Thursday, December 16, 2010

Butt Yoga - A Christmas Tale

Bikram yoga is the new antidote to everything. Go sweat it out for 90 minutes at a time in tree pose and you'll never get cancer, goiters or canker sores.

The room is 105 degrees at all times. I don't know what's magical about this temperature, but it causes tiny rivers of perspiration to follow little Oregon Trails down one's face, arms, back, legs and other places one shouldn't mention. Except I have to because the whole room stinks like unmentionables. Mainly because the men wear shorts like these: And the room is carpeted. CARPETED!

I'm not a huge exercise person anyway. I wouldn't be going to this place at all if I
a) didn't live 4 blocks away
b) didn't have such an affinity for holiday foods in large quantities
c) didn't consider yoga to be one of those "sports" you can half-ass your way through and still see results
d) didn't have a friend already enrolled and applying prohibition era mobster-like pressure

But being a known fainter, I was still scared. What if I'm bending back looking at the wall and - boom - I go down like an anvil on an accident-prone coyote? It's hard to get back up from that without looking not awesome. Like running for a bus. This was a valid concern. However I made it through the first class (while watching old hats occasionally crouch in the fetal position or run for the door with a green face). I even made it through the second. And then the third. And I'll tell you what, if you can get through it (and if you've ever spent a summer in Louisiana, you can get through it) - it makes eating two molasses cookies a day for breakfast all the sweeter.

However - it should come as no surprise that I remain a cynical yoga-ist. I refuse to do the stupid audible breathing and I refuse to say "namaste" at the end of class. There's maybe one brown body on average in that whole room and it just makes us all sound like paleface assholes. And if they don't like it (they don't) then they can passive aggressively suggest it so (they do).

This didn't have much to do with Christmas at all, did it. Poo.

So what's new with y'all? I joined a book club.

Sunday, August 08, 2010


Lately my favorite thing to do in the whole world is ride my bike around late at night. Clear sky, wind in the trees, no cars so I can go through the stop signs - it's incredible. I can honestly say it's the only time my thoughts aren't racing. When my chest isn't tight. When I don't have a throbbing headache behind my left eye.

I don't have a whole lot to say that I want to hear myself say lately and I really can't bring myself to sit in front of a computer more than I already do against my will, so I'm going to step away for a bit. I don't know how to measure time in bits, so you'll have to guesstimate for yourselves what that means.

However - this blog will not be deleted. If your own blogs are overflowing with words and you want to store some of them here in a guestly posting capacity, you are openly invited to do so. Just email me a and I'll put your shit up, accompanied by the most inappropriate google im
age I can find. Don't deny me my amusement.

Anyone still following when I come back will be given a party. With streamers.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Half-Assed Movie Review: Inception

This movie blew my fucking mind.

Symbolism, plot holes, Juno's scarves and the inability to believe Leonardo DiCaprio capable of being any manner of parent to small children aside - this is one of the most mind-rippingly beautiful movies I've seen in a considerable age.

I can't remember the last time I've cared to know how a movie was made. Well done, Nolan. Thank you for making me care again. For sewing up the hole in my heart with zero-gravity fight scenes and Joseph Gordon Levitt in a tie.

This review is more half-assed than usual since it just came out and I don't want to be guilty of doing a "he's dead the whole time" bit of douchebaggery, so that's all I'm saying.

Except this - it's difficult to make the name Arthur hot. And yet...

Thursday, July 15, 2010

"I can no longer sit back and allow the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids"

I'm not blogging because my mother told me to. Really, I'm not. It's more that before now, I've been afraid of Russian spies reading my shit and taking my online internet secrets straight to the Motherland. I'm not having that.

But now it appears we're safe.

Listen Russia - we're all sorry that the good ol' days have gone softly into the night. They were good times. I get this. Great music, fabulous clothes, no one knew smoking was bad for you...and espionage everywhere. Like a fad. Everyone's the Third Man. I mostly blame this on the hats. How is it possible not to be up to something when you look like this:

Well the days of looking both stylish AND sinister are over.

Now people look like this:
That's your secret agent pool. What could you possibly learn from that? Is there a camera hidden somewhere in his man-tote so he can record everyone's bad shoes? I'll tell you right now, footwear has never been more important to this nation and its political leanings. And I didn't even need to go into deep cover to figure that out. But you should pay me anyway. Euros. Swiss account. And I'll know it if it's just a couple $100 euro bills on top of a pile of rubles, so don't even try it.

Do svidaniya.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Oh hi.

The sun is finally shining...and magically I feel like blogging again. I wonder if there is a correlation. Eh. Chances are there's more of a correlation between the urge to blog and the ice cold vodka/soda at my side. With lime. Extra lime. The lime-e-ist.

So it's fitting that I'm back to gripe about shit, but I really must. Mainly because there's a girl who rides her cruiser around town wearing an English saddle equestrian helmet. I've been annoyed by this for - literally - months.

I think she's convinced it looks cute. But I need to somehow convince her that it does not. Recommendations on how to do so tactfully are welcome. Most disturbing of all, I have to it not a style choice? Does she perhaps think she's riding a horse? Because it's very possible that there's a bigger issue to confront here. The case against "it's cute" is much easier to prosecute than "it's a horse". It's all very Israeli/Palestinian conflictish between adjectives and nouns these days. Conflicts are vogue.

If only the word "vogue" was still vogue. Sigh.

