Thursday, August 31, 2006

Where Am I? I Cannot Find Me

Ladies, we've all dated and been dumped by the Wandering Stranger, haven't we? The Adairdevil has informed me that the man who wrote that song is very popular in the Middle East, which is apparently a hotbed of swarthy-wandering-strangers-with-guns, all lost, all alone. Suddenly, the world makes perfect sense.

If any of you have received a variation of this song in a b'bye letter, email, or phone call, let me know. If the prick actually gave you the song on a mix-tape/cd, double points. If that mix included How You Remind Me by Nickelback, let's go drinkin. You are my new best friend.

I'm a wandering stranger
Lost all alone
I'm a million miles away
I know you're waiting for me
To come home again
But I'm searching for an answer
Please try to understand

And I love you
And you love me
Someday we can make it together
Just you and me, oh just you and me

Sometimes I'm lonely
But I cannot fool myself
I must keep moving till I find me
Oh, I know I'm hurting you
But try to understand
My peace of mind is all I'm after
Help me if you can

And I love you
And you love me
Someday we can make it together
Just you and me, oh just you and me

Oh my love I do love you
In my heart I do feel you

I'm a wandering stranger
Can you help me make it through
Try to remember
Woman I love you

* Oh, and if your wandering stranger owned a copy of On the Road and referenced it more than once in random conversations, give yourself a Peanut Buster Parfait and call it good.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Badgersbadgersbadgers...and snakes!

For really weird, yet endearing, yet really, really weird toontainment, click the link O No! 'Nake! 'Nake! to the right. You can also check out a Snakes on a Plane trailer (reworked) and an old Lord of the Rings scene (all badgers restored).

This is what it is like to be inside my head. Literally. I've had that badger-badger song running on a loop between my ears all week. Because of Snakes on a Plane.

I should probably get a brain scan.



Was it cheesy? Of course. Any movie involving flight attendants is destined to be cheesetastic.

Was it violent? Yes. There were at least three good "Jump-Out-of-Your-Seat" moments.

Was it gory? Guh. Ya. Several "Cover-Your-Eyes-and-Pray-for-Daylight" moments.

Were the snakes realistic? Ask yourself: Do pythons have alligator teeth? Do snakes look at each other "knowingly"? Do all snakes have alligator teeth? Mmm, probably not. BUT, was it awesome? Hells yes. The snakes were freakin' awesome.

Was Samuel "El" awesome as well? C'mon, now. The man that "walks the earth" and rocks a jeri curl like a Soul Train funk master delivered his mothertrucking lines with mothertrucking authority.

Should you take your children to this movie? There are naked boobies abound, plus some choice derivations of the F-word, plus some really creative chomping on the part of the snakes so...yeah, of course. Bring the kiddies. It will build character. Toughen up the little bastards.

Should you see this movie? Go now. Take a sick day. Take a personal day. Grandma will still be in the home tomorrow. The kids can figure out the toaster (or bring em!). Just go. Go now!!

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

My "Type," aka There Are No Types, My Sistah

People say, "Hey, hey. Hey, you. Howcome you like people who're, like, totally different? Howcome you like wee skinny nerds but also giant brick walls with tattoos? Why? Why? Why?" And I say, It's all about the money, stupid. God. Wake up.

Actually, this is a very important subject, because my current beau is belongs to the religion of Cash Money, Honey. And it disturbs me because he thinks all people are like that, but particularly women. Before you get your shortpants in a bunch and say, "Oh you are such a fine person, a spiritual, self-sacrificing monk, you little shit," I'd ask you to see it my way. He likes to tell me how lucky I am to have a man like him. He will buy me things, provide food when I come over, all the DVDs I could want to watch, and a car from time to time, to boot. This is fab living, for sure. I am grateful to receive gifts, eat food, watch movies, and get a ride to work twice a week. I really am. I just don't like having my nose rubbed in it. Nor would you.

I can be materialistic, but I cannot be bought. See the difference? Because a person who buys and buys but forgets to treat you nicely has bought nothing but a higher debt and one increasingly pissed off better half. Who is also one philosophizing, monk mothertrucker.

So, it is not about the money, honey. Rather, it is about the great divide between the physical ideal (tat man) and emotional ideal (sweet nerd, untouched by ho's, especially stripper ho's) and where the two meet somewhere in between. And, for the record, if he has money to sustain himself and buy me a hotdog once in awhile, we're golden. Just be nice.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

I Am, In Fact, a Chicken

This should not surprise anybody.

