Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
I know, I know the sun is hot
Saturday, November 22, 2008
O Garnier Lisa
Thy slightly bemused face shines out
From under gently cocooning flatironed tresses
Of Macadamia # 90
Without thy cornflower blue eyes
And thy Nearly Nude lips apainted
How would I find the searing chemicals I require
To make my own locks this Light Natural Blonde
Not too light yet not too dark
Among the myriad types at Walgreen's
Or at CVS?
Truly, I pray,
N'er shall come the day
When Garnier finds you too 2006
And updates yours
To some other visage, strange and unfamiliar
Causing me to hunt and scrabble, dark roots overlong,
Perhaps finding nothing.
p.s. I have so missed you all. I have been sucked into the dark, yet delicious underworld of the MMORPG, job changes, and finishing up a master's degree. They have sapped me, yet I hope to restore my blogging work to its former glory soon (probably not much of a stretch....). Kisses!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Monday, September 08, 2008
And, more importantly, is she a dominatrix? What do y'all think?
Whenever I fail to revise or begin
The tang of her leather falls across my skin
Whenever I succumb to procrastination
She provides me with vexing inspiration
Repeated lessons in being humble
Smart yet again as I continue to bumble
Shuffling my way across this earth
She delights in the torture of excessive girth
As dogs eat dogs and barracudas shred
Creative thoughts flow through my head
To gain new power the antiquated hag
Shoves down my throat introversion’s gag
An abyss of deep feeling imprisons me
Chained among careless society
My heart’s lifeblood flowing down to the floor
She ties my feet in my mouth and slams the door
If of seeing the sun I begin to dream
She lassos round my self-esteem
She won’t permit a lick of pride
Preferring my tongue on her heeled boot’s stride
Though I might be gifted on one side of the score
There’s a downside that amuses that sadistic whore
‘Til the day I die, from the day I was born
Has dug nonconformity’s spiky thorns
For my own good, she will declare
Down through the ages’ dusty air
“Let infinite punishment on her rain!
Eternal beauty is born of pain.”
"My plug-in baby /crucifies my enemies / when I'm tired of giving."
-- Bellamy, Wolstenholme, Howard
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
SCENE: Standing in line at Walgreen's with a Take Five candy bar and a box of Garnier Nutrisse Hair Color, Macadamia #90, in my hands, behind a lady who had only a magazine.
PLAYERS: Cashier, The Lady In Front of Me, Me
(As the scene opens, Cashier rings up the magazine...)
CASHIER: Ok, one magazine (patronizingly)... Can I interest you in a Snickers bar today?
TLIFOM: Umm, well ok, I guess. I'm going to the hospital. (She takes 3 Snickers bars from the Cashier.)
CASHIER: Great, because when you're hungry, why wait?
ME: (stifled, unbelieving snickers) (not the candy bar, the giggles)
CASHIER: (eyes me with slightly slitted eyes, addresses TLIFOM) Thank you, come back.
CASHIER: (to me) Hi, how's it going? (rings up candy bar and hair color) Can I interest you in a Snickers bar today?
"We are now accepting callers for these beautiful pendant keychains."
-- J. McCrea, et. al.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
The year was probably 1983. I, a 13-year-old rocker (or "freak" as we were known at my place of schooling), with frosted hair combed and sprayed into wings and a quarter inch of black liner beneath each eye, shuffled through the Target checkout line after my mom, who was likely slightly blitzed at the time. She paid for her stuff and I somewhat boldly but with no small amount of trepidation placed Ozzy Osbourne's "Diary of a Madman" LP (shown) onto the familiar red counter, fully prepared to pay all my week's babysitting wages for the thing. The checkout girl, who was probably only a few years older than me but considerably more mainstream in her level of conformity gawked at the tattered, blood-spattered Englishman on the cover, then at me, then at my mom, all in disgust. A sense of delicious rebellion flooded through me, multiplying with every second she disliked the album, and myself for buying it.
A short time later, my father (who may well have been on the doob that fine day) offered to get me something I wanted at the mall. Passing up the clothes and makeup, I went right for Motley Crue's "Shout at the Devil" album, which sported a simple matte black cover, undecorated except for the red lettering of the band's name and an inverted pentagram, done in a shiny clear coat so that it was invisible unless you tilted the cover just right. My father noticed that, but didn't stop me from buying it. It may not have been good parenting, but it certainly fueled my young musical fire.