I've had to leave my home because the air is stagnant and I was overheating (thanks to an out of shape bike ride 10 miles home). So now I'm across the street at the Bye and Bye - a severely vegetarian hipster bar filled with bike-related art that Dave Chappelle once showed up at on a random Wednesday night. That fact will keep me coming randomly forever in the hopes that something that cool will happen again. I am prepared for disappointment.

Summer is taking forever to get to Oregon and I resent it. I have mint plants that need harvesting to go into lemon things! I have sundresses to wear that allow Vitamin D to reach non-essential patches of skin! I have lawn chairs to park in the grass for half-naked hippie heckling! I have a BBQ just sitting there WAITING for me to under-cook meats on! There's a lot to do! Yet another reason why this place is bunk. It's all a lie.

Back to my being annoyed by how people adorn themselves. I'm thinking of doing something about it. I'm not telling you what because right now that's a secret...but I promise it wont...probably...get me arrested or sued. I just can't sit idly by and watch a chick walk past me with a raccoon tail sticking out of the ass of her jeans. This aggression will not stand.

Sorry...went a bit "Dude" on you there.

Be that as it may, I need a hobby anyway, so this will be a good thing. I also think maybe I should start writing something. This doesn't count. But we all know how I don't end up doing things, so don't get your hopes up. Or get them up. Someone needs to be optimistic for the rest of us.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Summer is Here.

Things I've been doing while not blogging...

Watching other people judge other people's facial hair.

Posing for pictures with them.

Cave conquering.

va stare contests.

Cultural cinematic absorption.

out play to accompany the work. an attempt to keep from being dull.

(Also...snow in June. JUNE)

Learning shit about wine.

Geography lessons.

Following white rabbits with empty promises into strange shrubbery.
And then just napping for a bit.

Then waking up to find crop circle sunburns all over the extremities.


Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Buckets for the Motherfuckin' Cure

So maybe you can tell by the title that I'm listening to Naughty by Nature and maybe you can't, but the fact of the matter is...Kentucky Fried Chicken is using pink buckets of fried chicken to cure cancer. Science has finally come full circle.

I know I'm behind the times in reporting this...but I really tried to ignore it. The commercials have been running for a while and each time I use diversionary tactics to delude myself that such a thing couldn't/doesn't exist. But I have failed and the most recent accidental viewing...well I can remain silent no longer

The proprietary rights surrounding the stupid thing won't allow me to embed the unappetizing waste of eye space in its entirety, but it can be seen
here (for those who are outside of the U.S. or don't have a TV within the U.S.. Or have a DVR).

Yes, that link will take you to the
KFC MEDIA PLAYER. Sweet jesus. As you all damn well know, I do Drink for the Cure every year, unless I'm in Europe. I have wonderful, beautiful friends who have both beat and lost to breast cancer. It is a dickbag and I want it to disappear as much as the rest of the world does. But I do not believe driving our fellow Americans to congential heart failure is the way to do accomplish this.

There must be something else we can organize. A car wash. "Wash away breast cancer." Catchy? Bake sale. "Eat away breast cancer." We can use Seinfeld's wife's cookbook to insert vegetables so they're healthy. A spelling bee! "Spell away c-a-n-c-e-r." Ok, so my ideas are not awesome, but are they really worse than pink buckets of chicken?

The exclusivity also boils my balls. There's other cancers in this world you know. There was no city-wide walk to sign up for when my step-dad got lymphoma. No specially marked packages of sunblock to purchase when my step-mom got melanoma. This special treatment is all sorts of unfair. Pink home goods for everyone!

There are people who argue that breast cancer is the main event because of the importance of breasts to our society. But I'd be willing to argue in favor of the ovaries or prostate. Shoot...where would we be without the
pancreas? Nowhere. Exactly.

So KFC - stop. You offend me with you buckets of pink saturated fat. Instead of spending the moolah to manufacture such an unappetizing food conveyance, perhaps you should just donate that money to the Komen foundation and be done with it.
Don't force your customers to associate cancer with the breast they're currently biting into. It's in poor taste.

As was that last line. And yet, I'm proud of it.

Sunday, May 16, 2010


My girls and I have been doing Sunday Dinner for a couple of years now. Yes it started with the first season of True Blood and me being the only one with HBO at the time. No, I'm not ashamed of either of those facts.

Actually - no it didn't. It started with Flight of the Conchords...and me being the only one with HBO at the time, so shut the hell up.

We don't always watch something. Sometimes we actually go out into the world...and sometimes we just drink limeade cocktails in someone's backyard. But without fail (almost) we ignore the fact that we see each other all the time and hang out on Sundays until stupidly late, drinking and laughing much too much.
It's my favorite thing.

But this Sunday...we sank to a new low. And it was awesome. Tonight we watched
Twilight: New Moon while simultaneously playing the Rifftrax, eating pierogies and washing it all down with German beer (you see, it was a poorly executed theme). If you don't know what Rifftrax are, then I'm sure you know what Mystery Science Theater 3K is. Well it's those guys, only they don't have a show anymore. They record themselves talking through the movie and then you download the track and play it on your ipod whilst the movie is viewed. It's genius.

Anyway - we made it through the entire movie. And we may or may not have rewound and watched that bit where the underaged/overdeveloped bronze god of modern day musculature tore his shirt off to blot a small cut on no-talent-hack Kristen Stewart's brow three times. Maybe four, it's all a bit fuzzy.
But that is not my point. I have now seen two Twilight movies and read one of the books (couldn't get farther than that one) and still, I come away from them perplexed. I don't get why they're so popular. I really don't.

