "Crikey!" really loud. Mount alligator. Jump on top of same friend. Call paramedics when she sinks.
*Put a baby in an inner tube and spin it really fast. Skim out baby puke.
*Float Barbie heads on surface of water. Make a sign that says "Lagoon of Dead Souls" with an arrow pointing to the pool and nail it into the side of your house.
*Release the hippos!
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Normally I don't use this blog to talk about serious stuff. But I read a story today that I just had to share, about a dog that was put into a gas chamber at a shelter and lived. I am thinking that a lot of people don't really know about the cruel methods that are often used to euthanize animals. Or, more accurately, no one wants to think about it, because it ain't pretty. There's nothing funny about being shoved into a box and gassed with carbon monoxide... it burns, it's not always effective, it's a painful way to die. Lethal injection is so much better, but to a lot of shelters, they have to kill so many animals a day that the cost is actually prohibitive, and they do things like gassing them. It's something I want to see stopped. Now.
I just can't understand why we still need to do this in 2003. I mean, if only people could realize you MUST spay or neuter your pets, because there is an overpopulation problem. Period. No, your dog does NOT need to "experience motherhood... just once"; your cat won't become a "pussy" if you don't let him go out and fuck all the cats in the neighborhood. Just wise up, people! Jeez!
And don't adopt from a pet store or even a breeder, no matter how reputable. Reason? Umm, how about all the dogs that are out there on the verge of being put to sleep or gassed because there's no room for them? Most of them will even be housebroken by the time you get them, and they're older so you don't have to deal with chewed-up slippers, accidents, and other annoying puppy behaviors.
This is my agenda. Adopt a homeless dog, spay or neuter it, and don't patronize pet stores that sell animals. If you agree with me (which you probably do if you're reading this, you guys are cool people!), spread the word to anyone you see who might be ignorant to this. A lot of experts believe it's not going to go away until lots of people re-think their opinions regarding animals.
OK, I'm climbin' down now off the soap box. Thanks for listening!
I just can't understand why we still need to do this in 2003. I mean, if only people could realize you MUST spay or neuter your pets, because there is an overpopulation problem. Period. No, your dog does NOT need to "experience motherhood... just once"; your cat won't become a "pussy" if you don't let him go out and fuck all the cats in the neighborhood. Just wise up, people! Jeez!
And don't adopt from a pet store or even a breeder, no matter how reputable. Reason? Umm, how about all the dogs that are out there on the verge of being put to sleep or gassed because there's no room for them? Most of them will even be housebroken by the time you get them, and they're older so you don't have to deal with chewed-up slippers, accidents, and other annoying puppy behaviors.
This is my agenda. Adopt a homeless dog, spay or neuter it, and don't patronize pet stores that sell animals. If you agree with me (which you probably do if you're reading this, you guys are cool people!), spread the word to anyone you see who might be ignorant to this. A lot of experts believe it's not going to go away until lots of people re-think their opinions regarding animals.
OK, I'm climbin' down now off the soap box. Thanks for listening!
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
You know how sometimes things can be funny out of context? Or, they can be funny without knowing the whole story? Here's a quick e-mail dialogue I just had with Eric here at work:
Eric: "That is by far the best letter ever written."
Me: "I know. It also made me remember what a good idea it is to mail cat shit out to people. I better get a cat, pronto, cuz there are a lot of people that need to get some mail from me."
Eric: "Do you have my address?"
Me: "That's for me to know and you to sniff out!"
Maybe I just amuse my damn self, and this really doesn't make sense or isn't funny. But still, doesn't it sort of make you want to know what was in that letter?
Send me your address and I'll send it. Or, more accurately, I will send some dog shit. I do happen to have a couple of dogs, and the shit is plentiful.
Eric: "That is by far the best letter ever written."
Me: "I know. It also made me remember what a good idea it is to mail cat shit out to people. I better get a cat, pronto, cuz there are a lot of people that need to get some mail from me."
Eric: "Do you have my address?"
Me: "That's for me to know and you to sniff out!"
Maybe I just amuse my damn self, and this really doesn't make sense or isn't funny. But still, doesn't it sort of make you want to know what was in that letter?
