Saturday, October 31, 2009

Top Ten Alternative Halloween Treats

RBCA requested I do this, but I'm not feeling the Cleveland witticisms tonight. I spent most of the day not moving my head, an unfortunate and entirely predictable result of last night's fun stuff romp through Cuyahoga Falls. At one point I was standing in a basement full of people playing the Flip Game, and Jere was having me yell repeatedly "I love coke and salesman!", and that was the relatively sober part of the night. I refuse to comment on the veracity of that statement or others I may have made throughout the night. I will point out that I may have finally found a drinking game I can do without embarrassing myself.

So anyway, here's my Top Ten. And RBCA, I will email you that story tomorrow morning. I have to somehow move my head enough to go out again tonight. And I have to remember in the future that pickles, triscuits, and Always Sunny are not a good combination for a hangover.

Top Ten Alternative Halloween Treats to Pass Out

1. Twilight themed condoms.

2. vicodin

3. Michelle Bachmann temporary tattoos

4. pictures of your neighbor in his underwear

5. Cupcakes that are shaped like dog biscuits, and also made of dog biscuits

6. Commemorative poker chips with scenes of Charleston, WV on them.

7. jello shots

8. balls of foil

9. free fingerprinting for children

10. kisses. With tongue.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Michigan Central: of the Universe

The reason we think of hell as hot, and heaven as slightly chilly, is that they were created in the minds of desert nomads. People who spent their fevered lives trying to avoid the heat. But in modern thought, cold people are considered "deviant" and good people are "warm." So where are we supposed to fall in between, in our self-endorsement infomercial dreams of neutrality and empathy and gray, are we Fall? Are we the Fall? We don't believe in glory and victory. We believe in nightlights and staying away from barbed wire.

The fathers had no idea of this genetic waterfall when they built these fortresses of industry. They beat their wives and children, they drank their internal organs dry, they stuck their cocks in all sorts of disease, and they knew for sure they were going to hell when they died. But when he showed up at the devil's waiting room, scorched and pleading, The Stone Mason knew he had done at least one great thing in his lifetime. One piece of art to save his entire sodden soul. He had built this thing that would last as his badge of worthiness, for centuries. Sobbing wasted on a street corner while his wife and babes slept under blood soaked shingles, he could look into the distance and see this stone temple rising on the darkness, glowing with commerce and money and usefulness. The heartbeat of populations headed West, the expanding country, the tide of America came racing through on those tracks. He was a vital cog in the machine of Open Spaces. His children would grow up and become other cogs in the machine, in the flashing vital machinery that moved us forward into deserts and forests and condo complexes, cars cars cars pumping out of Michigan like blood, like serotonin from the punch drunk neurons of party kids, never to be replaced. Only they were poker chips, like manufactured medicine, emulsified into the blood supply.

When the future was over, it became plastic. Plastic brittle scabs of money and risk and glass. The children stopped going to the factories, because there were no more factories to be had. They broke into their fathers' temples, and tried desperately to take them back, to keep the stone from running away. I am here, they screamed in the empty places, Pay Attention To Me. But the country had moved on, to Open Spaces, and the one-time palaces on the lakes became places instead to fuck and fight and bleed and eat and sleep and grow up and/or die. Like a glowstick dying, the temporary toxic energy bled from the walls, fading into the atmosphere. Until all that was left was Echo. Echo climbing through the rusting rebars and chipped staircases. Echo walking slowly through the loading dock doors and broken office windows. Echo whispering in your ear it's intangible dry breeze wishes. Kiss. Scream. Cry. Expand. Wither.

Why is everyone afraid to be dirty? They want it either straight up disgusting, unbearably nauseating. Or else dust-free and shiny. No one wants that medium, the dusty gravel coated dirty. Slime is funny and dramatic. Sanitized is virtuous. Dusty dirty is the sheen of someone who crawled under a fence, and held onto rusty plumbing, and rubbed their face unthinkingly, distracted by something larger than themselves. I think it's hot. Any time someone does something, or says something, or is something because they for once aren't thinking about themselves at all? It's the very thing. Maybe only to inherently selfish people like us.

Which is why museums are so hot right? All those eyes and brains walking around, concentrating on something other than themselves? And the doctorate students, the crazy artists, the aspiring business owners. The religious zealots, the newly married, the physicists, the zoo-keepers, the cathedral builders, the stay at home mothers. Fanatically obsessed with something other than how they personally are interacting with you. America's dirty secret? We want to fuck these people and steal away their focus. We want to distract them. We want to suck that genius into our own plodding, renaissance weakened souls. This is a gross generalization I cannot in any way back up, other than by saying it's a feeling. It's the feeling I get in a room of people watching their favorite band. Its the feeling that invades when you unveil something you love to a group of people who didn't make it.

I didn't make this Terminal. My ancestors had zilch to do with the construction of this, or any other edifices. I get no feeling of connection with history, or of decay and abandonment. Instead I see it, and it's as if it was built exactly like this, and is instead perfectly preserved. It will be this way forever. I touch the bricks, and I'm not touching history. I'm touching present warm brick and mortar; rock not broken, only re-adjusted. The crunching of glass under my feet is what the architect was going for. The lighting is precisely designed. The moment I'm smelling and feeling and touching and seeing is the only way this will stay. I want to touch every one else in the place, hold hands and touch wall, complete a circle which could only lead to some enlightenment of the secret places.

It's true what they say. We guided our way by memorizing the silhouettes of casinos. We used the valets, not the police, to find the mummies. We stared at the wizen leather genitalia of Mexican laborers who's families couldn't pay the crypt dues, and their bodies were trotted around the old steel cities of Canada and the States, a traveling exhibit of people who should have had it worse off than us. The scorpions were nesting in their torsos, the spiders in their cheeks. At least if we're buried here, we have a fairly good chance of one day becoming permafrost.

We watched a movie about a man who climbed mountains. Three days of sleeping in the clothes you're wearing, of not pissing from dehydration, of tying yourself against your enemy so you don't roll off in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, it was accompanied by the musical styling of Queen, and a dead father. But the message shouldn't be lost. Sometimes you do things by staring at the small things around you, staring intently for a foothold or a rock to jam your hammer into, to keep you safe for a few minutes. Some people can do that for years.

So cops, dust, mohawks, knives, grease from machinery coating his hands, diners and turning around on the highway thirteen times. Casino valets, mummies, crawling into air ducts of black storefront boxes. Debris, oil tanker baby farms, burnt insides, tires, junkyard dogs, and over all the landscape a spiderweb of lights that every sign for reads Bridge to Canada.

It's never consensual. It's always someone winning. The winner is the one who does something first.

Maybe caffeine, hormones, and alcohol are the only magic left.

But that's the attitude of a person who needs nightlights.

I'm only going to say this one more time...

Go outside. Go read outside. Go drink some coffee outside. Go eat your lunch outside. Go walk the dog, or smoke, or wash your car, or ford a stream, or jump a train. Go make out with someone outside and get some dirt on your knees.

Winter is slouching towards Bethlehem as we speak.