I think about the movies and books that defined the combined romantic ideals of danger and love for me in those formative early teen years...and even how much I loved that gothic vampire stuff (seriously, you don't want to know how many times I watched
Brahm Stoker's Dracula. It's where the whole Gary Oldman obsession started). But I'm convinced that if I'd picked up and read Twilight when I was 13, I would've wanted to throw it across the room as much as I did at 29.

First of all - who's all like "I want you. We're connected. Why fight it. I can't live without you." at the creepiest guy in school when you're 17 and the new girl? I think Bella and Edward's fourth conversation was about how much they love each other...with a little "but I may kill you" thrown in to keep things lively. Young people don't move that fast. They have to analyze everything to death with their friends and then send a few vague emails or texts before any big decisions are made.

And what teenager in this day and age gets seduced by Claire de Lune? Come on. I'd be all..."um, you've been alive since before jazz was invented and THIS is what you're rolling with?" Weak.

So with this second book ( it goes all sorts of through the roof. Edward is gone, but he comes back as a ghost(?? - not explained) to tell her not to do stupid shit she does anyway. Then she almost kisses a SIXTEEN year old a million times (um, that's a sophomore, friends. Did you think they were hot when you were a senior? Men, don't answer that). And then when she's done stringing the well-built puppy along, she jumps at the chance to marry Edward? At EIGHTEEN?! I mean, she's not even going to try to find a guy that isn't dead? Doesn't she understand that's what college is FOR?

What all of this says to me is that the author, Stephanie Somethingorother, grew up in a cave believing in unicorns with a Victrola, Debussy greatest hits and one worn out VHS copy of
Sixteen Candles, without ever meeting any other teenagers.

Regardless... this young man is uncomfortably good looking.

Sorry it's been so long. I've missed you, my pretties.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Art Imitating Life - Sort Of

We had a very weird argument the other day. So weird, I asked Brendan what at artistic representation of the argument would've looked like if it existed. He drew it up and showed me. And it made me laugh for many many minutes.

Subject: Trail mix

Kara: ...and aside from two handfuls of your damn devil trail mix, I've eaten really well today.

Brendan: It's not even my trail mix anymore. You're the one mixing it now.

Kara: I do not mix it, I just empty containers when they're almost gone! You're the one always freaking out about ratios like it would be the worst thing ever to get a handful of raisins.

Brendan: It WOULD be the worst thing ever.

Brendan: I'd vomit.

Brendan: Instantly.

Brendan: Everywhere.

Brendan: The cat would scream.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

What I Like - What I Want

You know, this compostable bag from Sun Chips is freaking awesome. It appeals to my hippie-side (it's innate, being Oregon-grown). I mean, I buy biodegradable garbage bags off the internet. I freak out on B when he throws his Aveeno face wash containers away instead of recycling them. And I bring canvas bags to the grocery store. I know what I am and I've accepted it.

So, I'll admit that these bags are cool. And I'm really excited about them.

Except for one thing.

Sun Chips fucking suck. They taste like a soy bean blended with grain and flattened into a chip. They taste like an envelope made from recycled newspaper. They taste solid Kool-Aid before the sugar's added. They taste like how I imagine a treasure map would taste if I found it forgotten in an attic and then ate it. They taste like crap.

If only they could do the same thing with Doritos' packaging. Sadly, I don't believe that will ever happen. Because whatever chemical crack they put in/on those little pretties would probably eat through the bag like acid. So I have a choice to make. And I think you already know my choice.

And for the record...this just makes me angry.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

What Dreams May Come

A couple of months ago, I had this incredibly vivid dream about zombies. It was easy to figure out why....Shaun of the Dead had been on TV a lot, and I pretty much can't not watch it when it happens to be on. Still.

I was in my own neighborhood (with the obvious "dream" variations) with my family, friends and coworkers (at different points), and we were collectively attempting to escape via the normal escape-from-zombies channels. At one point, I am alone and cross a street to the opposite sidewalk. The sidewalk is garnished by some tall shrubbery from which two zombies suddenly emerge. I felt brave, for you see, I had crossed the street with a nice, big baseball bat in my clutches. I was gonna knock this sort of dead bastard's brain in.

I go in for the hit. And again. And again. His eyes do this kind of old school video game thing where the giant black pupils shrink to almost nothing. I know that if they disappear all together, he's a goner. But they don't...they start to shrink, but come back again. What the hell? I check my weapon to find that it's no longer a bat, but a plastic comb. The same one I use in the (waking) mornings to untangle my hair. I'm toast. Panic. Wake up. End scene.

It's 4:00 AM. Think about something else. Think about something else. So. Sleepy.

And back in zombie scenario.

That was months ago.

Last night, I go to bed way early, like, 10:30. No good reason - I've had some wine and watched a Ricky Gervais rom com (The Invention of Lying - not awesome, sadly). All harmless.

I'm in a house in the French countryside. All old world and ivy-ey. It's some sort of party...not wild, just like a dinner party or something. Weird stuff starts to happen...there are people outside and they're moaning and banging on the door and walls. We turn on the TV and yes...zombies. Damn.

It gets a bit fuzzy after that. There are some secret passages. Some "friends" lost. Somehow someone got a shotgun, but I think we lose them too..

Then I'm in a room and a zombie is attacking my friend. I have no gun, no bat, nothing. So I grab a pillow off a bed and try to smother the already-not-needing-oxygen corpse by pushing its head against the wall. Yes, the zombie is upright. No, it's not working.

It's not working at all. Shit. I'm toast. Panic. Wake up. End scene.

It's 4:00 AM. Think about something else. Think about something else. So. Sleepy.