Send me your address and I'll send it. Or, more accurately, I will send some dog shit. I do happen to have a couple of dogs, and the shit is plentiful.
One more thing: you MUST read about the infamous deer antler pipe/bowl! Trish chronicled it here.
Man, talk about bad choices.
Man, talk about bad choices.
The Sci-Fi Channel has some pretty awful stuff on a regular basis. That's why I have to tune in and check it out every time I turn on the TV. I usually don't end up staying long on that channel, because Comedy Central is the next one over and I have to check to see if RENO 911 is on. But anycrap, last night I happened to stop on Sci Fi for a few minutes and ended up watching a super crappy ghost show, with re-enactments and everything!
Trish had stopped over my house to drop off some jewelry (yeah, we're trafficking some heavy shit) and we ended up sitting there watching this stupid show because we noticed in the "teaser" that Seth Green was in it.
You know, Seth Green ! The man was Oz for God's sake. And don't forget he was also young Woody Allen in Radio Days (worth it just for the "Why can't you be a mathematical genius?" scene) and Special K in "Can't Hardly Wait for Jennifer Love Hewitt to Brood and Look Uber-Sexy At This Crazy Party" (Japanese title). Trish and I just have to watch Seth Green whenever we see him. He's like the small, red-haired brother we never had, who grew up and became mostly-famous.
The show was called Real Ghosts. The premise was to re-enact REAL GHOST STORIES in a very cheap, poorly-directed manner and then show the real-life location of the ghost sightings. The opening story to this episode was centered on a ghost that was haunting some dumb fraternity house in Ohio or someplace. The show etablishes the creepiness by showing a cheesy fray guy with a barrel-shaped skull making out with a blonde co-ed. Suddenly the wall behind the guy's head turns into a filmy substance, not unlike a white Hefty Bag, and we see a 'creepy' face and hand undulating under the surface-- we're supposed to think that there's a ghost in the "wall" but the horrible way they shot it just made me think about having to take out the trash. Anyway, the blonde sees the face/hands, screams, and runs out the door of the frat house in a hurry and the camera comes back to the frat guy sitting there in his room alone. "Was it something I said?" he wittily asks out loud to no one.
SCENE.
I was talking about Seth Green, wasn't I? Oh yes. Anyway, Seth played a small little guy in a v-neck vest who welcomes new pledge Christopher Daniel Barnes. OK, here's a way to tell if you are a little too geeky when it comes to pop culture: you actually know who Christopher Daniel Barnes is , without consulting IMDB. Trish and I both readily identified him, and had a blast just remembering all the great things he has been in or voiced-over over the years. If you don't know, I am not telling you. Ahh, Christopher Daniel Barnes.
The ghost is named Duncan. We know this because the ghost is fond of writing his own name in steam in the bathroom as Christopher Daniel Barnes is showerin'. Duncan is also fond of typing on computers, and he types his name over and over and prints it out so the words form a skull-shape on the paper. Damn, that's some creepy shit right there. Gave us the willies. (For the record, what exactly ARE "the willies"? Never mind.)
The dumb guys in the frat house hold some sort of party where old dudes who used to be in the fraternity come back and walk around the house and have heart attacks in the rooms where they killed guys years ago. After the most recent such incident, our hero Christopher Daniel Barnes (hint to IMDB folks: try CB Barnes, his old 1980's pin-up moniker) does some black magic by way of what looked like poker cards and a wine glass (some kind of poor man's Ouija board, I guess) and they all get to see the murder as it happened and which resulted in the ghost they now all live with.
And here's the best part: this was a DEATH by SPANKING. According to the ghostly images they showed us, the dead pledge was forced to crawl a gauntlet of homoerotic nature, in which hooded "brothers" paddled him senselessly as a way of proving he could be in their little group. But I guess he got spanked on the back of the head and killed... the show was helpful enough to show "blood" thrown against a floorboard to illustrate this point.