Wednesday TV Recap: Leeks are fun!

Oh youth, how confident you are!

ANTM: See, this is why math doesn't matter, girls.

Things I learned tonight from America's Next Top Smurfette.

1) 21 yr olds are actually older than 18 yr olds. No, really. The math girl told me. It's like, a factual thing.

2) One reason it's better to be hot is that you can keep your house in the worst filthy state, and instead of cleaning it and being ashamed, someone will whisk you away to a billion dollar estate in Hawaii.

3) I do not know how to spell Hawaii. I had to spell check a state of my fucking country. Sad.

4) There is such a career path as extreme water sports photographer.

5) In 2 short cycles, Tyra will be taking all the photographs.

6) They have no sun in Kentucky, because the coal smoke and horse farts have blocked it forever. Also, all Kentuckians are mole people.

7) We should all know more about Tibet. "I have very vague knowledge about Tibet, except that it needs to be freed." Someone should have told her Tibet is full of dragons, I bet she would have changed her mind.

8) When a fashion photographer does blackface, it's a controversy. When Tyra does it, it's emboldening, fierceable, and smizening.

9) Every single staff member on that show is a fucking expert on teenage girls. When this show finally dies, they should all go on to write books and be on Oprah.

10) Bye Britany! Remember, philanthropy awaits you in your new career as extremely successful socialite, in about 15 years.

***** I watched about five minutes of Vampire Diaries, because there was no Glee. My boyfriend danced around with some girl in her underwear to a bad cover song meant to evoke debauchery and madness. He then snapped her neck. I watched some Angel.************

Top Chef: Padma, do you know what protein is?

I actually liked the Quickfire this episode. The chefs were asked to create tv dinners based on tv shows, which was fun. No big surprise, Kevin's Italian family style Sopranos dinner won with the Italian chef guest judge. But I thought Bryan's interpretation of M.A.S.H as meatloaf and apple pie was really cute.

The only disturbing part was when Padman mentions TOP CHEF FROZEN DINNERS FROM SCHWAN'S. And then Kevin successfully evoked the idea that these would be like Meals On Wheels, and I think that particular promotion idea fell flat.

But let's move on to the good stuff. So the chefs are told they will be cooking dinners for guests at CraftSteak, Colicchio's almost iconic steakhouse. Yes, you can brand something so well, it becomes iconic. They run into the kitchen like kids at Christmas, shaking all the paper wrapped meaty gold, exclaiming over bits of rump and slices of flank. Then Natalie Portman comes in and kills all their hopes and dreams.

Ely mistakenly says the most important thing Natalie has ever done is be in Star Wars, because that's the most important thing anyone can do. I disagree. This is the most important thing Natalie has ever done:

Let's just examine the following moments:

Kevin - "Every Lent my wife and I go vegetarian as penance" - not an exact quote. I couldn't remember the exact words cause I was screaming "No Kevin! Not Lent!" at the TV, as my crush withered and died. Or at least was left gasping for air.

Eli - feels pity for vegetarians. Cause it's a disability they are forced to live with. PETA, where are you?

Mike Douche - "I'll cook anything. I'll cook goats." What?

Padma, talking about garlic blossoms- "It's like a little prick on my tongue."
Tom - "it went from a little prick to a big taste in your mouth."
All of Natalie's very lucky friends - died from the sheer wonder of being there, and swearing to themselves they will be friends with her forever.

Natalie, on being in love with Voltron Jr. - "who is his dealer, and does he want more clients?"

Also Gail, Leighton Meester wants her Emmy dress back, and is very mad you died it green.

So in the end, Mike Douche had the poetic justice of being sent home before Robin. One can only hope Ely suffers the same fate. Kevin won, again. I was less than thrilled, you Catholic. No, it's true, I still love your chubby little ginger face. But please don't ever tell me anything like that again.

Next week: Is Jennifer the new Erin (from ANTM), and what advice would Tyra give her about self-sabotaging? Maybe we should get her some Autotune?

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

No really

What are you doing? Unless you are fucking, you're wasting your time. And you shouldn't be on the computer. Also, maybe you should be doing that outside too.
I have a lot of these pictures. This could go on for days.


Go outside!

Monday, October 26, 2009

I scrubbed my face with rubbing alcohol and it still feels drunk

Alright, first of all, why is Flickr taking so long to f-ing load? I have 85 pictures. I started them at 2 in the afternoon. It's only HALFWAY DONE. Flickr Hates My Life.

Second, here's the Halloween game this year. Every time between now and next Sunday that you see someone dressed up as a vampire, or they tell you they're dressing up as a vampire, you drink. You cannot make this easy by simply dressing up yourself as a vampire, because technically then you should have no reflection, and wouldn't be able to see yourself.

I am not advocating taking a flask with you everywhere. I do however understand that, though very very wrong especially when driving, it would make the game a lot easier. Also, in a completely non-related aside, it's supposed to be cold this week. Cold and rainy. You'll be chilly. Better accessorize appropriately. Good scarf.

What the fuck eHow. Hey kids, why don't you come over here and we'll have a nice talk about sexual deviancy and how primitive communities enforce structure and morals. Don't mind the gatorade bottle.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Wednesday TV Recap: Hey Everybody, Laura is Dyslexic!

Okay, so you see that face I'm making in my profile picture. I keep thinking about changing it, cause I look at it and I'm like, gee that's a weird face. Why do I want people to think I'm a Yugoslavian witch who thinks they have bad taste in music?

Well, it turns out that is the face I make when it's one in the morning, and I've gotten a little messed up, and watched a bunch of reality TV I was not in the mood for tonight. Loopy, exhausted, alternately hopeless and high from snarkiness.

Tonight I corralled poor Gracie, the cat that has been living outside The Ex's building for the last summer. The neighbors that just moved from there, C and M, had started feeding her, cause she kept coming around and was so freaking friendly and small and sweet. And pregnant. Then she had the kitten, and brought it to the porch to give it to them, and the new neighbors ended up taking the kitten, but of course they didn't want two cats. So Gracie is still on the porch, and I've been feeding her and trying to figure out what to do with her. I sorta feel like when an animal adopts you, you have to take care of them. I also realize that is the attitude that will get me fifteen cats and a very unhappy life. The Ex has sort of thought about taking her, but really doesn't want a second cat, and it doesn't help that his existing cat kinda hates Gracie now. So adorable wonderful Gracie is at the moment in his bathroom, while I try to figure out what to do with her after I take her to the APL to get fixed.

Right, so that's my night. I was not in the mood to watch ANTM or even Top Chef. I even thought to myself, I should just watch Glee and go to bed at 10 and maybe stop watching tv altogether. Of course, it's 1am, so we can see how that turned out.

So since I've watched them, lets talk about them. But keep in mind I watched the Angel episode where Connor and Holtz are sucked into the hell dimension while Wesley bleeds out from his throat in a park all alone, right before I sat down to this computer. So we'll see.

America's Next Top Model: The Disappearing Girl

Let's think of some current models who are "double or triple threats".