Yeah - right back in it.

So what gives? I'm not one of those people who watches horror movies with glee. Not a huge Romero fan. I don't participate in the Portland Zombie Walk. Why am I having the most realistic and terrifying dreams I've had since childhood (and that one that I had from reading The Road) about being attacked by the undead?

Anyone have an idea? Thoughts? A dream encyclopedia?

Wednesday, April 07, 2010

A Matter of Personal Preference

I'm always curious to discover what other women consider sexy.

Let's take Robert Downey Jr. for example, shall we? Yes.

The 80's weren't his best era with that slight essence of ventriloquist dummy around the jaw line there...which lingered until he discovered cocaine and disappeared from the face of the earth for years and years.

I am convinced that there are some men in this world who make deals with the very devil to age the way that they do. As if contained within rehab (or prison) there existed a kind of Opposite Day El Dorado where the fountain of youth just made you age beautifully. Gary Oldman drank from did Tim Roth, Gabriel Byrne, Jon Stewart, etc. And so, apparently, did Robert Downey Jr. - who, upon his reappearance to the outside world - became the first actor (in my opinion) to successfully introduce a super hero to a the starting line-up of every woman's fantasy (as evidenced below - though I, personally, don't dig the sculpted facial hair).
And then a HUGE downgrade. Not hot. FUNNY. Not hot.
Oh now wait, but what is this. Could this be the culmination of all things desirable? Classic sexy fictional character, period garb, untamed facial scruff, post-coital tousled hair. A waist coat. Yes, I do believe this might be it.But I'm curious to know if you agree. And if not, why? Which RDJ is your RDJ? Young with a little baby fat and an innocent pre-penal twinkle in the eye? Impeccably groomed and somewhat pointy superhero? face? Or mad genius with a propensity for a dirty fight and a WAIST COAT?! Just curious.

Yes, I watched Sherlock Holmes tonight. How could you tell?

Monday, April 05, 2010

Coming To Terms

I got sad today. No, it wasn't because David Tennant is no longer Doctor Who. It's not because my tulips are starting to wilt. It's not even because I ran out of the good bread.

It's because I'm probably not ever going to go into space.

Thanks, Mr. President. Thanks a lot.

Today the space rocket (shuttle, whatever) Discovery (ironically named) shot into the sky with the passion of a last kiss. That visual doesn't work at all, does it. I will never be Nicholas Sparks. After this little intergalactic go-around, we (the US gov't) are going to turn the telescopes back toward Earth to try to save the glaciers or some such nonsense. I'd like to see how astronauts go about it. I imagine it will involve the technology behind freeze-dried ice cream. Insert indignation here.

It's not that I don't think science needs to focus on our global issues. I know they're important. I know it's, on some level, the right thing to do. But my heart bleeds (strong term, but can't think of a better one) for all those kids who grow up wanting to be an rocket man, burning up his fuse out there alone *cough*. But instead will end up going over geographical charts with geologists in a conference room labeled "The Sequoia Room" at the Hilton in Juno. You know?

I know this won't be forever. We'll go back into space. I mean, if I understand our future correctly through the genre of science fiction, we're all going to have to leave here at some point because nature will combine forces with germs and create a Day After Tomorrow meets I Am Legend trifecta (because there will also be a third thing) that can only be escaped via, well, escape pods to Mars. But I doubt it will be in my lifetime. And that's probably okay.

Still...I'm sad.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Things to Say While Waiting

I asked my coworker/friend person to give me an idea of what to blog about today. She changed the subject. I'm trying not to take that personally.

So what we're left with is random statements like rappers with lisps are FUN-NY. A rapper with a stutter would be funnier. I imagine there are less of those, however, out amongst the riffraff.

I have a cold. I know, who doesn't. The difference with this one is, I've been shooting Emergen-C straight into my veins and killing germs and bacteria with wine. Combine that with some much needed sleep and a positive attitude...and this puppy's on the way back OUT. I must've aligned my chakras without even realizing it. Or do you align our chi and massage your chakras? Either way, I must be doing it. And a healthy diet, don't forget that. Tonight we're having Tachos. Yes, you remember me introducing you to the glory of those. It was a boyfriend ago. Well it turns out they're also medicinal. And beneficial to both chi and chakras.

Your tattoo replies are good, though some of you are holding out. I don't even have ten yet, so this blog isn't really happening. Ignore it. As you were.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

An Essay on Art: A Type Of

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about tattoos. And when I say “lately”, I mean for about 5 minutes earlier today.

I remember when I got my first one at the precocious age of 19 and my dad found out. He FLIPPED out! (Yeah, you all thought he was always so cool, didn’t you). His largest concern was that the act had put me into a different class of people, a “type”, if you will. He got over that and now finds them interesting…tattoos in general, not just mine. I think Mom always had a “eh, it’s your body” feeling with regards to my socially accepted self-mutilation…with the exception of letting me dye my hair (mean!)

They are a funny thing, though. Special, in that you have them forever – but not so in that everyone and their grandmother has one these days. We no longer have to worry about being 80 with saggy inked body bits flapping about because we’ll all be in the same boat. And I don’t know about you, but I love seeing old people with tattoos. It gives them that much more character. Tells you a little something about them.

That being said, I often find myself looking at someone’s tattoo and (on a regular basis) having any of the following reactions:

1. “Dear god, why?”

2. “Oh!”

3. “REEEEally?”

