Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Why I Hate People: Episode 539

People invented this. And it's wrong.

For when your pet feels like less of a man because you've voluntarily made an appointment to have a professional remove this balls.

There are 9 sizes. You can make your beagle feel like a great dane and give your rottweiler a inferiority complex. Or, if feeling zany, mix and match.

Some testemonials:
"Frodo never knew he lost anything and is just a happier little dog since he's been
neutered with Neuticles."

Janell Suasser - San Lorenzo, CA

FRODO. The poor dog was neutered before his balls were even taken.

"Baby Snow has all the benefits of being neutered- Neuticles are just a whole lot nicer."
Stephen Samual - Redcliff, KY

...to touch?

"Neuticles were the absolute least I could do."
Glenda Nelson - Spring, TX

Um. What's the most you could do?

The good news is, they're 100% made in the USA. So...jobs. That's nice. And no leakage...a company promise. Guarantees are good.

It's enough to make one think this nation might just be something other than great.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Hey Santa

(image stolen from this blog)

Last weekend, my friends and I put on every red and white thing we owned and joined almost one thousand other "santas" for a pub crawl in N. Portland. Santacon. A tradition that began in San Francisco one particularly dull year, it has become the true beginning to the holiday season for me and everyone else with a heart beat. Ornaments and popcorn tins for sale in drugstores before Halloween and Christmas songs playing in gas stations on November 1st do nothing for my Christmas spirit. They actually just piss me off. Black Friday makes me crazy, but you all know that.

But Santacon...Santacon is brilliant. It's like a love fest without stanky hippies. You can't hate a Santa at Santacon because you, yourself are also Santa. And we all know that self loathing only ever ends in coal - keeping the event downright jolly, and that's not a term that's often apt. You greet with "Hey Santa!". You pass with "Excuse me, Santa!". You cheers with chanting "Ho, ho, hoooooooooooooooo!" You sing at the top of your lungs, dance as much as your suit will allow. And most importantly, you keep yourself warm with the flask of spiced rum in your red purse. It's how one is meant to be keep the yuletide gay.

In fact, I'm fairly certain that if Santacon had existed in 1843, Scrooge as a character could not have been conceived. Instead he would've been the Prince of Figgy Pudding or some junk.

So, if you live in a city with more than 50,000 inhabitants, you probably have a Santacon. I advise you to discover it...and then join it. But wear comfortable shoes.

Some pictorials of the event:

This is what a room looks like when you're dizzy.
Duct Tape Santa knows what you want for Christmas...This is me getting interviewed for a show on a channel that I don't totally believe exists.
This is me gettin' down with a very funky vodka/soda. With lime. Not my best angle. Goranas - just shuttup right this second.
There are hoards more, but I know sometimes people are sensitive about their drunken rosy cheeks being put display for the interwebs, so we'll leave it at my worst angle. Tomorrow night the shenanigans begin anew. Tis the season, bitches.

Wednesday, December 09, 2009


I was totally planning on blogging with all sorts of substance tonight...but instead, I've been running through every song on my ipod as though I completely FORGOT that I owned it. By this I mean full-on karaoke with impromptu dance routines. But why. Well, because it's that time of year again, my friends...that time where I try to stuff as many people as possible in about 500 sq. ft. of free space. It's my Christmas Party. Saturday. Third annual. Such commitment. Every year I expect it to be a disaster and every year it's really damn fun except I have to buy a new annual mop and use it while extremely hung over. Like, alot.

So I opened a bottle of wine and started going through my x-mas music remixes and whatever else. Right now I'm rocking out to the Gorillas. Love the Gorillas. The Europeans don't consider them dance music. And by Europeans I mean the Danish. Now on to Grizzly Bear...definitely not dance music. Writing music, surely yes. Uh oh...Justin Timberlake...have to go dance at the cat.

Monday, November 30, 2009

This Week's Stalkerish Shoutout Goes To...

...my beetches up in Wapakoneta, Ohio! That's right...stalkerish shoutouts are BACK!

How timely of me - in this Thanksgiving season - to choose a shout out to a reader in a town most likely named after the Native Americans that were driven out of it. But I'm not here to judge, since I had to copy and paste the city's name as I couldn't even sound it out well enough to spell it.

I've never been to Ohio, but am of the opinion that it is a kind of Promiseland. This is solely based on the fact that Dave Chappelle lives there. If he had a cult, I'd join it. But then I'd try to convince him to move its location to a coastal state because I always need to be able to escape by sea if necessary.

So reader in Wapakoneta - I'll leave it to you to start the foundation of the compound. It will probably need a fence and some huts. You can model it on an Amish community, though I think we should have cars. I enjoy them.

Until the next time (I remember that Google Analytics exists) you lucky bastardos...just keep reading from an actual location and you'll get shoutouted next!

In other news...is it weird that I think this is great? So strangely cuddly.

And there are more.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

A Pox on All Their Strip Mall Locations

Every time I think I have something to complain about, I need to stop and remember that I don't work at Old Navy.

Those fuckers are going to open their doors at 3:00 AM on the day after Thanksgiving (also called "Black Friday" by those who don't have association issues with the term "Black Death" like I do). That means the employees - who make little more than a pittance and have to wear a headset mic all day with a smile - will need to roll their tryptophanized asses into work at, like, 2:00 AM. And then function.