I can only mostly think of old ones: Heidi, Cindy, Brooke.
Because being a host on a show or an actress is something models do either when they get so successful they can't breathe, or when they fail at being a model. That being said, Jennifer, you should really practices doing interviews on weird people like Ant and that girl from 90210. I think that is a very good place for you to head to, and nobody will give two shits about your tiny eyelid flaw. You're only going to be on this show for another episode, maybe two. Tell your agent to get started now.

I don't understand why we're speeding up the challenges like this. Last week, go sees, and this week, the dread CoverGirl commercial? Which is usually reserved for the last 4 girls. First there was the interview challenge, where you got to actually see the platform the muppet actors stand behind while filming, so that was kind of cool. Though I was never one of those kids who needed that explained. Poor Laura, who can't read certain things because she's dyslexic, and I like her so no need to make fun there, Laura had to read things off a teleprompter which had to suck hardcore. But then *twist* they cut off the prompter, and she kinda sucked then too. Jennifer was the only one who nailed this.

Then time to truck out the CoverGirl zombie winner from last season. I sometimes wonder if the new girls, meeting a Bree or a Teyonna, second guess themselves. "Hmm, maybe I should have just tried to make it on my own, I could have been slutty enough. Maybe this isn't worth it." Nah, of course they don't. Everybody loves CoverGirl right? right? Cause it's Exacting New Lash Volume Glimmer Plumping time darlings. Teyonna is being kept alive on Stay True Highlights, sparkling water, and fashion columnist blood.

Jennifer and Nicole both do very well in the commercial, considering the wreckage that has been past years. Laura can't read, so, you know, duh. Erin literally has a temper tantrum in front of Nigel. 4 times. He's probably fucking his wife thinking about it right now. Anyway, Erin's commercial is basically a heroin addict trying to get money from her folks. It's the saddest Cover Girl commercial in history. She even looks like she's crying in it, cause she is! They should use it.

During elimination, Tyra says something about "1+1=3" to Britany, who shuts down right there. It's over for her. I don't blame her, after all, not only is it not true, it didn't make any sense cause they were pushing a trio of CG products. So how does three products translate to 1+1=3 in Tyra's head? Math Girl With an Actual Career Ahead of Her has had enough. Nicole looked super cute in her glasses and indie pop singer outfit. Erin channeled Marie Antoinette. And maybe it was my tv, but when Tyra got down to the last two girls, did her voice get all echoey and auto tuney? Very epic, with creepy soundtrack music behind it.

Then Rae went home. Wait, who?

Top Chef Las Vegas: I'm warning you Bravo, I will throw something at the TV

So the rule in horror movies, I've been told, is that the slutty girl who loses her virginity,or has sex, or does something otherwise Eve in the Garden like, will be killed first. Do I have that right? I think one of the Bravo editors decided to add some layers, and showed Jennifer in her bikini on purpose in the beginning for that very effect. It's a theory.

But then what to make of the sweet little Voltron brother rivalry?Mike V. was the edit baby this week, and we got to all learn about what an asshole he is, as a setup for his ultimate redemption right?

First, there's this Tag-Off cooking thing, and like Kevin said, this is the most ridiculous Quickfire ever. So let's just move past it.

Restaurant Wars. Everybody's favorite challenge except for me. Cause I could care less about your decorating skills, or your front of the house skills. This challenge is painful for me to watch, because it's going to get fucked up no matter what. Always. And how the hell do I get myself invited to be one of the guests for this thing? Is there a drawing I can enter, a mailing list? Do I have to go suck up to a bunch of food bloggers? I'll do anything.

Thankfully, they got rid of that decor shit this year. I'm not watching Top Design Star after all. For a reason. This year it's really simple; create a menu, cook it, serve a bunch of people.

The Voltron brothers are paired with Robin and Ely, and still win. Because together, they are Voltron. Mike is kind of an asshole, but gets his big twist by winning 10,000 and then offering to split it with the team. Cause, you know, he's got a heart of gold and platinum and diamond transistors. Bryan is calm. Brian is calm. Brian is calm. Ely keeps his cool around Robin by completely avoiding her as much as he can, and does an okay front of the house. Not great, he could have tucked his shirt in.

But at least he didn't look like a bitter serving wench in some East German bar circa 1974. Laurine didn't even tell the judges what they were eating, just dumped the slop down in front of them and left. Who the fuck does that? The rest of her team, Jennifer, Kevin, and Mike Douche, do a really good job of fucking up on top of that. And Jennifer, I'm personally mad at you for that. How could you have allowed the judges to make me think, believe, feel if even for an instant, that you might be sent home? Do you know what that would have done to me? I might have even stopped watching!

I let out an audible sigh when Laurine was sent packing instead. I felt embarrassed for myself.

And the episode ended with the Voltron brothers going back and forth. "Why are you mad?" "I'm not mad" "Why are you mad?" "I'm not mad, I'm happy." "You're mad." "I'm not mad."
Which is how the ship found them, centuries later, sitting in the rubble, their cold fusion hearts stuck in an eternal dialogue. The tattoos had faded from the elements, but the unwrinkled brows remained unchanged, with a glimmer of gold from their Exacting Highlights Natural Human Makeup, shade #3.

Note: looks like Natalie Portman is pulling a Zooey Deschanel next week. I hate that I live in a world where I can say that, and it has meaning for you.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Your Fuzzy Wuzzy Quotient for the Day

Disclaimer: Even though, yes, I am posting pictures of a cat here, and yes, he's adorable, and yes, that is why I'm posting these pictures of him, I am not a crazy cat girl. This isn't even my cat, swear. I'm cat-sitting for The Ex. In fact, I think I'm even less of a crazy cat girl because I haven't even shown you a picture of Nina, who is at this very moment tearing apart my legs because I won't play with her, because I'm busy writing about someone else's cat. So there.

This past Saturday was that great Cleveland holiday known as Sweetest Day. A day entirely absolutely created by the candy industry, in a marketing move to dupe those dumb Lake People into having another reason to buy chocolate covered strawberries. And it has worked so completely, that if I'm alone Valentine's day, I'm okay. But on Sweetest Day, with every boyfriend, even if we're broken up I expect an honorable mention. And I have yet to be disappointed in this thing I had no right to expect in the first place. In this way, with many others, I am a true example of the Midwest Girl.

There are some things you learn about flowers by the time you're thirty. One, you should always get flowers. Even if they are daffodils picked from someones front yard, flowers are one of the best things a guy does for you. He may buy you other things, or make you mix cds, or do your household chores. He may in fact be one of the sweetest guys in the whole world. But if he has never brought you a bouquet, there is something missing in his soul, a light that either hasn't flickered on yet, or has already flickered out.

Second, flowers mean lots of things, and they are maybe not always welcome things. But you always say thank you. Flowers are not something you should over think. If you are not gracious about it, you can be the one that turned off flowers for another future girl. Flowers are emotional, in a way that doesn't make a lot of sense. They link together all sorts of weird things; dignity and beauty and fragility and fucking. When you are in a room with a guy, and there is a vase sitting there between you, there are very few situations where you are justified in throwing them in his face - physically or figuratively. And you accepting them gracefully does not denote surrender or forgiveness. You don't have to take him back. But there should be acknowledgment. This is why flowers are known as the standard universal "please forgive me" or "thank you" or "I love you". Other gifts don't produce the same aura of vulnerability that they do. They make you soft. It's good to be reminded you can be soft.