4. “That makes my heart cry”

Earlier in my life, I was of the opinion that they were a very personal thing. Time and thought went into the choosing of one. And each had a reason for its existence. Of course the amount of time and the type of reason can sometimes be directly related to the proximity of a vacation and/or alcohol…but the fact remains. For some people, I still believe the “personal” theory to be true. For others, I believe their free time and any disposable income should be taken away.

I could take up space with examples here, but we’ve all seen them. And if you haven’t, all you have to do is google.

For my own, personal experience…I think I got my first tattoo too young. The good news is, I’m not sorry I got it and think it still looks great. It’s just, I’m not sure I would’ve been quite so keen on the size and detail at 30 the way I was at 19. It’s a good tattoo, purchased in an old parlor on Frenchman in New Orleans. It’s not there anymore. They painted the hundreds of year old brick yellow and made it an Electric Ladyland. It’s Egyptian – taken from a sketch in an old book I found at the university library. My only complaint is that the feet of the tattoo peek out from my shirt if I ever lean over and to this day I have children AND adults lifting UP my shirt to try to see it in it entirety.

You may or may not know the story of the second one. I posted here when I got it, but I don’t remember if I explained why I chose the barn swallow. There’s a nautical myth that says a sailor would get a barn swallow tattooed for every 5,000 nautical miles he traveled. I’ve traveled significantly more than that, but tattoos hurt and are expensive and so only purchased two.

I have two restrictions on any tattoo I commission:

1. It must be placed on a part of my body that is least likely to get fat


2. No color – if they had color and were visible, I’d feel the need to match my outfits to them.

I don’t imagine I’m alone in my pickiness…but I’m interested…call it anthropologically…in who out there among my acquaintances has tattoos? Don’t tell me here…comments are too hard to compile. Email me. Or comment that you’ll email me. OR if you don’t have one, tattoo me why. Or just comment it. And I refuse to let you say that you just haven’t figured out what you wanted yet. I bite my thumb at such a lack of originality/funds/inspiration.

I’ve finally given this blog its own email address, so send a description of your tattoo(s) to You will presented (anonymously if you so desire) as a portion of my scientific findings (within a sample size of the dozen or so people who read this blog). Feel free to out friends and loved ones if you yourself are not inked.

Just know - I refuse to blog again until I get at least 10 emails.

My, that was verbose, wasn’t it.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Progression: The Act of Moving Forward. Finally.

It's that time of year when the cherry blossoms are on the trees and I'm mildly interested in politics for, like, a minute.

If any of you have a television, internet connection, radio transmitter, workplace water cooler or news ticker...then you'll know that the United States finally passed a bill to make securing and benefiting from healthcare a little bit easier for some 30-odd million Americans. This improvement has taken an incredibly long time. And it's unfinished. We still have no public option, and a big Debbie Downer part of me is concerned that it will never happen with the passing of this bill.

Still...fuck yeah!

And THIS is the part of the post where I take the quotations from various members of the senate and congress out of
the New York Times article I read and reply to them as though said members are in the room with me:

“This is the Civil Rights Act of the 21st century,” said Representative James E. Clyburn of South Carolina, the No. 3 Democrat in the House.

Mostly, Mr Clyburn. Mostly. And your last name is odd. I think it's missing a vowel.

The House Republican leader, Representative
John A. Boehner of Ohio, said lawmakers were defying the wishes of their constituents. “The American people are angry,” Mr. Boehner said. “This body moves forward against their will. Shame on us.”

John, have you ever not had insurance while making minimum wage and then broken a tooth? Have you ever been rejected for coverage because you have a strange and small condition that has a 20% chance of ever affecting you in your lifetime? Have you paid a $1,000 premium a month for two people because you're technically retired but too young to be on Medicare? No? Well then fuck you. You don't know any American people. And let me tell you something about some of these "angry" people. They're still looking for WMDs and signs of the Rapture. Enough said.

Representative Lincoln Diaz-Balart, Republican of Florida, called it “a decisive step in the weakening of the United States.”

Lincoln, you should be stripped of your name. The first one. And secondly - what does that even fucking mean? How could we be any weaker? And denying 50 million Americans the right to a healthy life helps that how?

Representative Virginia Foxx, Republican of North Carolina, said it was “one of the most offensive pieces of social engineering legislation in the history of the United States.”

Really? Because I would've said that about The Patriot Act. Bitch.

On Sunday afternoon, members of the group announced that they would support the legislation after Mr. Obama promised to issue an executive order to “ensure that federal funds are not used for abortion services.” Mr. Stupak described the order as a significant guarantee that would “protect the sanctity of life in health care reform.”

This reminds me of the movie
Children of Men? You see that movie? I didn't get it. There was this scene when these people were all warring with each other...but stopped to let a pregnant woman through, because she was the last prego on earth. Or some junk. But as soon as she passed, they went back to shooting each other. The theme you were supposed to take away is that life is precious. But the theme I took away was that life is precious until you're a teenager and then you better fucking watch it because I'm going to shoot you in the face. That's what this abortion provision is to me. Unborn life needs to be preserved at all costs, but once you're born, you're on your own. The social conscience expires. Make sure that kid is born to the teenage mother working at McDonald's...but don't support the ability of that mother to get the kid the vaccine to prevent it from contracting polio. Serious lack of perspective, Mr. Stupak. Serious.

Representative Rodney Alexander, Republican of Louisiana, said, “You cannot expect to expand coverage to millions of individuals and to curb costs at the same time.”

No shit, Roddy. But maybe if they're not going bankrupt from that emergency surgery on their pancreas - they can afford to stay in their house and buy that big screen tv that you're convinced will save the economy.