Anyway, the modern-day frats all think "what the hell?" and go to bed. Just so you know, the props crew of this show blew all their money on Star Trek memorabilia for the token black guy in the show, who just had to be a Trekkie. There were posters and shit all over the walls by his bed, and a model of the Enterprise dangled precariously over his noggin as he slept. Anyway, the ghostly Duncan awakens Christopher Daniel Barnes, AKA Prince Eric, and alerts him to a fire happening downstairs or something. There's a gratuitous shot of the Trekkie guy taking down his precious Enterprise ship and saving it as they bolt from the room to escape the fire. Classic example of a director being hell-bent on getting his interests into his film-- even if his "film" is a lousy C-rate TV episode of a crappy show starring Christopher "Greg" Daniel Barnes. But, yayyy! Now the ghost is our FRIEND! He saved our lives when the carpet caught fire, boys! Let's celebrate with a little paddling, just for ha-has!
In the end, Seth Green had little to do with any of the action, and I suspect he was cast to be the "odd" cool guy that every frat seems to have. I'm glad they decided to cut the final scene of him bitch-slapping Christopher Daniel Barnes and making him take his willy out of the mashed potatoes. It really wouldn't have furthered the plot.
Trish had stopped over my house to drop off some jewelry (yeah, we're trafficking some heavy shit) and we ended up sitting there watching this stupid show because we noticed in the "teaser" that Seth Green was in it.
You know, Seth Green ! The man was Oz for God's sake. And don't forget he was also young Woody Allen in Radio Days (worth it just for the "Why can't you be a mathematical genius?" scene) and Special K in "Can't Hardly Wait for Jennifer Love Hewitt to Brood and Look Uber-Sexy At This Crazy Party" (Japanese title). Trish and I just have to watch Seth Green whenever we see him. He's like the small, red-haired brother we never had, who grew up and became mostly-famous.
The show was called Real Ghosts. The premise was to re-enact REAL GHOST STORIES in a very cheap, poorly-directed manner and then show the real-life location of the ghost sightings. The opening story to this episode was centered on a ghost that was haunting some dumb fraternity house in Ohio or someplace. The show etablishes the creepiness by showing a cheesy fray guy with a barrel-shaped skull making out with a blonde co-ed. Suddenly the wall behind the guy's head turns into a filmy substance, not unlike a white Hefty Bag, and we see a 'creepy' face and hand undulating under the surface-- we're supposed to think that there's a ghost in the "wall" but the horrible way they shot it just made me think about having to take out the trash. Anyway, the blonde sees the face/hands, screams, and runs out the door of the frat house in a hurry and the camera comes back to the frat guy sitting there in his room alone. "Was it something I said?" he wittily asks out loud to no one.
SCENE.
I was talking about Seth Green, wasn't I? Oh yes. Anyway, Seth played a small little guy in a v-neck vest who welcomes new pledge Christopher Daniel Barnes. OK, here's a way to tell if you are a little too geeky when it comes to pop culture: you actually know who Christopher Daniel Barnes is , without consulting IMDB. Trish and I both readily identified him, and had a blast just remembering all the great things he has been in or voiced-over over the years. If you don't know, I am not telling you. Ahh, Christopher Daniel Barnes.
The ghost is named Duncan. We know this because the ghost is fond of writing his own name in steam in the bathroom as Christopher Daniel Barnes is showerin'. Duncan is also fond of typing on computers, and he types his name over and over and prints it out so the words form a skull-shape on the paper. Damn, that's some creepy shit right there. Gave us the willies. (For the record, what exactly ARE "the willies"? Never mind.)
The dumb guys in the frat house hold some sort of party where old dudes who used to be in the fraternity come back and walk around the house and have heart attacks in the rooms where they killed guys years ago. After the most recent such incident, our hero Christopher Daniel Barnes (hint to IMDB folks: try CB Barnes, his old 1980's pin-up moniker) does some black magic by way of what looked like poker cards and a wine glass (some kind of poor man's Ouija board, I guess) and they all get to see the murder as it happened and which resulted in the ghost they now all live with.
And here's the best part: this was a DEATH by SPANKING. According to the ghostly images they showed us, the dead pledge was forced to crawl a gauntlet of homoerotic nature, in which hooded "brothers" paddled him senselessly as a way of proving he could be in their little group. But I guess he got spanked on the back of the head and killed... the show was helpful enough to show "blood" thrown against a floorboard to illustrate this point.