Kinda defeats the purpose of the holiday. I hope the CEOs of Old Navy/Gap/Banana Republic Incorporated rot in a 1st class hell filled with angry ferrets.

But seriously, no alarm will get me up at that hour. Not even the smell of bacon will do it. But it doesn't even matter because there's no sale worthy of getting up that early. I don't care if it's half-priced booze or buy one get one free orphaned children. You can argue all you want that all the cutest and strongest children will be taken by mid-morning, but I'm still not getting out of bed. I'll take the conjoined twins with the lazy eyes, I don't even care.

And if I worked for Old Navy, I'd sabotage their Black Friday nonsense with some destructive shenanigans. Though it wouldn't end up being very inventive because I will have gotten to work at 2:00 goddamn o'clock. Vicious circle.

Anyway - there are some hippies out there touting a Buy Nothing Day on Friday. That pisses me off too, but for a different reason. If I want to buy a slice of pizza and a watery Mexican beer, I will damn well do so and no unwashed bohemian radical is gonna tell me otherwise. Old Navy has no impact on the constant foodless state of my home. And I'm not gonna let their greed keep me from sustenance. My pizza isn't going to change the fact that next year, they'll probably open at 1:00 AM on the day after Thanksgiving.

May your holiday be filled with meat and gluten.

And for those who suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous food allergies or animal cruelty stances...insert the appropriate substitute foods into the above statement.


Friday, November 20, 2009

An Open Letter to the Man in the Stetson with a Shower Cap on It

Dear Man in the Stetson who walked by me at the food carts when I went to get lunch,

I understand that men and their hats are sometimes inseparable. That a hat can cover a unsightly grey hair, or a bald spot or an accidental mullet. Or that in some very sad scenarios, it serves as the mid-life teddy bear or bit o' blankie. Or it could be an issue of identity. A cowboy hat, beret, trucker or baseball or Castro cap can be a visual calling card, if you will. Whatever the reason, I really do see that it might be hard to leave home without it. It's what makes you, you...and therefore, cool.

Well let me tell you something, Mr. Stetson. This does not make you look cool:This is a shower cap. Just because it's on your hat and not your head doesn't make it any less of a shower cap. So let's get something straight: your sense of style should not be adhered to at all costs. I don't know what life coach told you otherwise, but you should fire them immediately. You live in Oregon, where it rains forever. You need to compromise your fashion sense to get from point A to point B like everyone else. Knowing this, you have three options:

1. Put the hat away and wear a fucking HOOD attached to a Columbia raincoat like everyone else. And when the rain stops...well then you can bring the ol' boy back out.

2. OR - I hear these are all the rage across the pond.

3. OR - Spray the hat with those rain repellent bottles of somethingorother they give you when you buy a leather jacket and hope for the best.

Once you have chosen one or more of the above, your shower cap will be freed up for its original intended internal use. And you will cease looking like such a knob.

Your friend (once you lose the head plastic),

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Wednesday is for Nonsense

Can you make it to the end of this?

I can't.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

The Post Wherein the Inner Portlander Fights and Claws its Way Through

There's a Macy's commercial that's been running since the day before Halloween. It's celebrating the 150 years of holiday frippery brought to us by our friendly neighborhood department store. Thanks to YouTube, you can view it below:

The ad actually depresses me every time I see it. For although I was raised watching Miracle on 34th St and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade...I wasn't raised with Macy's. I'd never even been in one. We didn't have them in Oregon.

About 3 or 4 years ago, Macy's bought out Meier & Frank...a Portland-based department store chain that had been around since the mid 1800s.

To be truthful - the company had gotten run down over the last decade. The classic downtown store was looking a little shabby. The old gold elevators slower than just taking the stairs. The dining room on the top floor resembled the mint green interior of a high-end retirement home. But every winter, the windows were dressed in honor of the 12 Days of Christmas and I loved them.

Sadly, I never took any pictures. Meier & Frank was such an old institution - it never occurred to me that it would one day it would just go away. So what you see here has been hijacked from the internet.

And now it's gone. The old store was gutted and given a sterile white interior. It's a Macy's, just like every other Macy's across the country. It's old school character is completely gone...and I'll never get to see the Can-Can geese again. So when that damn commercial comes on, I have to mute it or I get teary.

Today we spent the afternoon in Ikea (hating everyone). There was a need for some shelving and since we were in "relaxed weekend mode", out we went. Half way through the top floor, peckishness set in, so we checked out the cafeteria. The snaking line promised a 45 minute wait. No thanks. The unilateral decision was made to skip the rest of the top floor and go downstairs to the good shit...where we discovered that the dishes we'd been holding off getting a full set of are now discontinued. Ok, keep walking. Our item-filled cart was stolen in bathwares. We ran back through and re-loaded with two full armfuls (too afraid to get another cart) and finally made it to the warehouse only to discover that the shelves we'd decided on were out of stock. Pouts were assuaged with a zippy little ride on a newly acquired flatbed cart, but all in all, we were what one might call "failures" at being productive in Ikea. It's the kind of wasted afternoon that where one can only find solace in a new pair of shoes. Alas.