“Are you so arrogant that you know what’s best for the American people?” Representative Paul Broun, Republican of Georgia, asked the Democrats.

Are you? It seems to me that an elected body created for the purpose of representing the people should maybe spend its time trying to figure out and implementing what they think might be best for the people who voted for them. Or something. Someone needs a civics lesson. And a punch in the nads.

After the legislation passed, Mr. Obama sought to place the day in perspective. “In the end what this day represents is another stone firmly laid in the foundation of the American dream,” the president said. “Tonight, we answered the call of history as so many generations of Americans have before us. When faced with crisis, we did not shrink from our challenges. We overcame them. We did not avoid our responsibilities, we embraced it. We did not fear our future, we shaped it.”


In other news, I just got Donnie Darko on Blu-Ray and am therefore cooler than you.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Oh How St. Peter Will Laugh in My Face.

I worked from home today and so therefore, the TV was on. Strangely and wonderously - Little Women showed up on ET (the channel, not the movie). What are the odds. It was in-between some Kardashian-related reality show and celeb news. Who's idea was that? The one intern with the English degree?


Every time I see any of the various versions of Little Women, I feel bad about myself. I should be more like Marmee. I should be more like Meg. Shit, I should be more like Jo...outspoken but still confined to the parlance of the times.

But the fact is, I'm not like any of them. In my constant quest to make people laugh, I often (not necessarily purposefully) try/end up being the most outspoken/inappropriate person in the room. Mean comedy has it's place...Lenny Bruce has shown us that, if no one else. It's a necessary evil, someone has to provide it. I just never thought it would be me every single fucking time. In almost ever social occasion, there is something I say that I look back on with almost cringing guilt. Whatever it is, it gets a laugh at the time, but I spend the remainder of the evening mortified that I said what I said...and it eats me up inside.

Tonight is no different. It's like I can't control what comes out of my mouth...a character flaw that I sincerely hoped would improve with age. hasn't.
So what do I do? Accept that I am always going to be the inappropriate joke teller who gets the laugh but burns in a personal hell for it later? Or try to change?

I fear it is hopeless, mostly due to alcohol. I get relaxed and I sometimes forget my audience. But is it a gift? Or a curse? There is nothing I enjoy more - watching people crack up at whatever nonsense I've spouted...but knowing that there's one person in the room who may be touched

The fact of the matter is, I probably won't change. And that may be ok. There's a place in society for us...the not-quite-as-bad-as-Andy-Dicks. Nature has placed us here and so we shall remain. I guess if we offend to often, our social circle will dwindle. Let's hope that happens before I start giving guilt hugs, shall we?

Happy Friday.

Saturday, March 06, 2010

On The Eve of The Big Event...

I know most people don't give a good goddamn about the Oscars, but I've been watching them faithfully ever since I was a wee one. And since they're tomorrow, I thought I'd share my thoughts on the Academy Award nominations for Best Picture with you all. And you're gonna shut up and like it.

Up in the Air
I saw it. It was cute. But I'll tell you this - any movie that has an "Oh my god, it's Young MC! Let's dance!" moment is not an Oscar contender.

I haven't seen this movie yet. Want to know why? Because I don't want to have to see a movie "just for the awesome effects". Now that the technology exists, I'm going to WAIT until they find a way to merge those awesome effects with a FUCKING DECENT STORYLINE. One that may or may not involve blue people.

District 9
I walked away from this movie feeling like Nigerians must be the worst people on Earth. Though it may not have been the intended consequence - it still left a bad taste in my mouth. My friends tell me to stop being so sensitive. But then I tell them to shut up, so it all evens out.

An Education
This was a fanfuckingtastic film with the exception of Peter Sarsgaard's sad English accent. But it suffers from Vera Drake (Mike Leigh) in - it will not win due to the inclusion of the following elements:
a. It's British
b. It's too quiet. Thoughtful and filled with dialogue. Not a single explosion.
c. The heroine's journey - though a definable journey - is not epic. There's no racial or spacial divide to's just youth and we've all been there.
d. Everyone agrees that things were fucked up in the 60s.
That being said, the best part of the movie is Rosamund Pike. Anyone who can pull off playing a ditz while remaining likable as a character is truly amazing acting.

The Hurt Locker
B and I saw this when it first came out and no one was talking about it yet. I don't remember why. I think maybe we're drawn to titles with "Hurt" in them. Or maybe "Locker". B really loved this movie. Really loved it. I...appreciated it. There were some beautifully bleak scenes and some fun (as much as you can use that word in a war movie) cameos - and I definitely could get behind the message. But I'm a little desensitized to war films, so they take a lot to impress me. But you should see it anyway.

The Blind Side
Are you fucking kidding me?! A blond Sandra Bullock?! Football?! Rich white lady helps poor black teenager!? The SOUTH?! TIM MCGRAW?! Come on.

Inglourious Basterds
I just recently saw this one. I know, how behind the times can you get, right? I wanted to like it more than I did. The first 30 minutes are awesome. The last 30 minutes are awesome. Eli Roth is strangely awesome. But I really do just hate Quentin Tarantino, his obsession with the 70s - everything he stands for. And I want someone to slap his chin right off his face.

This was in theaters (and very few of them) for a depressingly short time and I didn't make it. However - the preview makes me cry. Photos from the film make me cry. Mo'Nique accepting her Golden Globe made me cry. Seeing Mariah Carey's face on screen normally makes me cry (for an all together different reason) - but in this role, I'm able to hold it in.