Both of these albums had, at least as a theatrical ingredient, the presence and possibility of devil worship behind and within them. Count the sinister elements on that DoaM cover: inverted cross, insane kid, dead ravens, black cats, red candles, some evil spell in a runic hand posted on the wall, spiderwebs, bloodstained Englishmen... and the list goes on. Now, we look at this and find it ridiculous, but back then, particularly in the Bible Belt burbs, there was a suspicion that it might actually be real. These musicians might actually be in league with the devil, and if you listened, you might be too. It was something akin to the creeping suspicion you feel on Halloween night as a kid. That's probably a shadow, but if I linger here, it will turn into a vampire.
Of course, I took a typically teenage position of justifying this possible alliance with dark forces as not really all that bad. Motley Crue were saying, "Shout AT the Devil" not shout WITH him, and Ozzy's upside-down crosses were, um, well.... ok, I didn't have a good justification for that. I did attend an Ozzy show where a church group demonstrated with a giant cross outside and picketed the place. Can't say as it made me change my evil rock 'n' roll listening ways, though. I seem to recall shouting back at them as we passed.
Though there's even more insidious music and stage shows going on now (i.e. Marilyn Manson parading in tits and creepy contacts, and bands like Cradle of Filth making videos for their atonal wailings that leave a taste like dead flies in your mouth and Cookie Monster-like vocals ringing in your ears), no one thinks twice about accusing them of actual worship of Satan. Hell, Tenacious D have even made a career out of demon nostalgia.
The question is, were we paranoid then, or oblivious now? Satan could still be walking amongst us, propping up Justin Timberlake's career with no one being the wiser. Why? Just because we've stopped paying attention to him.
"Clap your fuckin' hands!!!" -- O. Osbourne
Thursday, August 14, 2008
My apologies for reposting, Bride of Porkins, but it's just too perfect.
Be on the lookout for Jackie Chan.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Yesterday I was attending a women's expo. I was dressed nicely, in a fuschia Lane Bryant work top, ruched at strategic points, with cute, short black skirt. I even had my dollar store hair clip updo rocking, and was hustling and bustling around in a couple of different capacities, professional and personal.
As I re-enter the exhibit hall, an Asian lady at the acupuncture booth forces the pictured flyer into my hand, though I was walking at a speed calculated to deter flyers being given to me.
A bit later, I was looking around at a jewelry booth, and saw some bracelets that I thought my (thin) sister would like. The saleslady quickly pointed out the extended size bracelets to me, though, in case the regular sized ones didn't fit (which generally, they do).
People who aren't fat do not have any clue how persistent, how pervasive, the consciousness of your own size is in the life of people who are. I suppose I should forgive them for that, as well as their bold attempts to help me solve my problem. At least my most deep-seated failing is visible, however, and that is in some measure honest.
What's yours, thin people?
p.s. I later went roller skating for two hours at my niece's birthday party, far beyond many people who were half my size. So that's gotta count for something.
"Nobody's fault but mine." - Page, Plant, et. al.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Anyway, it was my first foray into this hot, dry state, so I present you with a review. It's not balanced nor fair, since I didn't visit every square mile, but I did hit some of the high points and it is written in the hit and run style that we love so much today.
**NOTE: Some "pissy" things are not the fault of the state of Arizona, but they were pissy nonetheless.
THE GRAND CANYON
-Frickin awesome big hole in the ground
-Watching an IMAX movie before you get there so you know what you're actually looking at
-Totally inspired my somewhat fear of heights whilst hiking along the sidewalk at the parts where there is no fencing
-My dumbass camera decided to break on the way.
-I didn't get to actually go down inside the canyon and go river rafting. Apparently that is far more complicated than I thought, and involves mules.
-People throw coins in, which probably chokes gila monsters.
-Not actually seeing any gila monsters.
-A fairly navigable, not too huge airport
-Swimmin' pools and hot tubs
-Watching Andrea Bocelli for an hour on the super HDTV in the model homes of a gated community
-Fake grass that looked real, and no one has real grass
-Everything, EVERYTHING, is in "desert colors"
-Target had a Canon camera on sale, but it was out of stock.
-Plowing over a maverick goat on the way back to the airport (Ok, that was sad, not pissy, but thankfully I wasn't driving. I would've stopped at least. Jeez.)
-My relatives are getting on in years and do not enjoy eating as much as I do; therefore it was kind of like cold turkey fat loss week for me.