The point of the above tale of woe is that we live in a world of Macy's and Ikea now. The *little* local shops just aren't there anymore. Not for most of us. If one needs shelves, that need will result in one's Sunday mirroring my own. It's a daunting prospect. And I'm wondering what I can do about it.

I heard on the radio the other day that Walmart has been the only retailer showing profits throughout the entire recession. I say, fuck that. To the extent I can, I'm going to make a more concerted effort to support my local shelves. That's my plan. No Target. No more Ikea. Macy's can bite me. My biggest Christmas gift will be to my local economy this year...and I'm convinced I can do it (even if the "No Target" sentence made me throw up a little in my mouth). So there you have it. A cause. A stance. A plan. I can't possibly fail. Because I'm totally going to go close that Gap.com tab I've got open right now.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Half-Assed Reviews: Away We Go

It's time for another Half-Assed Movie Review!

As you all know, I like to see and consequently talk about movies that everyone else has already seen and moved on from. And since that is often the case, I can't be bothered with doing much more than drinking a big ol' glass of wine and blurping out some film school blurp like "mise-en-scene" and "character-driven archs". Blurp.

I did not see Away We Go in the movie theater for the following reasons:

1. Movies cost a lot of money to see in theaters that don't serve beer. And that's just stupid.

2. If I wait for the movies to go to the second-run theater, I end up spending that money on beer. This is the wiser course of action. I can also occasionally yell things at the screen without getting booed. But we were out of the country when it was in the second-run.

3. I don't trust John Krasinski. He has a shifty nose and I wasn't convinced he could ever be anything other than Jim from The Office...even with Sam Mendes directing the nose to be something other than shifty.

4. It got a negatory review on NPR. Apparently I'm an elitist. Who knew.

Be that as it may - at the beach last stormy stormy weekend, I caught up on watching shit. And this sentence pretty much sums up how I felt about it, though it may make sense to absolutely no one:
Away We Go is my new Reality Bites.

Some backstory: Reality Bites came out in the mid-90s and followed the lives of 4 20-somethings with Liberal Arts degrees with no real skills and no idea what to do with their lives and no real ambition. I watched it a lot between the ages of 19-25 convinced I was the missing 5th cast member.

With Away We Go, I felt invaded - as though our apartment had been bugged for the last year. There were several bits of dialogue where I was all "Hey! That's none of your business!" The story follows a couple in their early 30s who discover they're unintentionally pregnant (Maya Rudolph has what may be the perfect reaction to the news) and realize they have no real direction or home. So off they go to figure out what to do about the latter.

To make this something other than a drama, we're introduced to a veritable line up of wackadoos along the way played by some of my favorites (Catherine O'Hara, Allison Janney, etc.). I think they're supposed to be the sugar rim...but somehow it didn't work. Their inclusion was an aspiration to Wes Anderson levels of character kitsch, but they came off as caricatures.

I'm hard on movies, it's true. Regardless of it's standing within the world at large, if it doesn't affect me on a relatable level, it gets an official rating of "eh". This movie hit me. And I wasn't even drinking. I'm approaching 30, everyone around me is having kids and seems to know what they want, etc. I'm not there. I don't know when I'll be there. I don't know what I'll do when I am there. And there's still that aimless lack of ambition hanging on from the early 20s. Away We Go does a pretty damn good job of reflecting that kind of internalization in a thoughtful, if occasionally cheesy, way.

And they made John/Jim grow a shifty beard to detract from his shifty nose. Turns out facial hair is occasionally useful.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

The Post Wherein I Give A Kanye West-Style FUCK YOU to Idiots

As of today, 31 of the states who've put gay marriage on a ballot for the popular vote have shot it down. Look - there's obviously some confusion. Let me break it down:

People = People

Women = People (remember, they used to not be allowed to own property or vote)

Black People = People (remember, they used to not be allowed anything at all)

Gay People = People (currently not thought of as people unless someone needs a decorator)

Anyone who comes at me with "it's a choice" can take that argument to
Robert Allen - Florida State Rep

Larry Craig - Idaho Senator
Mark Foley - Florida Stat Rep

Ted Haggard - Pastor of the New Life Church

And they just keep on coming......

IF YOU, as a person, say that a group of people CANNOT do something everyone else of-age gets to do simply because YOU, as a person, do not agree with something about the group of people that is a part of their biological makeup...THAT IS BIGOTRY. THAT IS DISCRIMINATION. THAT IS HATE. And this is YOU. Accept it.

At the same time - someone needs to get the point across that MARRIAGE IS NOT SACRED. All people can end it any time for any reason. And they do. Over 50% of the people who enter into those vows eventually say "eh", label it "irreconcilable differences" and end the union. At the same time, there are untold numbers of marriages that keep on keeping on filled with infidelity...convenience over love...domestic violence, etc. How can gay people have any effect either negatively or positively over the institution as we know it? How? Really. I want to know. Tell me. I want to understand.

Real love is so fucking rare...millions of people will never even get a chance at it. So, if a people is lucky enough to find another people they want to be with for the rest of their life (regardless of whether or not that actually happens), who the FUCK are you, or me to tell them...sorry, but sodomy is only for the heteros. No hospital visitation rights for you. But wasn't it just like the real thing when you had symbolic ring exchange ceremony in the park that half your relatives refused to attend. No? Whiner.


Monday, November 02, 2009

Links! Not Just for Chains Anymore.