And then there's chocolate - which is so obvious that a fifteen year old virgin wouldn't misconstrue that message. But look how pretty they are! (note: chocolates are like diamonds). I love Lilly's.

That pistachio one, by the way, was really fucking good. And so was the cranberry one in the pink plaid.

I know, alright, we'll stop talking about flowers and chocolates. My point is though, that you should never ever date anyone who doesn't give you both. Not every week. But sometimes when they don't have to, and it doesn't gain them anything.

Sunday was a lazy fall day. I drank some vodka from the night before. I watched bad cable. Lead Paint Cookbook took me and Really Bad Cleveland Accent to brunch. Which I invited my friend Alli to before I knew LPC had a gift card, and for which I have to take her out to dinner some point soon. Just let me know what day dear, or let me buy you lots of absinthe? Which, by the way, if you read this, that's 10/30, not this Friday.

So it was a very pleasant brunch, because those three girls are the girls you wish you had known right out of college, before you fell in with that Wiccan guy. They would have never allowed that to properly happen. I actually did know Alli then, but she lived far away before the Wiccan guy showed up. So it's not her fault.

So it's cold, blustery, rainy, sometimes sunny. I need some sneakers with better tread and no holes in them. I need an actual coat. I need a wine cellar, a fireplace, and some sedatives for my cats. I need blankets and a mattress all to myself, and more time to sleep that doesn't interrupt my fast-paced tv watching lifestyle. I tried to find a building to go to this morning, Charity was waiting for me, but I had no luck. Everything I looked up was bought by Chinese firms or torn down two years ago. The season is ending for improv, now I have to settle down for winter planning. I think it's very funny Pandora just put Tegan and Sara next to Johnny Cash. Start going to Pat Catans more. Start cooking again and driving my friends crazy by taking pictures of food. It's time to nail the shutters closed. I'm proud of myself because at this point last year I was thinking how fast everything seemed to be going by. Now I feel like this year took it's good old time, and I think that's a good sign.

If I had, as I often wished, been born an actual bear, required to hibernate for months, I think I've would have figured out a way to stay awake. Maybe eating college students?

Sunday, October 18, 2009

And This is Why You Need to Make Sure Your Elected Officials Don't Hire Their Nephews

Interpretation has been on my mind lately. How people interpret text messages. Facial expressions. Pizza preferences. I've been reading an essay about the emergence of neural imaging technology, and also that idea that we are genetically programmed to be certain things and ways, and there is no escaping from where evolution has placed us on the skills ladder. For instance, are you pre-programmed genetically, instead of culturally, to place all your pens in a certain order on your desk? Or to be in a service industry instead of manufacturing? Or, and here's the really awful part of where I'm going here, liberal or conservative?

The reason I bring this all up will become clear once you watch the video below.

I have a lot of questions about this. And also some statements.

Wait, did you watch it? Cause if you didn't, there's really no point in continuing to read this. I mean, I know, I skip a lot of videos too. But it's pretty integral to what I'm writing here.


First of all, King Roy the Rat King is deceptively cute and mouse-like. This seems like a poor choice in animation styles. Why not make him scary and yucky like? Why not just rip off some characters from NIMH? The way he looks now, I'm just kinda mad at the announcer for being so mean to the little itsy witsy micey wicey. That little girl at the beginning though? I mean, that's some exorcist shit. It's definitely the direction they should have gone.

If that didn't make you go back and watch that video, I give up.

Second, since when is it a good idea to discuss ANYTHING with Georgia, let alone business or education? Who in their right mind would sit there and say to himself "gee our budget is fucked, our national guard is deployed, we're facing drought and race riots and rising sea levels, but yet half our teenage population won't graduate high school. I SHOULD ASK GEORGIA WHAT TO DO." If anything, that is a reason to vote for the man. Last time I checked, Georgia was actually run by feral pigs that live off hazelnuts and babies, and hate literacy.

Unless of course he's the reason there's some demon arsonist ox out there, burning houses, conjuring tornadoes, and burying people alive in stacks of paper? If that's the case, then let's throw his ass in jail. That Ox, just sitting there, not moving, causing all this horrible shit in Georgia with his evil liberal telepathic brain waves of big government. It's too bad barbecue sucks in Georgia, otherwise there would be enough strong and graceful steaks to feed half of Atlanta.

I'll tell you what we can do. We'll kidnap the rat and the ox, and then we'll give the rat some steroids to make it as big as the ox, and then we'll trap them on top of a DAM, where they will have to battle it to the death, because otherwise we'll kill them both with these electronic gladiator collars we got from California and New York. Only fucking thing either of those states ever did for this country - penal containment. Not something they know a lot about in Georgia.

I'm also pretty sure that Georgia just declared war on the President of the United States, like open sedition and shit. Is that smart, do you think? I heard he has a lot of weapons like, I don't know, legitimate elected official smart ass-ness.

It'll be a tough battle, since that ox is stronger than a snake, a weasel, and a dead guy combined. Booyah. So I guess the rat will have to use, like, a gun or whiskey or a populist vote to bring him down. Maybe the rat can make a lolz cat out of him, and the lolz cat will come alive, and bring all it's young ipod having you tube watching friends, and then the dam will collapse and everyone will die. But no one will notice, because Georgia doesn't really exist in any kind of influential or "real" sense.

John Oxendine 2010. Strong. Graceful. Named after an addictive narcotic.

I'm sorry Georgia, I don't really dislike you. But you have to admit, this guy went through your school system. Which would actually be a more effective argument against the giant rat.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Genesis according to Tyra

From Lyrical Malarkey...

"1 In the beginning Tyra created the heaven and the earth.
2 And the earth was without a runway, and void of all fierce colors and outfits; and improper lighting caused darkness upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of Tyra worked the runway upon the face of the waters, striking fierce poses at each step of the way.

3 And Tyra said, Let there be lighting: and there was lighting, and stage hands, and production assistants.
4 And Tyra saw the lighting, that it was good, minimized her imperfections, and made her eyes smile: and Tyra divided the light from the darkness to ensure fierce day and night photos. "

A Reading from the Book of Tyra

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Let's Talk About Beauty, Maybe

Tonight on the Daily Show, John Stewart got to play out his grad school fantasy (I assume, because, had I went to grad school, it would have been mine) by getting to actually voice his honest opinion about Ayn Rand to an audience of millions. I don't know, maybe you didn't have the same kind of English teacher as me. But damn it if I didn't loathe Rand to the core before I could even grasp the kind of conservative masturbation I was reading.

That has nothing to do with what I'm going to talk about here. But then again, neither does the fact that I'm going to pretend that the reason the They Might Be Giants show sold out, in Cleveland of all places, is because they wrote that damn theme song for the Big Bang Theory. You don't know, it could be true.