Anyway, the modern-day frats all think "what the hell?" and go to bed. Just so you know, the props crew of this show blew all their money on Star Trek memorabilia for the token black guy in the show, who just had to be a Trekkie. There were posters and shit all over the walls by his bed, and a model of the Enterprise dangled precariously over his noggin as he slept. Anyway, the ghostly Duncan awakens Christopher Daniel Barnes, AKA Prince Eric, and alerts him to a fire happening downstairs or something. There's a gratuitous shot of the Trekkie guy taking down his precious Enterprise ship and saving it as they bolt from the room to escape the fire. Classic example of a director being hell-bent on getting his interests into his film-- even if his "film" is a lousy C-rate TV episode of a crappy show starring Christopher "Greg" Daniel Barnes. But, yayyy! Now the ghost is our FRIEND! He saved our lives when the carpet caught fire, boys! Let's celebrate with a little paddling, just for ha-has!
In the end, Seth Green had little to do with any of the action, and I suspect he was cast to be the "odd" cool guy that every frat seems to have. I'm glad they decided to cut the final scene of him bitch-slapping Christopher Daniel Barnes and making him take his willy out of the mashed potatoes. It really wouldn't have furthered the plot.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
I have been wanting to write about something that is dear to my heart for a long time now, but couldn't for some reason. (Probably because I end up writing about other schtuff all the time) I've decided that today is the day I document the existence of the white donkey.
Yes, the white donkey. Why are you surprised, Joe Public? I have a special spot in my heart reserved for this particular ass. And yes, it's just one donkey. And it's not the donkey at the Gold King Mines. Nope, this donkey is pure white.
I see him mostly every morning on my way to work. Actually, it is probably a HER, because I have done a little research and learned that male donkeys, or jacks, can be a little hard to control and make bad pets. This donkey seems mellow and with a positive outlook on life. I know so because she stands under a canopy of trees behind a chain-link fence and peers out at the cars going by out on Missouri Avenue and just seems like she's thinking, "Hey man, it's cool."
I first noticed this donkey--I call her Pearl, in my lonely head-- a couple of years ago, and thought it was a dream. I'd never seen a white donkey before. I don't think she is an albino, because she seems to have what I would deem "normal eyes"... not some glowy red things or whatever. In the middle of a stressful commute, it's always awesome to look over and see Pearl just hanging out there, acting all cool, during the last stretch of my drive. It's kind of a reminder that, although this city was built on Rock and Roll (Um, no. Wait. Sorry. I meant to say it's pretty built up, and there's a lot of asphalt here-- but then Starship invaded my head yet again, like they do all the time), there is still some of the wild stuff here in the middle of it.
I always gave a look over to the fence where I would see Pearl, but a lot of times she wasn't there. Or maybe I wasn't really seeing her. Whatever you want to believe, hippy, it took awhile for her to re-appear. Lately, I have been seeing her everyday, and sometimes twice (on the way home, too). Not sure why it cheers me up so much to see this white donkey, but hell, I'll take it.
I am thinking of writing a letter to the people who own the donkey, but I'm not sure it would go over well. Here's a text of what I would write:
Dear Donkey Owners,
My name is Lisa and I have been noticing your pretty white donkey by the side of the road for awhile now. You have a nice donkey. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I please come over and visit the donkey? I'd like to pet her and maybe ask her how she's doing; for instance, how does she tolerate this horrid Arizona heat? What are her favorite types of treats? Just spending a little time with your white donkey would be nice. I promise I wouldn't hurt her.
Thank you,
Lisa
PS: I am not retarded.
Yes, the white donkey. Why are you surprised, Joe Public? I have a special spot in my heart reserved for this particular ass. And yes, it's just one donkey. And it's not the donkey at the Gold King Mines. Nope, this donkey is pure white.
I see him mostly every morning on my way to work. Actually, it is probably a HER, because I have done a little research and learned that male donkeys, or jacks, can be a little hard to control and make bad pets. This donkey seems mellow and with a positive outlook on life. I know so because she stands under a canopy of trees behind a chain-link fence and peers out at the cars going by out on Missouri Avenue and just seems like she's thinking, "Hey man, it's cool."