-Not having my own vehicle, much internet access, or privacy, and therefore feeling like I was 13 years old again.
-Well, I saw it.
-It's a road. The ghost of Jack Kerouac did not speak to me or anything, and I wouldn't have enjoyed it if he had.
-Nestled in a circular arrangement of beautiful red mountains, set off by green ponderosa pines
-Churches built into mountainsides
-Spectacular drives on the way there, whereupon the hidden dwellings of the very rich could be seen on winding mountain paths
-Dazzling art galleries and quaint shops all over
-Tasty local beer
-Of course, it's touristy and pretentious
-Not being as rich as those people I saw sitting on their wooded back decks
-Not going to said art galleries or quaint shops because I was trapped by relatives on fixed incomes with less sense of adventure than I
-Lots of walking on steep mountain grades, in the heat, at high altitudes
-Only drinking one glass of tasty local beer
JEROME (A former mining town way up in the mountains)
-Deadwood-esque, and more interesting than I suspected
-Lots of the town parts from the 1800s are still there (such as a hotel with no walls)
-Some Arizonan asking me if Texas looked like it looks up there (for the record, only in some places... Dallas? No.)
-Getting caught in a thunderstorm in the middle of the desert, in the summertime
-Lots of walking, in the heat, on steep grades
-Rude waitresses and fajitas containing no grilled onions whatsoever
SAGUARO NATIONAL PARK
-Giant, 20 foot tall cartoon ass cactuses! All over the damn place!
-You expect Wiley E. Coyote to drop in at any time
-The tour guide was actually friendly and the tram tour was cheap
-Not losing a shoe off the edge of the tram
-They rushed me out of the bathroom when, fuck, it's the desert in July and there isn't going to be a run on tours this time of year.
-Some kid got attacked and bitten by a roving wild javelina. The local news reported that "it is suspected that the javelina has left the area," leaving me to wonder how exactly they would identify said javelina, and why they thought it might return to the scene of the crime.
-Almost losing a shoe (and perhaps my life in trying to retrieve it with my toes) off the edge of the tram
-It was somewhat hidden and creepily empty at midday
-Walking about unquestioned
-Felt like walking into a Choose Your Own Adventure book
-Pauly Shore doesn't actually reside there
-Not finding evidence of vast government or corporate conspiracy
-It was hot.
THE INTERNATIONAL WILDLIFE MUSEUM
-Got some great pictures of animal skulls for later student study
-It's full of way dead animals.
MISSION SAN XAVIER DEL BAC
-It's the "Sistine Chapel of the New World" -- and it did remind me of the European cathedrals I saw
-Friendly mission dogs who let me pet them a bunch of times
-Native American fry bread stalls
-Not actually eating any fry bread
So there you go, folks. Now you may or may not want to visit.
"Standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona..." -- Frey, Henley, et. al.
Monday, June 23, 2008
George Carlin is gone. I trained my comedic chops at the heels of this record (which was actually my brother's, but I played when he wasn't there to pound me). Some of its sweetly bitter sarcasm and incisive wit will remain lodged in my consciousness until I follow along into the great beyond.
May cynical cherubs fly thee to thy rest, sir.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Someday you will find me...Caught beneath the landslide... -- L. Gallagher
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
This is just a tiny sample of the hours of guffawing you will experience if you visit its origin, www.nataliedee.com.
I was told that it was suspected by some that I had done it. I don't believe that, because Natalie is much funnier than me. Personally, I can't wait for the store to open, open, open. Check her out!!
Friday, June 13, 2008
(I should change the name of this blog to "Confessions and Obsessions of a Food-Obsessed Fat Chick".... really I should.)
Ok never mind that people, it's summatime, summatime, sum, sum, summatime and I have got to lay on you the science of finding, dispensing, and drinking the purrfect Slurpee!
HUNTING -- In Search of Slurp
First off, if you are trying to get real Slurpee goodness at anywhere other than a 7-11 store, please.... see your way out of that sham distributing establishment posthaste. I say this in all seriousness. Drive to another state or board an airplane if needed, friend. Icee? Too airy. Chilly Willee? Too gritty. Slush Puppie? Too syrupy. No, if you really want to experience the cola-fueled tongue trip that IS Slurpee, you have to go for the real thing. Oh, and the flavor you want is COKE. Not Mountain Sweat Mop Water or Blueberry Bison Backwash. None of that.