I recently went to the bookstore. I try not to go into bookstores, because as soon as I set foot in one, it is a given I will buy something. I will be dead broke, living on blue box mac and cheese, but I will buy something. Some used clearance rack book about the Haitian Invasion. A hard copy of a book I already own. Dumb shit like that. Various people I have slept with have accused me of spending my money on stupid shit, like sweaters, and alcohol. They don't understand that I splurge on these stupid things to avoid the bankruptcy I would fall into if I ever gave in to my real addiction.

So anyway, I went into the bookstore. I bought a collection of Tom Wolfe essays about the year 2000. It's pretty fucking awesome. I forget exactly how much I love Wolfe until I read one paragraph by him, and I'm fucking hooked again. I know all the reasons he's bad for me, but reading him is like a pornographic high. I'm sure someday I will look back on him like I used to feel about Tom Robbins, or Henry Miller. But right now, I'm in the throes of a Tom Wolfe growth spurt.

It's not surprising given how many times I read Bonfire of the Vanities as a child. It sat around on the hallway bookshelf always. I honestly think I read that book at least 12 times before I was 15. That can't be healthy.

I also bought some shit about the Haitian invasion. And some other political shit about Nixon. I love reading about 1960-70s politics. I blame my father for this, as well as the Bonfires of the Vanities affliction. Though my mother was the one who sang along to Snow White, so really, blame is relative.

Lately I've been making my List of Authors I Should Have Been Alive to Be Madly Viciously In Love With. So far, the list stands as such:

- Roald Dahl
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
- Hemingway
- Margaret Atwood (yes, I know, still alive. But at this point, might as well be in an another dimension. Same as the next guy)
- Tom Wolfe
- Hunter S. Thompson. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail makes up for that stupid f&l Johnny Depp shit.
- John Irving, the Great Novelist

I make this list not in an effort to impress upon you my coolness (that's just an obvious side effect), but so when I'm twenty years in the future, ie 50 motherfucker, I can randomly run across this post and think to myself "god, I remember when I used to give myself tetanus all the time by wandering around in dirty places, and was also a horrible pretentious twat."

What is the one thread that brings all these people together in my mind right now? How am I living my life, when these are the people I look up to? I wish there was a therapist who specialized in analyzing one's reading habits. I need to go to that person, I need my own version of Tarot cards, I feel settled and lost at the same time.

Here is the thing that happens when you watch too much America's Top Model. You start to really understand what is considered beautiful. You see these awkward dumb girls, who look freaky and stretched and scooped out, but then get in front of the camera and transform into these creatures of light and lips and ice. You start to truly understand what the camera is looking for. It widens our perception of beauty just enough to let the weird girls in, to make us all amateur model scouts. But it does not make us feel better about ourselves. If anything, it gives even skinny girls something to worry about, maybe they don't know how to catch the light? Maybe they wear too many accessories? I know deep down what a very cute troll I am, but troll I am. Heavy, slow, overly reliant upon the comma. I don't feel badly about girls who are more beautiful than me. I understand why they are. It's like when you adopt a very petite cat. You can't get over the hollows between the bones.

Spain is a country. It should not be the name of your stupid band.

We went up the stairs, past rows of hospital rooms, one upon the other, all the same. We made our way to the level beneath the roof. We wandered through the rooms where man used to handle deadly small creatures that caused sickness and ugliness and sadness. The desks where they used to work, the small garret offices, were overturned and empty. Only silent warning signs, to warn delivery men from a decade ago, left on doors and hallway walls and elevator shafts. We made our way through the machinery of the place, through the giant pipes and shafts and searched the staircase to lead us to the steeple. When we got there, only Jeremiah and Allison had the guts to climb it. To almost the top, but not on the wooden ladder.

We found our way to the swamp. And nestled in a small dark corner, a concrete room with only one small air vent providing a glow of natural light. Charity found it. It was the room you see in cop shows, or shows where they catch mass murderers. I was there with three other people, with an open door, and I didn't even go in it, because it felt like to go into it would be to literally surrender my freedom. So I looked at the swamp, and I remembered the time my little sister fell in the duck pond at the Metroparks, and she had to be pulled from the man-made lake.

When you find yourself in the air vents and heating shafts and infrastructure, you start to see that you are actually in the bowels of an old and decaying beast. You are exploring it's heart and lungs, staring through it's clouded corneas. This is all flesh.

I wish everything around me could be this color blue. Or the color green of ferns growing out of carpet. I wish I knew that in the future, someone will be exploring the building I worked in, wondering about the locked doors, and shouldering their flashlights while they paged through manuals about insurance law. Hospitals are more about birth than death to me, I feel like they are communities celebrating the best of what community has to offer. So it makes sense the most pleasant parts of this place were where the plants were growing again.

I wonder about my photographic aesthetic. I love pictures to be complicated, full of little things. Maybe I should rephrase that, maybe it's actually my aesthetic in total. I try not to wear jewelry because I feel like it adds more confusion to my body, which is confusing enough as it is. But I love heavy eye makeup. In my head there is a balance between too complicated and simple enough. But what if my idea of this aesthetic doesn't translate to anyone else? What if I'm truly crazy, and no one on earth sees the world I do? I used to embrace the idea of everyone else's translation, but now I'm just scared that I'm the only one in mine. What's the point of writing about it, if no one else really sees it that way? Is it in order to find those people? And then, if I get all celebratory about this perceived individualism, and then it turns out that I'm completely within the normal range of vision? And I'm just a stuck up girl who tried to turn her gray little Cleveland life into something special. It could go either way here folks.

St. Luke is the patron saint for people who do things with their hands, like surgeons, sculptors, musicians. Writers aren't considered hand people. They are supposed to be thought people. But hands are much more integral to the experience, honest.

Either way, one thing will never change. I will never stop hating basements. I didn't even know this was a dead end, until I took a picture with a flash.

This post brought to you by the letters C-H-A-M-P-A-G-N-E
more photos here.

Wednesday Night is Shout At the TV Night: ANTM is a morality tale y'all, pay attention!

Okay so first of all, I have a bone to pick with someone. I don't know who, but I would have expected at least one of you to point out to me that my boyfriend from Rules of Attraction is on Vampire Diaries. That guy's so hot, I can't even think of him in a sexual way. So maybe he's not hot, he's just heart-breakingly mind numbingly beautiful.I'm somewhat disturbed by a few trailer scenes where he looks suspiciously like Rob Lowe. But I guess I'm also disturbed by my ability to find Rob Lowe cute. *shudders*

I really just want to jump into Top Chef, because I have something I want to scream to the rooftops. But if we abandon chronology, don't we taint the whole experience? On ANTM tonight, Wilhemina put the smackdown, scheduling the go-sees way early, with 8 girls, instead of 4. It felt wrong. It felt mean. Then, to rub salt in the wound, they made a bunch of out of town short girls get in a car and drive around Los Angeles. It was as if Wilhemina was trying actively to get someone killed, barely holding back their impatience to sing their phantom fangs into new young flesh.