I first noticed this donkey--I call her Pearl, in my lonely head-- a couple of years ago, and thought it was a dream. I'd never seen a white donkey before. I don't think she is an albino, because she seems to have what I would deem "normal eyes"... not some glowy red things or whatever. In the middle of a stressful commute, it's always awesome to look over and see Pearl just hanging out there, acting all cool, during the last stretch of my drive. It's kind of a reminder that, although this city was built on Rock and Roll (Um, no. Wait. Sorry. I meant to say it's pretty built up, and there's a lot of asphalt here-- but then Starship invaded my head yet again, like they do all the time), there is still some of the wild stuff here in the middle of it.
I always gave a look over to the fence where I would see Pearl, but a lot of times she wasn't there. Or maybe I wasn't really seeing her. Whatever you want to believe, hippy, it took awhile for her to re-appear. Lately, I have been seeing her everyday, and sometimes twice (on the way home, too). Not sure why it cheers me up so much to see this white donkey, but hell, I'll take it.
I am thinking of writing a letter to the people who own the donkey, but I'm not sure it would go over well. Here's a text of what I would write:
Dear Donkey Owners,
My name is Lisa and I have been noticing your pretty white donkey by the side of the road for awhile now. You have a nice donkey. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I please come over and visit the donkey? I'd like to pet her and maybe ask her how she's doing; for instance, how does she tolerate this horrid Arizona heat? What are her favorite types of treats? Just spending a little time with your white donkey would be nice. I promise I wouldn't hurt her.
Thank you,
Lisa
PS: I am not retarded.
Monday, August 04, 2003
So I went to Clown Day this weekend.
Apparently, this is National Clown Week, or something like that. And in honor of this momentous occasion, the good folks at Rawhide opened their doors to the public this past Saturday and let everyone come in and openly mix with a bunch of clowns. The best part of the whole thing was-- it was free, and I have a video camera.
I went to Clown Day with Trish and Kane. It was really hot and crowded; as you'd expect, there were a lot of families there with little kids, and not so many 20-somethings with sarcastic attitudes and video cameras. Rawhide is a tourist-y "wild west" town/ restaurant complete with wandering bad-ass "cowboys" who pick fake fights with each other and have shoot outs with one another in the middle of the dirt streets; callin' each other "yeller" and what-not. It's a hoot. I am telling you, it's authentic Arizona stuff. Unless of course, you actually live here.
Anyway, there were clowns. Messes of them. Clowns on stilts, clowns with hola-hoops in their pants to create fake fat waistlines. Clowns with little toy ponies on the end of a wire "leash" who were getting towed through the crowd by their over-excited toy pony. It was extreme hilarity. Here are the best clown moments that happened to us:
1) A clown with very yellow teeth. We saw this old woman dressed in a pink yarn wig and a frilly petticoat dress with polka-dotted Chuck Taylors talking to some kids, and as we looked closer we were horrified to see her teeth were practically falling out her head. Yellowed and coffee-stained, they were glowing like rotten corn niblets against the white (death-pall) greasepaint makeup. It was horrid!
2) The clown with the B. One clown approached us with his hands cupped and said. "I've caught a bee. He's very dangerous. Want to see him?" At this point, we were a little buzzed on the alcoholic beverages we had imbued upon entering Clown Day, so we went along. "Let's see it," I says. The guy brings his hands close to us and opens them to reveal a nasty, evil... red sponge in the shape of the letter B. He got us! I wanted to beat him with a rusty shovel for his cruel prank. Clowns....!
As I was saying, when we entered, we knew it would be more hilarious if we were drinking. Trish and Kane got these gross margaritas in plastic cups at a little stand that was manned by a bartender in a cowboy hat. I ordered a plastic cup full of white zinfindel. Over ice. There could be nothing weirder than walking around in 100+ degree heat, surrounded by parents, children, balloons and fucking clowns while drinking a fine blush wine and progressively getting a silly buzz. Things definitely got funnier after that.