JERKING -- Tougher than at the Junior Prom
You may think that, having found a 7-11 and made the decision to stick with COKE flavor, that the rest is easy. Not so, padawan. You still have miles to go before you drink.
When you get inside the 7-11, you must slip past the entry door, tossing a quick "hi" to the person jockeying the register and who in possible likelihood is gawking at your pale, corn-fed American cleavage, forgetting this uncouthness so that you may adhere to the objective: frosty, sinus-freezing nirvana. You must brush past the paint-spattered construction man and the tobacco-stained midday hipster and the gruff, flannel-clad bearded guy and the upwardly mobile suburban yuptype ever so lightly, your gaze finally falling upon that row of churning cylinders. If no "out of order" sign or flashing red button (indicating an "unSlurpified" mixture) is seen, check "Obstacle 1" successfully off of your mental list.
The second step is to do a physical jerk check for Slurpee readiness yourself. Yes. It can happen. There can be premature Slurpage without any sign, without any flashing red indicator. It is horrifying, but fail to do the physical jerk check and end up with a glossy plastic cup filled with brown liquid and unmelded snowy stuff in the middle. This is Slurpee in its larval form -- not yet ready for consumption. Should you do the physical jerk check and find this disappointing mix spewing from the nozzle, walk away. Go a few blocks to another 7-11 ONLY if you have the spiritual endurance to face the possibility that, in the high summer, it might happen twice or thrice in the same day.
What is the physical jerk check? It is the act of stepping up to the machine, gripping the black-handled lever and slowly dispensing a dollop of Slurpee mixture before getting a cup. Watch the puddle -- if it turns from dark to the delicious caramel hue of a Coke-flavored snowball, then you may proceed. Grab a cup (bitch please, not the small or medium -- large or above!), slap on a domed top so that you can dispense an extra ounce or so of snowy perfection, line up the hole and jerk again, slowly, steadily, watching the -- how can it be! Coke that is snow! -- thick liquid fill the cup to the top, changing color as it goes. Fill almost to the top, leaving about a 1-inch gap (or no gap if you're willing to be seen standing in front of the Slurpee machine lapping up what gushes out). Stick in a long spoonstraw and you're ready to saddle up.
CONSUMING -- Kids, do not jar.
So after hustling to the counter, swiping your dirty lil' debit card as quickly as you can and pushing through the exit door, you are free to enjoy your Slurpee unfettered within the confines of your car, Weezer up at full force as you speed back to the main thoroughfare. But careful, son! Take small sips or experience what freezing to death feels like, only confined to the insides of your skull cavity. Once you get down to the midpoint, remove the cupola (ha,ha!) so that you can stir as you suck the liquid part out to reblend as you go. Alternatively, you can use the spoon end of the straw to scrape the tiny snowpeaks off and eat them free of cola flavor, or stir and stick it down into the Slurpee, placing your finger at the other open end so that you can raise up a column of snowy Coke into the air and drop it onto your tongue.
Yes, only a lifetime of Slurpee consumption can provide you with the ultimate experience. I have saved you that research. You're welcome.
THE PHYSICS -- How does Slurpee work?
Well, I don't know. It could be spun from dark forces. (If it is, I don't wanna know, because I'd be hard pressed to stop consuming them.)
TRICKING YOUR SLURP (only for advanced fans)
You will find that the addition of some impossibly salty or hot chip item will delight your brain with its incongruous flipping between frozen Coke and salty tongue rasping or frozen Coke and fiery, crispy, potato crunches. I recommend a nice '08 bag of Munchos or Cheetos Flamin' Hot Fries. In a pinch, Al Capp's Hot Fries can stand in, but they aren't nearly as lovely.
Follow my advice and icy goodness shall be seen upon your refreshed, hydrated visage.
Happy Slurpee Summer!
Out of gas
Out of road
Out of car, I don't know how I'm going to go
and I had a drink the other day
Opinions were like kittens I was giving them away -- Modest Mouse
Monday, June 09, 2008
Oysters in Cottonseed Oil -- because nothing piques one's culinary delight quite like grayish fish flesh tinned in industrial lubricant.
Del Monte DILL -- Far too pale and estranged from their state of origin to serve such a function, at least these DILLS know the value of education and plan to attend jr. college.
Arkona Herring Fillets - As Opus knows, a little paprika sauce makes herring "pop."
Saturday, June 07, 2008
School let out this past week, and thus the summer has truly begun. (FUUUCK YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.)