The only couple worth watching were the Golden Girls, Laura and Nicole. As promised, Laura's photo shoot last week opened her up like an apple flower, pretty, cute, but not fragile. Hey, let's make fun of Laura's accent! No problem, she'll just draw her vowels out longer and oh, she'll get called edgy for the first time in her life, and feel the first tendrils of success and confidence start to surround her, like warm veins. And Nicole, standing tall and red, charms everyone with her book club aloofness, her second string volleyball team awkwardness. The other girls start to wither and die in their barely gilt exuberance, becoming dirty shadows in the background as their smack talk becomes the chattering of those they left behind.

Nicole wins the go-see challenge handily, and tries out her new expensive wardrobe, starting to appreciate the particular softness of really expensive clothes. Erin starts to say something about favoritism, and Nicole answers from within the depths of her straining soul, "no, I earned this."

Kara talks a bunch of shit, but it's kinda sad, because you realize she's not really good at it, and then you just want her to stop and just go cry in the corner some where the cameras can't see her. At one point she says Nicole has the social graces of a fetus, and I kinda want to write her a letter on behalf of fetuses everywhere.

Then Jay Manuel, apparently recreating every Top Model fantasy he's ever had in the last 12 cycles, dresses the girls up like Street Fighter characters and puts them in wire harnesses. No fighting each other, which is too bad. Anyone else want to offer an opinion on why Laura was the only one not to choose a sword? I mean, it was a toss up, but I think Laura maybe was better than Nicole. Kara fell apart, and took pictures like a wooden doll, or a five year old. Then she gets sent home, and I wonder where Sundai will gravitate next? She's like the golden apple rolling among goddess sandals.

On Glee, music numbers weren't so hot. There was one funny line, but I can't remember what it was. Eh.

Okay, I was good, I waited. BUT WHAT THE FUCK WAS PADMA WEARING? I'm serious. I remember trying to sew clothes for my Barbie when I was 8, and I kinda feel like someone in the wardrobe department is doing that to Padma. Fringe and giant white pleather gold belt. Oh god. And that suit in the second half? Like she was a Korean missionary's wife in cast-offs.

(listening to the Decemberists makes me remember that no one will ever love me because I don't have green eyes.)

Okay, so it was Ely's turn around the editing table. We learn that all his problems with Robin stem from his passive aggressive relationship with his Jewish mother. Who he still lives with. There's a Quickfire that is less than memorable. Jennifer is all freaked out because she overcooks her pork chops, whatever lady, relax, I love you more than I ever did Stephanie. Kevin says something about being inspired by green bean casserole, which sounds horrible, and then it turns out his idea of inspiration is ACTUAL inspiration, because the dish bears no resemblance to that. He's so good. I mean, all four of them, Kevin, Jennifer, the Voltron brothers. They are just really fucking talented. I wish I could just watch them in their own show, competing against each other for eternity. Freeze them how they are now, in the glow of their youth and skill.

Some guy named Charles Palmer shows up, looking like either a mortgage banker or a cattle rancher. He likes to shoot boars and then leave them like presents for his chefs in his super nice restaurant, from which the Voltron Brothers sprung fully formed. He has the worst word pairing ever, and he's decided to use it as the name for his annual fundraiser " Pigs and Pinot". I hate that. On multiple repulsive levels. I hate that it's cute. I hate that it makes think of wine spilling like blood from a gutted animal. I hate that it makes me smell stained polo shirts and greasy chins. I hate listening to people talk about pinot.

Here are some words used by the chefs tonight to describe their pinot choices: cherry, vanilla, cola, hibiscus, root beer, citrus. So basically it sounds like pinot noir is the Dr. Pepper of wines.

The challenge is to get assigned a pig part, and then pair your dish with a pinot, and serve it at a tasting populated by what you imagine populates every wine tasting EVER. Ely gets to wax pretentious about wine. Ash does what Ash knows he shouldn't do, and takes a dish suggestion from Mike Douche. Who makes a chilled pork loin, first of all. That sounds disgusting, the very words remind me of chicken salad. It leaves the same taste in my mind. Laurine makes something that the woman from Food and Wine describes as "cat food". Robin sucks, like always.

But it's Ash's chilled pork loin that gets him sent home, doomed by Padma's famous phrase "Did you taste your dish?" I swear, they should make that the new Top Chef tagline.

Oh, and winner's circle? Guess.

Wait, did I forget to mention where Mike V makes fun of Ely for his constant shit talking of Robin by adding "and then he slept with her" to everything? That was fantastic. Ely is like, 12.

And Mike Douche has an eyeball tattooed on his hand? Presumably so he can get a closer view of himself...nevermind, that's inappropriate.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The longest word in the english language you can make out of my name is "blathering"

Some random things...

1)We went to St. Luke's again Sunday. No, really, we woke up at like 7 and got batteries for the flashlights, and we were all super charged and stuff. It was mega cool. It was super mega cool. We found the scariest rape room in all of Cleveland. And you will see those pictures someday. After Flickr stops taking it's sweet ass time loading those pictures. I've been trying to load them for 48 hours now. 48 hours for 155 pictures is redonkalous. Oh, and I'm bringing that back.

2) The Saturday before, Alli and I were going to try and see Capitalism: A Love Story. But I was late, and we missed it. Oh capitalism, guess I don't love you that much. So instead we went to Collinwood to look at some artsy stuff. I bought a picture, and Alli made Sasha over at Waterloo Cafe try and steam some Baileys for her espresso. I wanted to try and get a copy of the new Pink Eye Magazine, so I could look at my shit in there, but we got drunk too fast and couldn't wait out its arrival. So we headed back to Prosperity and had dinner, drank some more. Two mandolin players showed up, and a couple of drunk guys jigged. A pitfall to getting drunk with Alli (no, there are no pitfalls, not really) is that her mom and my mom hang out and get drunk too. Also, both of us laugh like our mothers. So here we are, 30, drinking alcoholic coffee drinks in a woodlined bar with a bunch of older people in nice coats, laughing like our mothers and tapping our feet to fucking mandolins, and it just all kind of hits you at once. But it hits you, kisses you on the forehead, and then runs away giggling. You get old, after all. I mean, you do. I don't.

Afterwards, we met up with some people at Tina's, which is a place I'm pretty sure doesn't exist except when you're looking for it. And even that is sketchy. I saw some guys I hadn't seen in a while, and Nikki from the Exchange sang a great version of Journey, which means of course that the entire bar sang a great version of Journey, and we stayed out way later than we had meant to, given our 7 am appointment (see above). There was a guy named Bob, who had a beer holder made of a bobcat head. Simultaneously really cool and really reprehensible. On the way home, I put on that Calvin Harris album I was so unimpressed by the first time I listened to it. And it turns out that Calvin Harris is specifically for driving home at 2 am from the karoake bar, otherwise it totally sucks. How come no one told me this?

3)It happened today. The flu season's first analysis of the word "pandemic". Pandemic and I have hated each other ever since I watched the dvd special features interviews of 28 Days Later. PANDEMIC PANDEMIC PANDEMIC. Until you are all dying of smallpox, I don't want to hear that word ever again. My mother talked me into signing up for a flu shot this year. Last year, I was sick all winter from that shot. I told my mother if it happens again, she's paying my sick leave. She doesn't care, she's a nurse. Nurses have no pity.