We watched some kids ride the mechanical bull-- good times, that. Especially when the older kids would get on and the bored-looking teenager (he looked sort of like a whinier version of the doofus cowboy-guy in "Footloose") running the ride would speed up the bull so they would go whipping off and onto the padded cushions around the bull. The best was when one younger kid just sort of slid off the bull and dumped his ass down into the cushions like a jerk. Man, wise up, kid! You're supposed to fall off as the bull is moving-- NOT when it has shuddered to a stop. It was good, buzzed times scraming at the kid as he fell. I think we all went "OHHH!" real loud from the sidelines.
And who should be walking the crowd but that pompous bitch-ass Ronald McDonald. I shit you not. That asshole was there too, mingling with the real clowns. That is one creepy mother-effer. He was posing with kids like he was the local hero. I don't remember Ronald going off to war and making the world a safer place for everyone. I don't remember him inventing the vaccine for polio. And I sure don't remember him cheering up anyone ever, really, other than a stray McNugget puppet in those 80's commercials. He's a marketing tool. Scratch that--he's just a tool, period. I think the other clowns were seriously plotting to kick his ass as he made his way back to his Dodge Omni when the night was through. I would, if I was a clown. Retarded red-haired, open-mouthed smiling bastard. (In case you can't tell, I don't like Ronald McDonald. Give me Grimace any day.)
Let's see-- other happenings: We watched a bunch of little kids shaking their pre-school moneymakers to a cowboy cover-band's version of the Monkee's "I'm a Believer." I had a laughing fit when I realized it was hard to tell what gender the clowns were as they shuffled past in their honking shoes. Kane had his fortune read (very inaccurately) by the "gypsy" Blanca. We stood on the line for her little covered-wagon of lies for almost an hour, taunted by small children who jumped around and told us how they would spend a "billion-billion dollars" and repeatedly asked Kane is he was Chinese. The little blonde girl who talked to us the most on-camera expressed her concern about Kane: "I hope he's one of those fighting Chinese."
Overall, the night was a success. We didn't have to kill any clowns. That's always a sign of a good night--regardless of it being Clown Day or not.
Next year I invite all you blog-readers to pay your clown respects at Clown Day. They do it every year. And I urge you all to drink. Heavily.
Apparently, this is National Clown Week, or something like that. And in honor of this momentous occasion, the good folks at Rawhide opened their doors to the public this past Saturday and let everyone come in and openly mix with a bunch of clowns. The best part of the whole thing was-- it was free, and I have a video camera.
I went to Clown Day with Trish and Kane. It was really hot and crowded; as you'd expect, there were a lot of families there with little kids, and not so many 20-somethings with sarcastic attitudes and video cameras. Rawhide is a tourist-y "wild west" town/ restaurant complete with wandering bad-ass "cowboys" who pick fake fights with each other and have shoot outs with one another in the middle of the dirt streets; callin' each other "yeller" and what-not. It's a hoot. I am telling you, it's authentic Arizona stuff. Unless of course, you actually live here.
Anyway, there were clowns. Messes of them. Clowns on stilts, clowns with hola-hoops in their pants to create fake fat waistlines. Clowns with little toy ponies on the end of a wire "leash" who were getting towed through the crowd by their over-excited toy pony. It was extreme hilarity. Here are the best clown moments that happened to us:
1) A clown with very yellow teeth. We saw this old woman dressed in a pink yarn wig and a frilly petticoat dress with polka-dotted Chuck Taylors talking to some kids, and as we looked closer we were horrified to see her teeth were practically falling out her head. Yellowed and coffee-stained, they were glowing like rotten corn niblets against the white (death-pall) greasepaint makeup. It was horrid!
2) The clown with the B. One clown approached us with his hands cupped and said. "I've caught a bee. He's very dangerous. Want to see him?" At this point, we were a little buzzed on the alcoholic beverages we had imbued upon entering Clown Day, so we went along. "Let's see it," I says. The guy brings his hands close to us and opens them to reveal a nasty, evil... red sponge in the shape of the letter B. He got us! I wanted to beat him with a rusty shovel for his cruel prank. Clowns....!
As I was saying, when we entered, we knew it would be more hilarious if we were drinking. Trish and Kane got these gross margaritas in plastic cups at a little stand that was manned by a bartender in a cowboy hat. I ordered a plastic cup full of white zinfindel. Over ice. There could be nothing weirder than walking around in 100+ degree heat, surrounded by parents, children, balloons and fucking clowns while drinking a fine blush wine and progressively getting a silly buzz. Things definitely got funnier after that.