As a celebration of that, the first watermelon for personal use was purchased a few days ago, and I spent a chunk of the morning helping it slip its mortal coil so that I could devour it.
Despite its anemic appearance, it has the requisite hollow sound when tapped and tasted appropriately sweet (although it will likely not be a contender for Best Watermelon of the Summer). While shoveling it into my waiting cakehole, I thought it might be amusing to start writing about Crazy Summer Thingstm -- aka, things I only do because it's summertime. One of those things is eating watermelon after watermelon, just because I can.
Resolved, I shall begin tracking summer watermelon consumption in the following ways:
- TNW - Total number of watermelons consumed alone
- DN - Days Needed to consume each melon completely
- WDR - Watermelon Deliciousness Rating (to include color, texture and sweetness)
Monday, June 02, 2008
Left the drinkable yogurt on the sink today,
Came back from work and found bacilli astray.
Twista-haler sprayed powder 2 days later,
Lucky, pharma-girl was a considerate trader.
Check engine lite came on cuz the gas cap was loose,
Service open 'til 7 but only 5 for Prius.
Only 2 trained techs for that rarified bird,
Come back Saturday you hybrid drivin' nerd.
Mind's all confuddled with the brand new pills,
My high blood pressure never gave me these ills.
"Last night what we talked about
It made so much sense
But now the haze has ascended
It don't make no sense anymore." -- Arctic Monkeys
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Swearingen: "You ever been beaten, Merrick?"
Merrick: "Once, when I thought I had the smallpox, Doc Cochran..."
Swearingen: "Are you dead? Pain, or damage, don't end the world. Or despair, or fuckin' beatin's. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man, and give some back."
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
So quickly, and yet an eternity
Before something new began.
Sadness lingers like Chopin's fingers
Ghostly upon the keys
Playing notes I cherish
But which echo impossibilities.
And now a newish melody
Distantly enters my heart
At this distance I can't be sure,
But it sounds more like Mozart.
Though I have broken with the past
And want to begin anew
My wittily pirouetting soul still fears
Being messily sawn in two.
"I couldn't sleep at all last night..." Bobby Lewis (1961)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
and all a-muddled, so entrenched in a puddle of your own morning stupor that you go three miles east when half a mile west was the required span,
And in east Dallas, down in the grove you drove and drove
Turning and turning to find your way back to the hackensack street
That you somehow went past in your lack of directional aptitude.
Finally back on track, not intending to slack
but time keeps on slippin', your lid is flippin' thinkin' of how an H street
Can turn into a B avenue in your mind's eye and in your eye's mind, even though you checked it time and another time, thinking it fine.
You can't turn left on the one way H so you make your way
down to another rue name of C, now you really gotta pee
but soldier on you must for in work we trust, even if only to pay the wage.
Cursing advancing age, you go past the churches and carnicerias, old ladies and all the taquerias down rue C until you can go back to the northness of H that you require, thankful not to burst a tire in all this poorly maintained pavement down here in the down part of town.
Finally pulling the waspmobile hybrid riceburner into the pothole pocked spot, you schlep your bulk along at a moderate hustle toward the hunk of metal and glass offering rent on the cheap to schooling institutions, shuffling on the cracked sidewalk where crabgrass grows jungle lush like untrimmed brush through the three inch gaps in grey, past the poorer folk than you on the other side of the street.
Finally you ease yourself through the glass and metal portal, slightly ajar, sign on the line, wave at the receptionist who used to work with you but doesn't anymore onto the elevator, surrounded in brown, taking a deep elevator air breath to brace for saving face when you are the latest, latest, latest one at the meeting.
"Turn it around, baby." -- 4 Strings
Monday, March 10, 2008
Sure, you know and I know that astrology is dumb. I know that I am risking being labeled as a DBB* for even posting this. But I still go here and check compatibility with people I'm interested in, just for fun alright??? I'm not saying I run my life by it, or that I read the daily newspaper horoscopes (I think those are made up and shite, incidentally -- oh, the irony). It's just fun, kind of like people watching. Predicting what will and won't be true. So I'm nosy and interested in people's characteristics.
It's not my fault really. My mom kept a stack of books of all sorts, but namely Linda Goodman's Sun Signs and a whole bunch of cheaper offshoots lying around. She read them, analyzed everyone we knew according to them, from my youth to my middle age, and passed her knowledge on to me. I studied with the diligence of an acolyte.