B's not home, so I'm watching Family Guy. He hates it. Thinks it's the lowest form of humor. I think laughing at people who accidentally trip is the lowest form of humor, but I do it anyway. It's mostly a lack of self control. And that's why I laugh at Family Guy. Bad things are funny. I also laughed my ass off at Twilight and an entire day of the Hallmark channel. And of course...my favorite thing to sing in the shower is Eddie Murphy's Boogie in Your Butt. So I'll be damned if that randomly British cartoon baby and his deformed head doesn't crack my shit up.

But, you know, it's not all lowbrow all the time around here. I've been known to actually guffaw at Wes Anderson films and Dylan Moran in Black Books slays me. Abbott and Costello can be quoted ad nauseam. I grin for all 22 minutes of a Flight of the Conchords episode. I drop whatever I'm doing if Terry shows up on Reno 911. Never missed an episode of 30 Rock (without watching it online later). Tommy Boy and Clerks remains the most influential films of my formative teenage years. Bringing Up Baby still puts me in stitches, though viewed a kajillion times. I know quality.

But I don't like The Three Stooges. To put it bluntly...I don't get it. It's just not funny. Not funny at all.

Where's the writing? How do you fashion a script out of "woops" and "woe woe woe"s? And how does the gag not get old by the second time chubby half-bald man gets poked in the eyes after having his hair pulled? Someone needs to explain it to me.

In the meantime, I spent, like, a half an hour linking to crap to support my various arguments. Just so you don't have to. Enjoy.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Shipping Charges Have Become Outrageous

I took some old school bloggy buddies off my blogroll thingie and it made me sad. Sad that they'd stopped blogging and sad that I hadn't. When I started the blog...well let's just say, we had a different Secretary of State. And there's been two since. Only one of the three had hair worthy of naming a blog after.

But this post isn't meant to be a jaunt down memory lane, oh no. It's meant to be about PICKLES.

A couple of months ago, I threw out a devil-may-care challenge concerning a limerick and some pickles and here it is...so much time later...only one person took me up on it. Stinkypaw wrote me a pickle limerick...and so today I sent her a jar of the good shit in return for this poetic gem:

To write a limerick I thought would be easy,
But now I see it's not that peasey
The things I'll do to taste your pickles
I'll ask, I'll beg but won't suffer thru tickles
Because I woudn't want to be queasy.

By the way, did you know you have to fill out a customs form for CANADA? Ridiculous.

When the postal employee asked if the package contained anything breakable, liquid or perishable...I throughoughly enjoyed saying yes to all three. So Stinkpaw...a glass jar of pickled cucs bobbing along in brine is on its way to you. They stamped 'FRAGILE" on it, so I know that means it won't break.

Viva la awesome blog buddies.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Discomfort is a State of Mind

After non-purposefully swallowing a little ball of allspice, it's now stuck in my throat. It won't melt and I can't cough it back up, so I guess it will just have to sit there forever. Maybe it'll multiply and I'll be able to spice cider just by gargling it. Genius.

Halloween fever has hit hard, people, and those who have me on the face of book will have seen just how hard. In the meantime, I feel the smug need to share with you my success in turning Brendan into Ira Glass (as previously promised).


It took me a month to gather all the crap from various thrift stores, but we attended our first Halloween party of the season on Saturday looking like a very respectable NPR radio show host...

...and smartly dressed Alice with a penchant for chopping the heads of white rabbits and turning them into flask-holding purses. You better believe it.

In a week I'll be over it. Moved on to an obsession with stuffing and cranberry sauce...and learning how to make a pie. Holidays are wonderful things for those who suffer from the short attention span. Like 30 minute episodes of life...only, you know, in days.

Speaking of 30 minute episodes...I'm waiting for the next "ripped from the headlines" segment of Law & Order about a boy floating away in a homemade balloon contraption. The world has waited long enough! And by "the world", I mean me! I can't take the suspense. My guess is that there'll be a twist in the last 5 minutes when the father takes the stand and rips off his toupee to reveal that his full head of hair was just a hoax...a publicity stunt and that it all...the whole brouhaha...was to come down to this. I'd watch it.

Seriously though - what I want to know is WHY IS THIS MAN STILL IN THE NEWS? What will it take to get the cameras off of this family? What sparkly thing can we dangle? Shoot...maybe I'll go out and cause a newsworthy ruckus. Just give me a small arsenal of super soakers, a nun, a mid-sized gerbil, a passport and a jar of petroleum jelly. It's ON.

Happy almost Halloween. This one's for the freaks.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Waste-of-money Product Reviews: The BumpIt

It's a well known fact to people who know it - I love infomericals. I will watch one in its entirety before I even know it's over. And then do everything in my power to control the impulse to 'call now' regardless of what the extra bonus offer is.

So when the stupid inventions on TV show up in Target and I'm with amy g. ... and it's called a 'Bumpit' ... and it's under $10 ... and there's an hour until 30 Rock starts ... I think you see where this is going:
The Bumpit. Pronounced "Bump It" and not "Bum Pit" - unless you are us, and then that's totally how you pronounce it.

It comes with directions.
Let's give Kara a beehive!
It works for your hair OR your ass!
The finished product is a bit...like a growth. A growth that's very slowly falling off my head.