But I am, really, a giant screaming chicken with no feathers and a tendency to run in mad, mad circles about the room. Especially when provoked. Which leads me to my Grand Prize Trip To England That I Am So Looking Forward To. Here is a list of fears I will have no choice but to stand firm and charge bravely into, and not around, in circles, gobbling and clucking like a big, big chicken:

  1. Flying. I am terrified of it but have willed myself to just mellow out, man. I used to cry. Then I took Happy Flying Pills. Then I got over it. I still have moments, though. Little moments that feel really, really big. Of course, I have to fly or the terrorists will win.
  2. Talking to Strangers. Which Rick Springfield advised against. And my mommy. Yet I will have to talk to millions of them. And they'll all be talking funny, like movie people.
  3. Fear of Heights, Especially on Ferris Wheels, also known as Shaking Wheels of Shrieking Terror. It is called the London Eye. It is not the size of an eye. Maybe God's eye. Maybe they call it that to make you think of Sauron and the fiery pits of hell so that you will pee your pants while waiting to ride the Enormous Wheel of Horror.
  4. Public Speaking. They promised not to make me do it but they LIE. The British are known for this kind of thing. Make the American monkey talk--dance, monkey, dance! Now tell us how you plan to cut the margin loss for all monographs in 2007. My brilliant counter will probably be, "Ookey! I tie my shoooooe!"
  5. Eating in Public. We should all be given feedbags and call it a good day goddamit.
  6. Dressing to Succeed. Considering that I've already cried on the plane, peed on the London Eye, and covered myself with barley from the feedbag, I should think wearing heels will be optional.

There are more, I am sure. My brooding (brightened by idiotic moments of hopeful light, dreaming that "Maybe they'll like me, really, really") will certainly turn up some more things to dread, wail and worry about. Until then, cluck.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

This Is How I Feel Today

Monday, August 14, 2006

The Descent

If you've been waiting for a genuinely scary movie, it has finally arrived, friends. A group of women go spelunking (cave diving) in the Appalachian mountains. Things get scary quickly and fall off the cliff to Completely Terrifying soon thereafter. The pacing is perfect, the scares are plentiful, and you feel completely freaked out by the end of it.

The women are British, which may explain why they do not know that Appalachian Mountains = Bad. As Americans, we all hear the banjos in the night, whispering tales in the squeals of a pig. Considering what Deliverance did for the Appalachians, The Decent strikes the last nail in the coffin...and maims the spelunking industry for good measure.

This movie evokes actual horror and great wallops of adrenaline instead of relying on gore alone, as most modern horror movies tend to do. Please note, however, that there is plenty of awful gore in this one, too. I spent the duration of the movie covering my eyes, moaning, yelling, screaming, and squawking (this one is hereditary, also seen in "I dropped a plate," "I smashed a glass," and "I stepped on the cat again" featured in a haunted memory bank near you).

With all of the bad horror movies out there ("bad" because they are gory but bo-ring), The Descent was a complete surprise. If you love to get the living bejesus scared out of you, run to the theater and see this movie.

Note to people who think I should get out more: Shouldn't be a surprise, but I will not be spelunking, ever. I wouldn't have done it before, but now it is written in stone, locked in carbon, and spoken upon the mount. In a word, "Ohhellllno."

The Ultimate Fighter: Git It ON!

This weekend I discovered that I may, in fact, be a 13-year-old country boy as I experienced the almost indescribable delights of Spike TV's UFC show, The Ultimate Fighter 3. There was a marathon on Saturday, which snagged me at about 10:45 a.m. and continued throughout the day, until I had to leave it at around 8 p.m. I know what you are thinking: Why were you in your house all day, you xenophobic LOSER? Well, I have an answer to that--I thought about it long and hard, did some soul searching, and finally managed to come up with something eloquent and to the point: Kiss my ass, bitches. Yeah, and I'll go to the museum next weekend.

Besides, I mentioned the Ultimate Fighter 3 marathon, did I not?

Actually, this only proves that I am a middle-aged, vapid slut, as the UFC is basically well-stocked with "my type" of man: a wall of meat with teeth. Yay!

The competitors all live in a house together and train in two teams: Team Shamrock and Team Ortiz. The men fight by weight class and fill the space with a lot of smack talk that most can't back up. Many have tattoos everywhere--even on the face, which sometimes helps--and all (but one) are graced with meaty, muscle-y goodness. It is truly inspiring television.