As for my dad, not only had he listened to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon countless times and taken my sister and I on a "spiritual journey" in the car on the way to Six Flags (clouds of fragrant smoke were involved.... musta been incense), but he became deeply involved in other consciousness-raising activities later on. He was also a devotee of Edgar Cayce and advised me in his last letter on earth that we are all on a journey to pay karmic debt (which I sometimes think is true).
How could they help it, though? My mother was a Cancer and my father a Scorpio, and everyone knows water signs are mystical.
* -- Dumb Bitch Blogger
(You can get those magnets at allposters.com by the way.)
"I've seen the needle and the damage done/A little part of it in everyone/But every junkie's like a setting sun..."
-- N. Young
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Hello and welcome to our mostly affiliated with a holiday except this time recipe feature.
Today's recipe is the creatively titled CHICKEN RICE-A-RONI DISH! It was one of the few surviving recipes that my mom made consistently over time. I have no idea where she got this recipe, but she did not make it in my childhood. She began making it in my teens I think.
Before she passed away, I had started to collect her recipes as she made them. Traditional Southern staples such as fried chicken or roast (she never called it pot roast -- it was just roast) were all cooked from her culinary knowledge and never written down. Foolishly, I thought that there was a treasure trove of eating goodness in her rooster-emblazoned recipe box, but I never checked and discovered later to my deep chagrin that it was mostly full of stuff I'd never eaten. This one, though less significant, managed to survive -- rather like a pair of fossilized chopsticks found on a hunt for Ming vases -- useful, but not the creme de la creme. Still, here it is.
CHICKEN RICE-A-RONI DISH!
You will need:
1 box chicken flavor Rice-a-Roni (use real butter in preparation)
4 chicken breasts
1 cup celery, chopped fine
6 green onions, chopped fine
1 jar marinated artichokes (tender parts only -- reserve 2 tbsp marinade)
1 small jar Hellmann's mayonnaise
Note: Best made a day ahead
Cook Rice-a-Roni according to package directions. After cooking, set aside to cool completely. When cool, transfer to a large mixing bowl. At the same time, cook chicken breasts (cover with water and 2 tsp salt -- water should be about 2 inches over chicken). Bring breasts to boil, then lower heat to avoid them getting tough. Large breasts can be cut into smaller pieces to reduce cooking time. When chicken is done, set aside to cool completely and cube.
Peel celery and chop fine, chop onions fine, cut up artichoke hearts. Add chopped chicken and all chopped vegetables to the Rice-a-Roni in the large bowl. Add mayonnaise and 2 tbsp of reserved artichoke marinade, stir together and season to taste with lemon pepper. Refrigerate an hour or more before serving. Delicious with sliced tomatoes and fresh French bread.
This is a great summer dish, but I made it in winter and it tasted just as good. Due to the high mayonnaise content, a serving size is probably 1/4 cup but that didn't stop me from eating a whole cereal bowl full just now. If you do have tomatoes on the side, sprinkle some lemon pepper on the top for an extra taste sensation. Enjoy!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
While I was thinking about making a post about people who plaster their faces on billboards, I snapped this photo near downtown with my new camera phone.
Though many might be pissed at the poor quality of the photo, it was taken at some distance, and I rather liked how it turned out.
You can still make out the Big Brother-like face of the realTOR (yet another irritant -- those commercials touting realTORs) on the sign. He works them there M streets. He isn't all that attractive. So why plaster your face 25 feet high for all to recoil at? Is it gaining or losing you customers? I'd bet on the latter.
There's another one of this guy, ESPN radio host Randy Galloway, around the corner from my house. I get a shock every time I round the bend and see it. Geeg.
It's got to be ego-driven. There's no other good reason.
And if I can't paint my garage door magenta, why in blazes is this allowed?
Sunday, February 24, 2008
At a "professional" "development" day
of exceeding boredom
I had a few moments of blessed solitude
I walked much farther away than required to relieve myself
Alone in the stall I huddled
Away from lines
In blessed quiet, I sat
Meditatively on the black enamel seat.
"HEY ROY!" some entering professional female cried
Her braying bouncing off the tile.
"IF YOU HEAR ME GO 'PHHHBBBFFPHHHTTT!!!' YOU'LL KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!!
IF YOU DON'T, YOU'LL KNOW I'M JUST PEEING!!!" she hollered to the "empty" bathroom.