Front view.
Perhaps a little moisture will help the staying power. (No, she didn't really lick it.)
(Or did she.)
Now it's amy's turn. There was a little more success with her non-toddler hair.
Enough to inspire a dance with the joy of it.

And then...the double BumpIt. Which only succeeded in giving her an alien head.
As a product - it completely failed to do anything but make us laugh. Needless to say...the As Seen On TV invention is going back. So now you have two reasons not to buy one. 1. It doesn't work. 2. You might accidentally buy the one that we returned. And after watching amy g.'s review summation below, you'll understand why you should live in fear of such an occurance.

(Note: At one point amy refers to the 'jojo boys'. Jojos are fried wedge potatoes sold in the corner store across the street. They are glorious. And there are often boys hanging out in front of this shop with apparently nothing else to do. That is where the name comes from. The fact that they happen to sport 'ethnic hair' is purely coincidental. But yes, she's totally also racist.)

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

No, YOU'RE Out of Order!

After spending the afternoon at Small Claims Court...I don't know why I was even nervous.

Wait, jumping ahead...let me back up:

Our old landlord did some shady sheez with our deposit. When I wrote and told him to make good, he ignored. I wrote again. He ignored. The next letter he received was from a Sherriff. SERVED!

That was many months ago. You may not believe this, but the courts are kind of backed up. You'll figure out why later.

So the court date finally arrives. My dad (and also a landlord in his own right) drove up to give us some pointers about representing ourselves, etc. He was also there for moral support, because sometimes a girl needs her dad.

We had to go through mediation. I was ok with this, I thought 'hey, this guy can't be totally unreasonable...maybe we can just settle this here'. No. Even after admitting the law was on my side he refused to offer an amount that was anything less than offensive because he 'didn't think we deserved it'. Of course a guy with Git 'er done embossed on his checks probably doesn't like being told what to do by a 5'2" blond chick half his age.

I told him that if he didn't want to take the negotiations seriously, it was time to go before the judge.

And so it went. We went before the judge...I pointed out the inconsistencies of his story and he tried to slander our character. It was tense. And then - in a beautiful moment for our justice system - I sat back and tried not to smile as the judge ruled that regardless of his feelings about us and his track record as a landlord...he had no evidence and the ruling would go in our favor.

We won almost $1,400 and he's now got a judgment against him that will hurt his credit. Wonder if he thinks it was worth it. Can't say I really care at this point.

But that's not what I loved about today, oh no. After mediation failed we had to return to the courtroom and wait for our case to be called. That meant they had to finish up with the "Stalking Protection Orders" These. are. glorious.

Some quotes:
Judge: Why do you believe you are in imminent danger from this person?
White-haired 'stached guy: 'Cause she told me to go to the Embassy Suites and I went and she said she was gonna beat my ass and get a Measure 11.
Judge: Had you had an intimate relationship with this person?
White-haired 'stached guy: She kep' askin' me to go to a motel. And well...I went.

Why do you believe you are in imminent danger from this person?

Carhartt-clad, Anthrax beard-sporting, self-absorbed doucheku: Because I can see the anger that comes into her eyes.
Judge: What has she done to threaten you?
CCABSSAD: Well, see, she's totally in love with me. And she comes over for no good reason, like one time she brought me soup. I mean, I didn't eat it, I threw it away because it looked too foreign...........................and I mean, she hasn't hurt me yet, but she's been in this country for 9 months and she has to learn that she can't just do whatever she wants here.
Dad and B were getting seriously annoyed at all the crazy, but I enjoyed it. Watching crazy can sometimes be relaxing. At least it was in this instance. I knew that no matter what I said...I would come off as infinitely more intelligent and credible than anyone else in the room. Except maybe B, but I didn't let him talk much.

Basically I'm here to tell you that I'm awesome. Feel free to rent my legal services. I take payment in the form of baked goods.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Self-involved Blurgh

I've had a day and I'm feeling fragile. The kind of fragile that keeps me from even judging a woman I pass struggling up the bridge pulling a dog behind her bike in one of those kid trolleys. Why isn't 'trolleys' spelled 'trollies'? Stupid.

I've had a glass of wine and a potato; The Office is on TV and I'm feeling better...but damn. Days like these are, well, the reason one really should own a pair of polar fleece sweatpants. And potatoes.

Tomorrow will be better.


In the meantime - tonight's bad '90s teen scary movie: Disturbing Behavior

Saturday, October 03, 2009

Seasonal Greetings to You and Your Kin

As I was surfing the channels just now, and ad for an upcoming screening of The Wedding Date popped up on ABC Family. For those who don't have crap cable, ABC Family is a channel that plays family-friendly shows and whatnot. Their new motto is that ABC Family is a new kind of family.

The Wedding Date...you lucky ducks ...is a Debra Messing RomCom about a woman who can't face going dateless to her sister's wedding so she hires a manhooker. I think she pays him something like $5 grand. I doubt it was enough. My guess is at some point toward the middle, both hilarity and true love ensues.

So ABC Family condones getting paid for sex. Definitely a new kind of family. One I can get behind. Keep that economy going however you can!

It's Halloween month and that fills me with the kind of joy only achieved with mass quantities of candy corn. My costume is already in the works and we'll start on B's next week. We have a couple sets of friends who love Halloween so much, they want to make babies with it, so the pressure's on. Last year we made a decent pass at Juno and Paulie despite my being sick as a dog filled with sickness (see left).