We watched some kids ride the mechanical bull-- good times, that. Especially when the older kids would get on and the bored-looking teenager (he looked sort of like a whinier version of the doofus cowboy-guy in "Footloose") running the ride would speed up the bull so they would go whipping off and onto the padded cushions around the bull. The best was when one younger kid just sort of slid off the bull and dumped his ass down into the cushions like a jerk. Man, wise up, kid! You're supposed to fall off as the bull is moving-- NOT when it has shuddered to a stop. It was good, buzzed times scraming at the kid as he fell. I think we all went "OHHH!" real loud from the sidelines.
And who should be walking the crowd but that pompous bitch-ass Ronald McDonald. I shit you not. That asshole was there too, mingling with the real clowns. That is one creepy mother-effer. He was posing with kids like he was the local hero. I don't remember Ronald going off to war and making the world a safer place for everyone. I don't remember him inventing the vaccine for polio. And I sure don't remember him cheering up anyone ever, really, other than a stray McNugget puppet in those 80's commercials. He's a marketing tool. Scratch that--he's just a tool, period. I think the other clowns were seriously plotting to kick his ass as he made his way back to his Dodge Omni when the night was through. I would, if I was a clown. Retarded red-haired, open-mouthed smiling bastard. (In case you can't tell, I don't like Ronald McDonald. Give me Grimace any day.)
Let's see-- other happenings: We watched a bunch of little kids shaking their pre-school moneymakers to a cowboy cover-band's version of the Monkee's "I'm a Believer." I had a laughing fit when I realized it was hard to tell what gender the clowns were as they shuffled past in their honking shoes. Kane had his fortune read (very inaccurately) by the "gypsy" Blanca. We stood on the line for her little covered-wagon of lies for almost an hour, taunted by small children who jumped around and told us how they would spend a "billion-billion dollars" and repeatedly asked Kane is he was Chinese. The little blonde girl who talked to us the most on-camera expressed her concern about Kane: "I hope he's one of those fighting Chinese."
Overall, the night was a success. We didn't have to kill any clowns. That's always a sign of a good night--regardless of it being Clown Day or not.
Next year I invite all you blog-readers to pay your clown respects at Clown Day. They do it every year. And I urge you all to drink. Heavily.
Friday, August 01, 2003
I was just thinking I had nothing to write about today. But then, by chance, something happened in my proximity so I came back to my desk to capture it before it flutters away like a sickly moth:
I was walking through the lobby of the building today on my way to take a break and two older women were heading back in from outside. They were in the middle of an intense discussion, and they weren't smiling very much.
As I walked past, I caught a little bit of what they were saying:
"...and if you think that's bad, you should smell it!" What could IT be, I wonder. And why were they so serious about it? It was like they were just walking out of a U.N. council meeting; they were not kidding about how bad IT smelled.
This reminds me of a time when we were on a family vacation in Lake George, NY. It was a beautiful day, and I'm walking along with Trish and my mom and dad, and we're having a great time just enjoying the day. But then two women walking together in the opposite direction passed us. And my whole family heard the exact same snippet of conversation:
"The problem with HER is she can't keep her legs closed!"
We still have a good laugh over that one. Sure glad we don't know HER!
I was walking through the lobby of the building today on my way to take a break and two older women were heading back in from outside. They were in the middle of an intense discussion, and they weren't smiling very much.
As I walked past, I caught a little bit of what they were saying:
"...and if you think that's bad, you should smell it!" What could IT be, I wonder. And why were they so serious about it? It was like they were just walking out of a U.N. council meeting; they were not kidding about how bad IT smelled.
This reminds me of a time when we were on a family vacation in Lake George, NY. It was a beautiful day, and I'm walking along with Trish and my mom and dad, and we're having a great time just enjoying the day. But then two women walking together in the opposite direction passed us. And my whole family heard the exact same snippet of conversation:
"The problem with HER is she can't keep her legs closed!"
We still have a good laugh over that one. Sure glad we don't know HER!
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