A Serious Man
I have not seen this yet, not for lack of trying. Things keep getting in the way, and I'm beginning to take it personally. Yes, I'm talking to you, Universe. I've heard good things - but I think we all know that the Coen Bros. have recently had their day in the red-carpeted sun and this nomination is just to let them know they're not forgotten. Also - the main actor looks disturbingly like a young Robin Williams. Anyone else notice this?

When this was in the theaters, I told Brendan to plan to see it when I was out of town. According to him, this is because I have no soul and hate all things good in the world (children, puppies, etc.). He might be right. However. It's not going to win.

Stupid-faced Avatar will win. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. James Cameron knows it. Cocky bastard. You can see it in his facial hair. And when he does - I plan on yelling and shaking my angry red-wine encased in glass fist (Oscar party) that Precious was ROBBED. And then we'll move on to other things, like who looks the most anorexic in their dress.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

Moved to Poetry by Poetry Because of Poetry

An Ode to the corner store

Oh Corner I heart thee
With your 24-hourness and
chicken and jojo-scented
singing to me like a non-drowny siren

With the promise of neon, ranch dip and

A refrigerated top row of 22 ouncers

You always have what I need

Whether it's duct tape or $1 meat

And for that, I metaphorically embrace you and
rowdy, fun-lovin' gangster wannabes
Hanging out by the bus stop like Tupac's
Not dead.
Calling everyone a bitch.

The pasty skinny-jeaned buying Pabst (case-style)
Making small talk with other races

Trying to pretend they're not uncomfortable.

You have the specialty chips I need

To make the tuna casserole

'Cause it's comfort food night
As it is when I work late.

Though no sleep occurs

You know you're my Comfort Inn.

The sketch is my crutch

And yes, that last part was a haiku.
For you, Corner Store

Bless you, google earth. And thank you as well.

Monday, March 01, 2010

Domestic Strife

k: I hate Nova.

b: I love Nova.

End argument.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

30, Bitches

Now's the time for reminiscing about days filled with paper dolls, rock collections and pulling the tails off salamanders for fun... and the last time my legs looked this good in a sunsuit.

Oh bastards.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Half-Assed Movie Review: The Fairy Scientist

My Dad made another beautiful film...that I can post in its entirety because it's only 5 minutes! It's an entry into a contest called The Reason Project and it stars my niece, Lydia.

Now - I get to take some credit for this cinematic treasure...even though I had nothing to do with it. The book that you see her reading was a Christmas gift from me two years ago when she was 4. It sparked an obsession that peaked with my giving her the butterfly net and the magnifying "bug box" for her birthday LAST year. Now she's a full-blown woman of science. Her auntie's so proud.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

The Post Wherein A Matter of Great Importance Is Included

Hi Friends!

Pleasantries aside - I'm here today because I need you.

The largest and most important event in all of history that has yet to happen is happening next Wednesday. I think you can guess what it is.

My 30th birthday.


I've known this was coming for a long time, but now it's actually here (because, you know, that's how the passage of time works)...and I haven't got a clue as to how to honor the day appropriately.
The original plan involved celebratory drunkenness with friends, but due to the recent visitation of a nasty and explicit stomach bug, both booze and (randomly) Ethiopian food are extraordinarily out of the question.

So what's left? I need thoughts. Ideas. Suggestions. Demands. Proposals. Synonyms.

In other news - why doesn't cake taste better? It should be delicious, but it's always disappointing. I don't think that's fair. I want to like it, but it's always so dry. Therefore, I reject it as the official birthday dessert. I'd rather have a chocolate-covered pretzel with a candle in it. And I will have it.

These days before the big event should probably be used to take stock of my life and outline my goa
ls, yadda yadda yadda...but honestly, I'd rather put more thought toward my next toenail color. Because Spring is on its way and I just got some new open-toed shoes. Seriously though, mentally examining one's life is exhausting. Cake is disappointing enough - no need to tack the realization and acceptance of mediocrity on to it.

That being said, I plan on shaking some shit up over the next decade. Just you wait.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

A Peek At The Peak

This afternoon, I spent an hour on Mt. Everest. I made it all the way to the summit. That's right...I "summited". In an hour. Because that's a verb. Wanna know how I did it? With team work. Team work that includes an "I", because for some reason - I was told that it does. That the "I" is just as important as all the other letters. A concept I had trouble wrapping my head around because of what it does to the analogy.

And that's what this meeting was. One
giant pertinent information. I HATE meetings like this. My company is making some changes that could be considered cool, if you cared about such things - and I thought this was going to be our opportunity to get more information on just what "changes" would entail. Instead we got an hour of PowerPoint slides of Everest - of the camps on Everest, of the white people climbing Everest and of the sherpas helping the white people climb Everest. And how the metaphor of the summit applies to not only our professional lives, but to our personal lives. Because we need to live in a world where anything's possible.

There are no quotation marks, but this is almost verbatim. It was nice to learn, albeit belatedly, that our benefits include unsolicited life coaching.

This isn't the first time this has happened. In the past - these gatherings have included references to how we must all drink the Kool-aid. It's what keeps us together, etc. Disturbing. I can't help but wonder if the executives understand exactly what happened at the end of that story. Because if they did, I feel certain they would agree that such a metaphor is inappropriate. Always.

This is how the cynicism bulb gets nourished into a full bloom. I've been maintaining my full bloom for so long, I really only have about 1/4 of my soul left. The rest of it has been sloughed off here and there on the way up to the summit.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Little Miss DEAR GOD NO!