This year will hopefully turn out just as well but with less sickness. I'm going for a certain type of Alice in Wonderland and B is gonna be Ira Glass. These are almost cheating since both of us need to do very little to pass, as you can see by the comparative photographs included here. Astonishing, isn't it.

This time of year makes me happy. I'm having to physically stop myself from going out and getting pumpkins to carve yet, since they would rot within days. I bought fresh cider at the Farmer's Market earlier. A fire was built in the fireplace this morning. That bit took some work. I had to flip a swtich. I've already watched two out of long list of bad teen scary moves from the '90s. Did you know
The Faculty and Apt Pupil were directed by Robert Rodriguez and Bryan Singer? Sometimes directors do the weirdest things.

In other Octobery news, I've purchased a pair of fleece sweatpants and I may never take them off. Yes. And before you call me boring, I'd like to point out that last weekend I rode around town in the Booty Mobile. I just didn't blog about it because what happens in the Booty Mobile stays in the Bootie Mobile. Besides, the pictures are on Facebook and they know what they did.

I've had enough computerness for the weekend. Off to read a book.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

The Battle For Baked Goods Is Not Yet Won

Many of you cannot follow directions. Admittedly, it's next to impossible NOT to consider the men's lives and how it may have affected both Dali and Hemingway's choice mustache shape and width, but rules are rules! That being said, there are two contenders for cookies. If we can't break the tie with your opinions, well then...I guess I have a shit ton of baking to do this weekend. Boo.

Answer one comes to us from Amanda - wife...mother...band groupie...and longtime friend of B. She is also apparently the female version of the comic book guy from The Simpsons with her oddly anecdotal Hemingway trivia:

Hemingway did not actually have a mustache. What was believed to be a mustache are actually two very furry cat toes, as Hemingway was polydactyl, leading to his love for polydactyl cats. http://cats.about.com/od/felinegenetics/a/polydactyl.htm

What impresses me about this response, besides the fact that it's got a bibliography, is the idea that the mustache is there against his will. That regardless of whatever happens in his daily life, every morning he'll wake up and there it is. Looking like a ginkgo leaf. I like this.


The second one comes from Randy...a non-reader of the blog....more specifically, an innocent bystander who was dragged into the debate via the Face of Book by a darling friend Sarah. I've met Randy once and find him to be a convivial fellow. Even more so after this:

Well, from my perspective, it appears that both their mustaches are pathetically girly, and frankly makes them each look like a Frenchman. On further analysis, the mustachioed upper lip of Dali does look like it has a mind of it's own, and almost appears to be sentient, moving, all be it slowly, from one side of his face to the other...so big bonus points there.
On the other hand, Papa's harried protuberance is slightly reminiscent of one Inspector Clouseau
(again moving me towards the girly Frenchman indication), yet the Clouseau does no favors here for the Big Earn as it seems to have been left in the dryer on high heat just a bit too long and has thus shrunk two sizes. Although, each man's facial follicles are both lacking in what I'd like to term, the Selleck Coefficient, where the mustache itself, disembodied from it's wearer, is capable of solving crimes and bedding damsels in distress while looking badass in a Hawaiian shirt and a 1983 Ferrari, they do both serve a slightly more delicate function, that of keeping ants and other nefarious small organisms from entering each of its wearers nasal passages.
Dali's, if I'm correct, would do a whip flick motion to keep the little critters at bay, while Papasano's takes a less aggressive and more sluggish route, boring the small animals to death with overly long diatribes regarding how each individual hair grows "ever so slowly on the sloppiest of slopes on the faciest of faces, blah, blah, blah....". In conclusion then, I proclaim the Hemmingmouthwig to be the more tragic of the two, based solely on the fact that it looks dumb.
Thank you reading, and I appreciate your time on this matter. Marty "The Bald Lip" Higgins

Though I have no idea what exactly makes a mustache "girly" since typically, women do not sport coiffed facial hair...and if they do, it's rarely on purpose...the effort put into the analysis demands respect.


What I find the MOST interesting, and not just because I've worked straight through the day from 8 am until 9 pm and am on my 3rd glass of wine, is that it was really hard to call who won the label "most tragic". I'd like to say that a tally was possible, but many of the arguments were so garbled that I couldn't necessarily make out a definitive answer either way. The two contenders name Hemingway as the loser in the scenario, but in general answers were all over the map. I'm going to have to call it a draw.

But feel free to tell me your opinion on the matter. I know you will anyway.

So...on to things that matter...

I need to know what level of maimery (totally a word) will result if a yoga ball is dropped from 9 stories up. Thoughts?

Saturday, September 26, 2009


When considering only their mustaches and not their lives...who is more tragic...Dali or Hemingway?

Think about it for a bit and get back to me. Best answer gets cookies.*

*Cookies will be chocolate chip and baked by me so taste cannot be vouched for. They'll be sent to the winner via USPS within one day of completion whenever that day actually happens to be.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


Yesterday afternoon, I discovered that I was getting something that would require medicine. I knew exactly what it was and exactly what I'd need. So, at the end of the work day, around 5:30pm, B picked me up and took me to an urgent care clinic.