I got sucked in by the monumental smack talk of one particularly good-looking feller who had all of the essential components plus One: wall of meat with teeth and a British accent. Unfortunately, he turned out to be all air (British air, though, which is *hot*) and was taken down not once, but twice, in easy fashion. And he cried both times. Which means he is a.) a giant, pink (but British) bunny, and b.) for display only (sad!).

I would be lying (and I never lie) if I said there was any real value to this show. There is blood (check!), sweaty muscles (check!), and a lot of strutting about and peeing on one another's head gear (double check!)--all of which showcase that boys will be boys, beefcake sells, and losers tend to be crybabies. Which is all awesome. The new season starts soon, ladies. GIT IT ON!!!

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Why I Love Him with All My Heart

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Maybe I Need a New Dream

You could spend the better part of a day looking through ceramic rooster photos on the net. Apparently, there are a LOT of people in need of a good chicken.

This one is close, but Great Rooster of 96 had a longer tail that swooped down and out with brilliant hues of purple, blue, green, red, and even yellow, if I remember correctly. Yes, I know that is not a realistic representation. Yes, I realize I am searching for some kind of Space Chicken. But I have needs, too, brotha.

This rooster is close because they've got the right idea in terms of shape and color...note the shading, the dark shadows in the coloring. It has depth. Very compelling. Goddamnit where the hell is my chicken?!

Unfortunately (or maybe, brilliantly) they've positioned this particular rooster on some kind of grand, Freedom Boulder. You can see him looking into the horizon of his Destiny while the tune of "Born Free" plays on the wind. Mighty Rooster of Courage. Seriously, what is up with the boulder?

Still searching...I think my imagination may be getting away from me. I may stumble upon that Chicken of Yesterday and never realize it. But since I won't be satisfied until it is mine, I'm gonna keep on keepin on.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Stink Bomb

I love New York City. I do. It is a dirty, dirty whore, true, but I love it.

So it is 97 degrees (feels like 604) and the city is really getting its stink on. All the dirt, food, oil, milk, gum, poo, and--let's face it people--dead skin cells are good and grimed into the streets and sidewalks by now. All those ingredients can do now is sit and bake. The end result creates a compelling odor of hot, gassy garbage. And, since you are probably sweating like a flushed hog, the smell of the city is sticking to you like cheez whiz. You have to love the dirty whore, friends. She' got a hot funk, but she parties all night, throws a lamp at your head, and gives you 8 stitches in the ass. Fun girl.

Am I jacking metaphors?

What got me thinking of stank and dirty whores was actually the train ride into the city this morning. A quality ride, "R" the whole way, had a seat, etc. But it was fine fun to sample the assortment of aromas that entered the car every time the doors opened at each station. ("Sampling" is precisely what you are doing, by the way, since when you smell something, you are tasting it, too--did you know that? Now you do, and you'll think of it everytime you use the public restroom. Mmm, tacos.) We had a nice assortment of skin...salty skin, tangy skin, hot sausage skin. There were a few onions on board; these gentleman like to hold the bar right above your head and they are usually sleeveless with a nice brush of pit hair waving in the breeze.

But you know, I can take a certain level of spicy (not every level, mind you, but A level). What really rankles my tarts are the sweaty, dirty whores with the mismatched perfume who, in an attempt to improve an odor situation (good intentions, I get it), instead manage to inflict an ungodly olfactory horror on the world. In case you didn't know it, the oils in your skin react with the chemicals in perfume. In the world of perfume, one size does not fit all. Ladies should definitely have learned this by the time they are out of high school.

Alas, the dirty whores either don't know, don't care, or are in denial. Today's stinkbomb had apparently taken a nice perfume soak before getting dressed and spraying another layer on top. The skin and the scent did not mix well and, when fermented with flop sweat, the odor turned into a living thing. It smelled like...hmm, now I want to get this right. I should honor this monumental funk with the proper description. It was. It was. Mm.

It was like a dead gorilla wearing soiled diapers locked in a gas chamber set a 104 for one week. Oh and someone has just sprayed it all down with Febreeze.

Now, some of you are thinking, Hot damn, where can I buy me some of that? And others are crying for the dead, diapered gorilla in the gas chamber (I know, it is a brutal world, folks, but stay on topic)...But all I really want to know is this: Can she not smell that?

Maybe not. Maybe she's married to an spicy onion. That would kill her sense of smell...and dreams, too, I guess. Maybe the perfume hides a terrible secret? A polyp? Goiter? Siamese twin tucked under the arm? She did have a big bag.