Overthunk

My obsession of the month is Queens of the Stone Age. I have owned their record "Songs for the Deaf" for some time, but I just recently put it on during a long drive alone, which gave me the time to process it in depth. Now I cannot stop listening to it. In particular is the dusky jewel, "Mosquito Song." It's the last and hidden track. So lovely, full of acoustic guitar, strings, horns, accordion, and an epic finish. Take a listen here . I tried to embed the Youtube video (linked above), which by the way is just from some random game, without success. The images are unimportant. Close your eyes, open your mind, and listen. Read the deliciously dark lyrics below. Cheers! ----------------------- I know, I know the sun is hot Mosquitos come, and suck your blood Leave you there all alone Just skin and bone When you walk among the trees Listening to the leaves The further I go the less I know The less I know Where will you run? Where will you hide? Lullabies to para

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!

I don't know what the best way to commemorate this day is, other than to retell the way it affected our lives, which I did here . I was blessed to stay here in the best place on earth on that day. Some were not. I honor them today.

And, more importantly, is she a dominatrix? What do y'all think? ----------------------------------- Mistress Muse 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 wh

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? ME: No. -------------------------- "We are now accepting callers for these beautiful pendant keychains." -- J. McCrea, et. al.

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 Official Song of the 2008 Olympics: Welcome to Beijing -- Please Ignore the Communism. My apologies for reposting, Bride of Porkins, but it's just too perfect. Be on the lookout for Jackie Chan.

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 hel

Snapped outside Wal-Mart as I hopped out of my hippie-ass Prius...

Greetings, blogpals. I hope your summer's going as swimmingly (read: drinkingly, online gamingly) as mine is. I have just returned (again) from the desert, my second summer in a row to visit the Sonoran Desert , possibly the Largest Desert in North America and home to seventeen aboriginal American cultures (yep, I wiki'ed it), among them the Anasazi, who apparently ran around mostly nekkid (according to the film I saw). 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 Happy! -Frickin awesome big hole in the ground -Majestic -Watching an IMAX movie before you get there so you know what you're actually looking at -Breathtaking

"...Fuck Pears." 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.

So, yeah -- baths? Not for me, really. I bought the $8.00 confection you see at left back in the winter months at Lush in that old bastion of Dallas snobbery, Northpark Center . It is a nearly baseball-sized bath fizzy deemed the "Champagne Supernova." Did I mention it was $8.00? I thought when I bought it that perhaps I would be able to use it twice. Let me tell you here and now, dear readers: I did not, and will not, have the strength. For when I embarked on the unraveling, the foaming away, of what seems a tiny, pink world clutched within my dragon's hand, I could not stop. (Hey, they started it, mentioning the superdestructive concept "supernova" in the thing's very name.) I could not put it aside and stop watching the particles of bicarbonate and scented oil dissolve into nothingness, staining the bathwater pink with its collective blood. I could not halt the staring as each folded fleck of what was sold as herbal additives but may just have been torn u

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!!

(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 an

Recently, I visited Big Lots , the shoddier, seedier cousin of the sadly departed K-Mart and elephant graveyard where discontinued merchandise goes to die. There I found freakish goods hailing from a variety of lands, and each revoltingly unappetizing in its own diverse fashion. Here's a sampling: Oysters in Cottonseed Oil -- because nothing piques one's culinary delight quite like grayish fish flesh tinned in industrial lubricant. Lemon Extract -- With 20% Vaseline added to reduce viscosity 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. Nutrisystem Nourish -- Eat oxymoron dogs, on the cheap! Maggi Delicias de Pollo -- Or as I affectionately call it, bagga chickin maggit stuff. Arkona Herring Fillets - As Opus knows, a little paprika sauce makes herring "pop." Jelly Mints -- Hated at Grandma's house since 1853. Conclusion? Bi

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 Things tm -- 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 sweetne

Left the drinkable yogurt on the sink today, Came back from work and found bacilli astray. ça m'ennuie. Twista-haler sprayed powder 2 days later, Lucky, pharma-girl was a considerate trader. ça m'ennuie. 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. ça m'ennuie Mind's all confuddled with the brand new pills, My high blood pressure never gave me these ills. ça m'ennuie -------------------------- "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

I live near the police station of my town. This evening, a beautiful evening with the sun slanting its golden rays through my open car windows, I was driving around, long hair flying, lipstick on, sunglasses on, listening to Sublime's song, "Get Ready." Interestingly, the way I timed it, it took just the perfect amount of time to leave the gas station, cross the parking lots and be passing right in front of the police station as Bradley is wailing, "Load up the bong! Crank up the song! Let the informer call 911! Load up the bong! Crank up the song! Let the informer call 911!" Why I do these things, I don't know.

(One of apparently several in the "Cleaning Out the Office" Series -- found scribbled on a scrap again) 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."

Tally ho, blogketeers! I hope you are all well. I know I am clinging to a quartered potato in my own personal home remodeling/end of school year stew right now, but as I was cleaning up my office in preparation for putting new laminate floors in just five short months after the toilet flood incident , I found an old piece of titleless lovesick screed (a poem) scribbled on a yellow legal pad. I offer its debut here for your perusal. Enjoy! ------------------ 3/1/05 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

The dreaded terminal busyness has eclipsed the effort of this blog, of late. Apologies. I am thinking good thoughts and drawing and writing and (drinking) and I haven't, haven't given this up. Summer she's a-comin'.

Being the latest is capital when you're on television or vinyl, but being befuddled 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 dow

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 an

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 no

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, a round 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?

for Charles Bukowski 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, push

I have spent all weekend listening to The Killers and 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

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")

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 frye