At the same time as this, I, of necessity, blew my nose.
"OH MY GOD, ROY!" she went on. "THERE'S SOMEONE IN HERE AND THEY HEARD ME SAY THAT! I'M GOING IN ANYWAY!" she uttered, proceeding to the seat to make the aforementioned noises.
Outside, Roy, a forty-eight-something man clad in t-shirt and trucker hat, cornered me.
"How's it going?" he said, pushing against me with his subnormal energy field.
"All right," I said, and kept walking.
"Is your class as boring as ours?" he continued, extending a cloud of creepy, low-grade intimidation my way.
I continued walking, out of the cloud and into some rays of sunshine down the hall. "Just a few more hours," I reassured him, hustling out of this especially dense field of time/space.
I guess we're all subnormal sometimes.
--- Written June 22, 2006
Monday, February 11, 2008
Hot Hot Heat,
with a light dusting of Rihanna (featuring Jay-Z).
Wow. I am closer to 40 than any of the ages of any of these people in these bands. I couldn't give less of a shit about being hip, I just think I was emo when emo wasn't cool.
That doesn't explain my affection for the hook in that "Umbrella" song, however.
Also, go Amy Winehouse. Regardless of her plethora of problems, she is deserving of recognition just for having the guts to do what she has done musically. And with eyeliner.
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier. -- B. Flowers
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I don't know if everyone's family is like this, but when I go and continue to go to family gatherings over a period of years, there is an expected level of prosperity that one is expected to attain and exhibit. After any given holiday, the judgment of the family may change depending upon the success or failure of attaining certain life goals.
A representative slice of my own family-judged prosperity can be seen above. While I clearly excel at some areas, others are deeply in need of improvement.
All I can do is continue to try to meet these family prosperity goals, I suppose. Or not. After all, my own graph would look something like this:
So I reckon I'm doing alright.
I've been tripping from sipping the dripping dirty water tap
I've been thinking of drinking too many drinks all by myself
-- Hot Hot Heat ("Bandages")
Monday, January 14, 2008
1. Getting first angry, and then mocked, for not understanding the elegantly engineered system of numeration (in complete opposition to that of the standard Arabic/customer-centered system) present at a McDonald's in Irving, Texas when I was told to pull through to the second window. Starting from the ordering menu and intercom, I counted windows.... 1.... 2... A paper-hatted teenager then waved me down while I was at (by my reckoning) window TWO. "Hey! HeLLO!!!" he shouted, indicating that I should have paid at WINDOW ONE, which in this trans-fat-dealing bizarro world was apparently window two. I tried in vain to explain why that numbering system made no sense and they were all rank fools. From the way they looked at me while I was conveying this seemingly universal wisdom, I might has well have been dancing the Chiquita Banana dance with a big ol' turban full of hot-glued fruit on my head. I drove away, mystified as to how none of them had yet reached into the fryer barehanded when fries were "up."
2. Driving up to the box, perusing the menu (as if you're going to order something besides the usual 900 fat gram selection) and waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And getting more and more pissed off. And waiting. Finally driving up to the window and stating one's order as the employees, freshly hired from the Job Fairs for the Apathetictm look wanly on. ("Don't give a SHIZNIT?!?! Come work with the best!") At Taco Cabana, while trying to obtain the most delicious fresh tortillas in the Dallas metroplex, I have waited so long that I began to worry that the staff had actually been gunned down.
3. Going inside, thinking that will help, while a woman with flour-caked arms and (disgustingly) long fingernails walks around aimlessly from grill to pan o' raw chicken in flour to counter to drive thru window to grill to fryer to pan o' raw chicken in flour to the register (which she attempts to work with arms so entombed, then fails) to the counter to the register, then, and ONLY then stating, "I'll be with you in a minute" to fryer to counter to grill to chicken pan, slowly bouncing and turning like a piece of frying fowl in grease herself, to towel, where she wipes a half-inch of crusted raw chicken dripping/flour off said arms to register, where finally, unheeding of the customers' fury at her inefficiency, she drawls, "Can I help you?"
4. In Paris, I saw no fat people. In the world headquarters of the tres chic, there are no drive-throughs, and no tennis shoes either. Perhaps if we forego one, we can forego the other.
5. Having elevated triglycerides and overall fattishness so that avoiding fat is mandated by a health professional in the hopes that some of your own high fat content will melt away.
Not that I know anything about that.