4)If you haven't seen it already, go watch the Daily Show segment from last night where John Oliver calls CNN a bunch of...well go watch it.

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c
CNN Leaves It There
Daily Show
Full Episodes
Political HumorRon Paul Interview

5) I really have to sit and write these Halloween stories. I'll do it this weekend, I promise. I mean, I'm all out of Angel episodes on my DVR, so I have time now. I don't know what I will write them about, but I'm sure enough alcohol can fix that. I don't believe in ghosts, or supernatural stuff, or anything that makes up a good ghost story. I don't even really believe in good ghost stories. Making up stuff about dead people wandering around lost between worlds seems to be overly sentimental and trite, unless you are talking about zombies which is okay, or god-killing metaphors for Adam and Eve, which is also okay. But ghosts are always sad, or angry and sad, or confused and sad. Be careful what you're projecting about yourself, ghosthunters. I think it would be amusing to make a film about a group of donkey ghosthunters. I imagine it would play pretty much normal. Oh no, the flashlight moved! Bray Bray Bray!

6) They Might Be Giants - this Thursday. Haunted House friday. Pumpkin carving Saturday? Apple picking Sunday. No, not really. Fuck apple picking this year. It's going to be Christmas before I get to make a decent apple pie. I would like to pretend I'll be doing lots of cooking in the next few weeks, but quite frankly, I haven't done my dishes in a month. If, by some miracle, I do actually get them done, I don't think I need to be creating anymore. Ever again. I think I will learn to eat with my hands and cook everything in the toaster oven on foil. Eventually I will start only wearing foil, and sleeping on foil. I will go blind from the shininess.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Wednesday TV Recap: Because, really, you need one. You just don't know it.

ANTM: Ding Dong the Witch is Dead

I wonder exactly how many male Tyra Banks impersonators there are? Really? A Google search of that phrase turned up a 2007 call by the Tyra Banks Show for Tyra impersonators. Funny.

One of the wonderful things about watching reality TV like this is really getting to know the deviousness of editors. Seriously, I would have ethical doubts about dating one. But the wonderful "ah-ha" feeling when the whole episode comes to its thrilling conclusion with a TWIST, it's unbeatable. We had a moment like that last night, when we realized that all along they had been priming Kara to take Ashley's place. You always guess that the one who gets the most airtime is going to be eliminated, but this time, oh my gosh, they were practically equals! And then they were both in the bottom two! TWIST.

I really think a reality show editor would take his grandmothers death at her 90th birthday to compose a stunning shocking expose on the perils of inheritance taxes.

(I hate that this Raconteurs song starts off sounding like the Pixies. Then it becomes whiny and yucky. It's like starting to eat an ice cream cone, and finding out it's actually creamy sardines.)

So Kara, being primed for her destiny as Queen of Trashy Indiana, talks all sorts of shit. And Ashley, the Dancing Queen Who Can't Dance, talks some more shit. Then there's this dance challenge, where a bunch of serial killers send a message through pops and locks, that message being "Please, do something worthwhile and artistic with your life." The girls have to create a dance in trios, like little witches, to express three emotions, or they are told they will be turned into Serial Killers too, with Mr. Jay's Fancy Little Permanent Mask Machine. Ashley gets paired with Mena Suvari and Nicole the Awkward, and oh by the way, SHE'S A DANCE TEACHER. But Kara watched her older sister perform nightly at the Silver Fox Lounge in Indianapolis, and works that shit out.

Nicole complains about how she can't change the inflection in her voice. Um. Yes, you can. It's actually one of those things most people can do. Look, I can change the fucking inflections on a keyboard. You can be bothered to put a little effort in that.

Kara asks if she can do a cartwheel? Everyone gets really happy,

Ashley's team loses, because in fact she forgot she taught gym class for kindergartners, not dance. Duh. Ashley's actual charm is in her complete denial of her flaws. She goes back to the house, faced with her incompetence, and immediately lets more shit leak out of her dark organless void, like oil down the back of a poisoned otter floating face down.

Then it's off to Cirque De Soleil, so Jay Manual can play out his fantasy of floating away on a cotillion of beautiful red balloons, never to return. The girls are dressed up like Sarah from The Labyrinth, and then fed slowly one by one to the Giant Snail that is Michael Rosenthal's photographic genius. Laura is so excited to be wearing a sparkly dress, she spontaneously becomes the girl you always wish you saw in the mirror before going to club. It's beautiful. That photo shoot changed her life.

And in the end it changed us all. Because stupid Ashley goes home, and Kara accepts the thorny crown. Nothing will ever be the same. Also, I find it depressing that I can create a Pandora station based off Franz Ferdinand, and they can't play a single song I don't know all the words too. Also, it makes total sense it would be mostly Cake. I can't believe I never saw that before.

On Glee, a bunch of kids get high on over the counter drugs and Dance Their Fucking Asses Off While Being Awesome.

Miracle of all Miracles, there was actually a new Top Chef on. Oh wait, I forgot to mention. How horrible is that new end song ANTM plays when the loser if packing up? Gawd that's bad. Anyway, new Top Chef.

At first there's sadness. Jennifer is sick, and it's like watching a race horse stumble, wondering if it will get shot. The first quickfire, she ends up in the bottom. But to be fair, it was Tyler Florence and a slot machine, so maybe her innate culinary genius wouldn't let her succeed. The contestants had to get three random words (it's a game of threes tonight people), and from that, create some dish over-seasoned enough for even a Food Network star to like. Ashley gets the combination Blue Cheesy Middle Eastern, which she somehow fucking pulls off by making a feta pudding. Robin makes a curry, and calls it Umami Middle Eastern, which is hilarious when Padma Lakshmi, our Indian hostess, points out curry is not Middle Eastern. BURN. Kevin wins and gets a choice to get immunity or lots of money. Of course he picks the money, BECAUSE HE MADE BACON JAM ONCE MOTHERFUCKERS. He doesn't come out and say "shit, Robin and Laurine are still here, I got time", but hey, we know he knew it.

Oh, and apparently, umami means mushrooms, not MSG like I thought. My bad.

Did you know there is something called the Macy's Culinary Council? You know those Macy's commercials where all those stupid celebrities are pimping their shit, and Martha Stewart controls the table settings like that scene in Sleeping Beauty with the dishes, or the mice making the dress in Cinderella? I imagine that Martha is the head of this Culinary Cabal, and that they really do meet at midnight in the kitchen wares sections, deciding the fate of every organic farm on the West Coast.

Anyway, these douchebags (you heard me Nancy Silverton, imagine letting Tyler Florence speak for you! The shame.) all give bags of ingredients to our paired up partners, and they have to cook family style dinners, just like in that commercial!

Jennifer and Kevin get paired, and when they touch, rainbows spring from their fingers. They also get the bag with Kobe beef, and the whole house explodes in a miasma of joy and balance, universal culinary harmony heralding the golden dawn of the playful chef! Tom Colicchio morphs into a silver sparkly unicorn, and bounds away, free of his chains, into the Las Vegas sunset.