Listen. This exists:

I watched a half of an entire hour of this show tonight and now feel as though some of my soul has been stolen. Not in the way a camera steals it...but in the way small children dressed up like harlots primping around a stage like they're puppies for purchase way.

One common element in all of these girls' stories is that their moms are all cows. When I say "cow", I'm not necessarily referring to their weight but more of their bovine features and behavior. Pair that with a southern accent, because they all have them, and one can't help but reach judgmental conclusions.

Here's some special features of what this half hour entailed.

On why mom has her daughter in the pageant: Amber is naturally beautiful and in our society people are judged differently when they're ugly.

On dresses...also known as "wow wear": They cost between $300-$500 and the judges can easily discount them due to length and/or color combo.

On teeth and the "flipper": If you're at an age where you're missing teeth, a flipper is an absolute must. They can cost up to $500.

On the most shockingly inappropriate 'talent' routine: She's our little 9-11 firefighter!

All the while, the cows take pictures of their overdressed, over-glitzed calves with throw-away cameras and tearful nods of encouragement. Once it's all over, the girl who winked at the judges mid-routine wins and the pageant director...this fop below..croons about "citrus colored rainbows" and how "you are what you feel"

Why did I need to force the fact of this show's existence on you? Because despite the stilted voice-overs and linear storylines...these are real people. Real mothers. Real daughters. All Americans. No wonder we can't get a flipping health care resolution passed. My hope for change is dying with every new reality show that burns into the plasma (I'm talking to you, Jersey Shore).

In the meantime, I hope these little girls take manage to something away from their ghastly experiences in front of the camera...if nothing other than the knowledge that flippers can be used as a weapon.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Analysis so deep, you could preserve a peasant in it

The last week's quake news was too deflating for frilly blog posts, so I just bagged it and drank a lot instead. It wasn't so much as a coping mechanism as it was a way to pass ones time without thinking too deeply.

Though by the third drink, the trend reverses and self examination begins. That's always dangerous. The only way to battle such a moment is to begin a dance party immediately. It is for this purpose that Justin Timberlake has been invented. By Japanese scientists. Like those sex dolls. But, you know, to fulfill a different need.

Anyway, frilly posts are totally back. You know, when I think about it, one could argue that they also serve a purpose. I'm not exactly sure what that is, but if I say so with the right amount of gusto, you'll believe me. That's how it works for the Shamwow guy, at least.

All of this is leading up to this statement:

I hate American Apparel.

I want to punch this girl in the kidneys. We get it. You sell tights. Tights in shades that don't match or compliment anything, so you have to wear them by themselves. Bravo. Now shut the hell up.

Never has a company been so successful at pushing leotards onto the general public disguised as actual clothing. Hot pants, stirrup pants, body suits, t-shirts...all made out of the same lycra in blank primary colors. And people buy it. They buy the fuck out of it. And I just don't know why. No one's going to cast them in a remake of Flashdance, so what's the point?

Maybe all the hate comes from the fact that I don't look like that in tights. Standing straight as an arrow still yields unsightly lumps where the flesh is constricted. Bending into a pretzel would really end up looking more like a scone. Home made...not store bought. It wouldn't be pretty. But I love to wear tights UNDER things. They keep me warm. They dress up my legs. They keep my shoes company. They're...essential.

But I won't buy them off that skinny bitch above. Her face will be hanging in the window as I shop just watching me. Knowing that the lumps will be there. I don't need that. No one needs that. Besides. I need patterns in my life. We all need patterns in our lives. And American Apparel will never understand that. Because they're stupid.

I win.

Monday, January 11, 2010

OK Go Sounds Just Like Prince

I get intimidated by other people's ability to do great things. I say this because as far as "great things" go, well, I make pretty good coffeecake. Not my own recipe. I wouldn't know where to begin. Flour?

Erin made me some great things for Christmas times. Some of them I gave to loved ones and some I kept for myself because that's what Christmas is all about. Dickens doesn't know shit.

Below is a visual cornucopia of her wares as purchased and donned by me. There is further evidence of my love of her work on her own blog, as well as darling details of her daily existence and an Etsy store that you'd be MAD (the crazy kind) not to peruse with a pocket book.

I'm glad I waited to post about this because a tragedy almost befell my new-found accoutrements. Friday night B and I went to happy hour with some friends. During the exchange of a small booth to a large one, my scarf got left behind. It was The Rapture for accessories.

Once it was discovered that my brand new beautiful scarletty scarf was missing, a large search ensued complete with a hunting party. And dogs. Alas, it was not to be found that night. The bartender told my next-to-tears face that I should call the next day to see if they had found it later.

I had almost no hope. Hipsters are a scavengy bunch and they know a good thing when they see it. I feared that my beautiful scarf was now gracing the underfed neck of some bitch in tapered jeans and there was nothing I could do.

The next afternoon I called the bar as soon as it opened. He was too busy to go look...I should try back later.

So after a delightful evening of a movie and dinner, I stopped back by the bar and talked to Slash minus 25 years. He was very kind. I said "scarf" and added a question mark and his immediate reply was "red". I got my scarf back. Though he would not play that cool part from November Rain where the song goes from slow to fast as the coffin comes into the church (you remember that video, right?) because he said he was a bartender and not Slash at all. I wasn't about to argue...he'd done me a large favor.

So that's the story of my things.

Well, not totally.

The scarf that we had made for B's gramma got eaten by a dog. But only one little section and she swears she can mend it. Even the universe is jealous of our stylicity. I blame pheromones. But I don't know whose.