$20 office copay with my shitty insurance is handed over. I'm told the wait would be about 1 hour, 45 minutes.

The wait was 1 hour and 35 minutes. It's 7:30pm.

In the examination room, 5 minutes to have vitals checked and another 5 to pee in a cup. Sample handed off to lab.

Sit in examination room for FORTY-FIVE minutes.

Consider throwing something.

But don't.

Doctor comes in all harried and says "yes, you have what you thought you had. here's a perscription".

Out the door another $100 lighter thanks to lab fees (to be billed at a later date) and off to the

Antibiotics for 7 days - $4 (a steal).

Doritos were $3.

Home 4 1/2 hours later.

If this had happened last week, I could've walked into a chemist/apotek/pharmacie and just asked for what I needed to combat what I knew I had. Spent $10 on it...and walked out 10 minutes later.
Anyone who doesn't think the United States' health care system needs a massive overhaul can bite me.

Europe was fantastic, by the way. I'll put up some choice pics when I decide to go through them.

That is all.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Sleep is for Pansies

I'm currently operating on a different plane. The other one. The non-lucid, head-floaty, could probably talk me into a ponzi scheme plane. The one where people are talking to you but you can only look at them blankly before shaking your head and saying, "what?". That plane. Some people call that plane "jet lag". I think that's a negative term for something that allows you to see fairies. And Elvis. With fairies. It's the plane for selecting lotto numbers. And art. And lipstick colors. It's the reason for printed warnings regarding operating heavy machinery. And ABBA. I think you see.

Some people think you have to ingest something to reach this plane. Pharmaceuticals or organic matter best left planted in the earth. But you don't. All you have to do is be awake on one side of the world and then continue to be awake on the other. That's it. Easy.

Now you try. Then we can maybe choose lipsticks together.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

On An Escapade...Baby

For any of you who really know me (and by that I mean have been reading this drivel for two years or more), you know that I like to take my boys for a test drive to make sure they'll stick for the long term. And by test drive, I mean I travel with them to somewhere far away from here for an extended period of time. B-rock's getting off easy...we're just hopping over to Europe to visit some friends and attend a wedding, but it's still going to be two weeks of non-stop togetherness. No soccer matches or True Blood girls nights or ultimate frisbee to give us our "apart" time. It could be interesting as we fight CONSTANTLY.

An example of which is below:

(3:57:08 PM)
kara: jesus, it's 4:00
(3:59:02 PM) Brendan: yeah
(4:17:15 PM) kara: i'ma make porkchops
(4:18:19 PM)
Brendan: really? I was going to make dinner, but I will not object if you want to
(4:18:52 PM) kara: what nonsense were you going to make?
(4:19:40 PM)
Brendan: I don't know.
(4:19:51 PM) kara: well then you lose.
(4:19:54 PM)
Brendan: I was going to rummage around until something came out
(4:20:02 PM) kara: ew
(4:20:13 PM)
Brendan: and then you would eat it. delicious.
(4:20:27 PM)
kara: YOU LOSE

I won that fight. How do you think we'll do?

Anyways, we're gonna be in London for a few days doing whatever. I hope to knock back some
pints London-style (which means until 11:00pm when all the shit closes) and maybe take in something cultural like a wagamama. Or a wax museum.

Then it's off to Denmark where one of my high schools friends is getting married. I'm excited to be going back as my last visit was 6 years ago...though my Danish is painfully rusty. Oh well, it's better than brendan's.

And THEN we're weekending in Paris because b's never been there and I really want a gyro.

So yeah, that's what's up.
I imagine I won't totally disappear for the whole two weeks. If I could manage to blog from Romania and Morocco, I can probably post a little something from a public place in the EU. Unless they don't have free wi-fi. Assholes. But, you know, it will only be if I feel like it.

I think you should know that I'm watching The Big Lebowski on TV for perhaps the millionth time. This movie, Dr. Zhivago and Beastmaster, are the only movies I absolutely can't bring my self to turn off if I happen upon them. Lebowski is my security blanket...like elliot smith and gummy worms. However, watching it on TV does have its, *ahem*, quirks. Like this little gem:

See what happens when you find(fuck) a stranger in the alps(ass)?!?!

I wonder who's job it is to re-write scenes such as this for the general audiences. I also wonder how I might take their job from them and make it my own.

One time on a plane they showed
There's Something About Mary. Normally I hate that movie, but it felt like Christmas when Ben Stiller yelled "you're such a froggin' ashpole!" at someone.

Anyway, in other Lebowski-related news, thanks these label things we give our posts, I am reminded that I wrote a
half-assed Lebowski movie review back before I was calling them that. Oh memories...of earlier this year. And now you can share in them too. Because I give.

As to that travel business, we don't leave until Saturday so I may still have stuff to say about nothing. Or I'll get busy throwing things at the cat or working or something and you'll get n
othing. It all depends.

Until then - see ya, you human paraquats.

Sunday, August 30, 2009


I did it. I'm twatting. Twerting. Twitting. Whatever.

I'm not doing very well at it.

I originally joined to follow the guy who was posting as Christopher Walken. He made my heart soar in that early Disney movie kind of way. Not like this Wall-E bullshit of the nowadays. But he's gone now. Sad.

If you want to read, follow, obsess over the half-assed nonsense, it's here.