Mike I. gets paired with Robin, and and proves the golden rule of meatheads. They are always more stupid and crass and obnoxious then you really can guess. You think you can hang with one for a few days, get drunk, be a little slutty, they're not so bad. WRONG. They totally are. At one point, Mike is running for the kitchen and falls flat on his face. I suspect that will someday sum up his entire life.

While the "dinner guests" sit at their table, all casual and shit, Tyler casually delivers an impromptu memorized press release for Macy's, and Toby Young give him a look that would, if he had any, cut off his balls.

So let's see, Jennifer and Kevin automatically win right? Right.
Mike I., despite his supreme ballsack impression, manages to pull off some decent Asian thing.
Bryan V. makes his halibut polenta thing pretty well.
Mike V. has his power go out while cooking his halibut, and the fish gets overcooked. He might have been screwed, if Ash hadn't admitted he was just his sous chef the whole time, and talked about what a fucking genius he was, giving Mike V. the judge's pity vote. Tyler says something stupid about how chefs have to cook in lots of inconvenient places, so that's no excuse blah blah. Listen, unless you've been giving cooking lessons in the Sudan? Shut the Fuck Up.

Oh, but Ashley and Ely. Ely, as far as I can tell, does nothing in this entire episode except oversalt the damn gnocchi. But does Ashley give him up? Does she scream at the judges "this oversized 12 yr old ruined my dish, which I created entirely because he's incapable of doing anything except jerking off to ironic reruns of Baywatch?" No. No she doesn't. And because in the end Ashley showed herself to be a true professional, she was sent home. Good bye Ashley. I totally underestimated you in the beginning, and for that, and some other things, I apologize.

My favorite commercial of the moment:

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Things That Are Mostly True About Ann Arbor

1. To get into Ann Arbor, approaching from 75 North, you must pass the Dual Blind Swamis. They will ask you three questions. One will be about how much pickle you can fit in your mouth. Then the one with the beard will spank you, and let you pass peacefully. Do not resist, this is a time honored Michigan tradition.

2. Inside the pearly gates, Ann Arbor is an intricate maze of dark forbidden alleyways, ripped from screen shots of Xanadu and The Warriors. You can smell the burnt Starbucks in the air, along with the hopes and dreams of many lost Death Cab for Cutie fans.

3. Everyone in Ann Arbor is, or owns, a robot.

4. When eating in Ann Arbor, it is important to remember that your robot friends can only consume motor oil Yeager Bombs and English muffins. They were built this way to prevent their scourge from spreading across the Midwest, something you should be fucking grateful for, Indiana. Also, your robot may turn invisible at inconvenient times, like when you are trying to take their picture.

5. The Ann Arbor City Council. Councilman Chicken has been brought up on corruption charges, but has denied all wrong doing. When their terms are over, many councilmen find good homes in the rural farms surrounding their metropolis, and are in particular demand around hay ride season. Or the Pagan New Year.

6. The UM alumni president is cute and furry, and zealously opposed to bringing a Taco Bell on campus. Because of the tomato issue. Aww, look how fuzzy wuzzy UM Alumni are! Their degrees give them mega cuteness! (note, stay away from this llama after 7 PBRs, or he will tell you all about the book he's writing, a autobiographical biography, and the cuteness will give way to a void of condescension and developing beer belly rubbing.)

7. Outside Ann Arbor, in a haven called Holly, lives a small community of Luddites, who reject the city's robot-friendly policy, and live on the edge of a swamp with no electricity or heat. Though they have plenty of jerky, mead, and smallpox.

8. They arm themselves with small digit-eating demons that double as footstools. (Chris, this picture is here just for you man.)

9. Holly is run by a giant wishing turtle, that carries a replica of the Earth on its back, and will predict your future for a small sacrifice. A toddler, perhaps. Nothing older than 3rd grade though, they get tough, and the turtle's teeth are old.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Someday Soon I will have a real post up here

But until then, go read what I would do with you if you (to you, for you, whatever) came to visit me at Really Bad Cleveland Accent.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Wednesday TV Roundup: "Much like the internet has made tv a dinosaur, so my DVR renders time irrelevant."

Let me tell you how having a DVR has changed my life.

1. TNT shows two episodes of Angel every morning at 6 and 7am. I get to have two episodes waiting for me every day! Hopefully someday soon I will get sick of this show!

2. I can do other things on Wednesdays! I haven’t yet, but I can!

3. I’m recording the whole National Parks Ken Burns thing, so I can watch it all one weekend. I can watch ditzy shows and meaningful shows without having to choose between the two!

4. I’m pretty sure the box is sending messages to my brain allowing me to eventually be able to watch TV broadcasts in my head! It’s a slow process, but it’s worth it!

I watch so much TV, it’s nice to have the option to make it good TV, instead of just whatever is on. No more stupid cake shows or reruns of Criminal Minds. I suspect it will cut down my TV habit eventually, but this week is cold and rainy, and I’m broke, so cable is my significant other.

However, you know what DVR doesn’t do for me? Generate new Top Chef episodes. WTF Bravo?

So no Top Chef, it’s sad. And ANTM was disappointing because Ashley stayed, and she is an evil drama theatre reject with serious social ineptitude and an entitlement complex. See, I don’t like reality shows because of the contestant drama and general cad-like behaviors. I only like looking at pretty pictures and pretty foods, hearing the soothing controlled craziness of Tyra or the pointed subtle criticism of a cheese choice by Tom. The more stupid cat-fighting moronic shit you throw at me, the less likely I am to watch or care. Ashley spent the first 20 minutes of that episode complaining about how much in pain she was from being pushed aside by Mena Suvari in the Walmart race (by the way, I just read some thing where a weird section of America voted Walmart our national symbol. Nice. Way to stay classy.) She reminded me of a wolf playing injured to suck the sheep into her vacuum darkness. The worst part is that Tyra will keep her because Tyra found her, and she’s her special pet, much like Football Head last season. So this stupid childish pretend adult might actually win. Also, Ashley was found in the audience of Tyra's daytime talk show. WHICH SHOULD TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT HER.

Tyra put on her Dharma suit, and played at saving the world through photography. Nicole had the best picture I think, but Britany won, and Britany’s was pretty good too, so whatever. Bianca was sent home to learn how to be a confident, self-assured woman who’s not scared of her own shadow or boyfriends or other meaner girls. Which is probably best for her, though a modeling contract might not have hurt that? That silly Asian girl with the dead eyelid found her true calling; turns out people like to hear her scream. And then Glee came on, and Kristin Chenoweth wiped clean my memories of sordid dark eyed Ashley.

Not the most riveting Wednesday night, but that’s why I have Community and Always Sunny episodes saved.

Lastly: I hate Seinfeld. I always have. But I love Always Sunny, which is basically Seinfeld. Why do I like one lots and hate the other? Probably because I hang out with the wrong sort of people. Oh, and also because it’s way funnier. Burn.