If you want to ditto the Waif's just as half-assed nonsense, it's here.

We both joined the same day without knowing it. Are we those creepy kind of sisters like the ones from The Shining or WHAT? Exactly.

Must off...my sangria need stirring.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

When Literature is Ravaged

The title can be read in two ways:

I'm either talking about a classical novel that has been carried away against its will to the cabin of a pirate ship where it will have its maidenhead stolen during a stormy night at sea by a man with puffy sleeves and unfortunately long hair.


Someone has tried to strategically place zombies into a pastoral Georgian novel about love and the intricacies and ironies of society.

This may come as a surprise, but I think it was supposed to be funny.

It's crap.

I only kept reading it because I wanted to know if Darcy and Elizabeth got chomped in the end.

They did.

I might be lying.

Honestly though, I would like to have the author over for a beer, well, both authors, really...but in this instance just the one who's alive so that I may seek to understand his motivation behind this failure of the modern age. This novel was the ironic mustache of the trend in classical lit rewrites. It's trying to make a statement, but no one is really sure what it is...and just succeeds in coming off as unclean.

It's lazy.

Let me illustrate. Here is a smattering of dialogue:

Lady De Bourgh: Have your ninjas left you?
Elizabeth: We never had any ninjas.
Lady De Bourgh: No ninjas! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without any ninjas! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your safety.

See what he did there? Yeah, he replaced the word "governess/governesses" with "ninja(s)" and boom...it's a totally different book! But way funnier, because now it has ninjas in it! How fucking original! It's totally like those crazy mustaches people used to have but absolutely nobody has now! Oh wait.

To add insult to corneal injury, I made the mistake of turning the last page to discover BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS asking the reader to really reach down deep and analyze things like the importance of the role that vomit plays in the story.

I especially liked the beginning of this one:
Is Mr. Collins merely too fat and stupid to notice his wife's gradual transformation into a zombie...?

It's not even the stupidity of the question that gets me...it's that he believes people need his guidance to mock the thing. That a living room, several bottles of wine and a group of Austen-loving women isn't all the inspiration one needs to rip it apart (both figuratively and literally).

It is, of course, available at all fine book retailers.

I would like to advise Mr. Seth Grahame-Smith not to quit his day job.

I have to go, b-rock's trying to make me watch Nova.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Half-Assed Reviews: Andrus - The Man, The Mind & The Magic

My dad's cooler than your dad. How many of YOUR dads have made a movie? And not just of you unwrapping your Crystal Castle when you were 6. A real movie. On film. And not Super 8 film because that's almost impossible to get and pointless... I mean digital film. Yes, the magic instant kind. And not just with one 2-hour wide angled establishing shot of a family reunion at a state park... I mean a a real MOVIE. Spliced. With cut-aways, transitions, linear storytelling, voice-over... the whole gypsy caravan. And not just played in the VCR for the grandparents on holidays... but in an effin' theater and at festivals. Yes... I win.

My father lives in Corvallis. Corvallis is a smallish town in the middle of the cool side of Oregon. That's the left. I have no idea what goes on in the right side. Corvallis is filled with aged hippies, smoothie shops and college students in orange and black. I've never liked
it. But that's not the point. It was at an Oregonians for Rationality meeting in Corvallis that dad met Jerry Andrus, an 80-something fellow skeptic who was ALSO a geniusesque magician/illusionist.

Now... just i
magine the kind of person you must be to inspire someone to want to make a movie about you.

That's Jerry.

Dad and Ty (the Waif's baby daddy) devoted several years with almost no help and no budget to capture what Jerry brought to the world both meaningfully and beautifully. As with any independent film, distribution has been a temperamental mistress, even with excellent reviews and support. But here's another baby step in the most correct direction:

Thursday, 10:00 PM/PT on Oregon Public Broadcasting, an hour-long version of Andrus will air.

Watch it. It will make you feel insignificant. In a good way.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

It's A Big Day

For several reasons. But I've forgotten them.

Except for this one.

And it's fuckin' huge.
I cleaned out this:

To make room for 16 of these...

After an hour, a glass of wine and the entirety of Nirvana's Nevermind, I succeeded in reducing the contents of my fridge to this:

That was after tossing out almost everything inside - including two jars of lemon curd. What the fuck am I doing with lemon curd? I'm not British, nor do I prefer any manner of curd other than the cheese variety.

Anyway........I did it.
Impressive, isn't it. Wars have started over these glorious homemade pickles. Peace treaties have been negotiated. Children have been sold. Lambies have been martyred. Civilizations have been conquered. Goods and services have been bartered. Homesteads have been pillaged. Stamp collections forsaken. Leather jackets sold to Buffalo Exchange. All for these pickles.

Normally the pickle-making party is the event of the season. This year it was just WORK. The demand has gotten so high (see paragraph above) that there is no joy in the stuffing of the jars...only determination to get as many cucs in as possible. Ok, there was some joy, but it was working joy. Is that a thing? Seriously though, I broke a sweat.

Next year I'm bringing up the option of outsourcing. I know lots of children without jobs.

Anyway, if in two months, when they mature, anyone remembers that it's time for the pickles to be mature and writes me a gloriously pickle-related limerick...I'll send them a jar.

See, I'm safe because no one will do that.