Saturday, September 29, 2007

Mad Monkey

Poppin' and Lockin'

It is weird and I LIKE IT.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Who Needs Legitimate News...

...when you can savor The Onion?

My number one headline will always be "Kitten Thinks of Nothing but Murder All Day"...but this one comes in at a healthy second.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Chickens of Destiny and Might

Can you imagine the lunatic that posted this? Someone needs a multivitamin.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Narm Narm Narm

I've been watching too much Animal Planet lately. Animals like to eat. A lot. They'll eat each other, lawns, crops, cell phones, syringes, flashlights, chocolate, wood, sofa corners, and Twinkies--wrapper included. Sometimes they like to be ironically clueless. Here's one.

Isn't that the cutest thing? My stars.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Big Brother 8

Yes, I love it. Don't care whacha think.


The BEST SEASON EVER. Finally, I got my wish. The people I want to win are in the final two. You'd have to be a viewer to know the significance of this (its more than just "two people") but at the very least this damn show FINALLY worked out the way it should. People full of sneaky manipulation and unbelievable gameplay finally will get their due. Well, one of them will get his or her due. And, for once, either person would be fine and dandy with me.


And for those of you who know the show: Yeah, they are, in a way, GIANT assholes. So what? They were compelling and earned it. Isn't it about time?

Congratulations, Grrrrl!

Kathy Griffin finally won an Emmy! It was for the Best Reality Series. True to her form, she managed to tell Jesus to "suck it"--look it up, I won't explain--and, true to its form, E! Entertainment television peed its pants and vowed to edit it. Whatever. To know her is to L-O-V-E her. It is about damned time. More champagne and caviar for everyone, you bitches!

And suck it!

Saturday, September 08, 2007

My Boyfriend Is Kind of an Asshole

Sure, he looks good. Don't they all in some fashion? I mean, I bet even that Tron guy scores now that he has an actual fan base. Also, have you see that leotard? Hello, moose knuckles.

This gentleman is Kurgan. I share him with my sister. Don't get a boner just yet. Neither of us have ever met him; I doubt we ever will. And, let's face it, the Clancy Brown of olde no longer exists. He's not doing too bad, though. And he's staying consistent, playing assholes to this day. But this Kurgan, this guy was a real dick. You can tell by his fancy hat. Even though we were not supposed to root for him, my sister and I did it anyway. Because what do girls like? We like bad boys. Preferably in snazzy hats. With a hat like that, it is no wonder that all you want to do is kill, kill, kill. And he did, with relish.

My photo search informed me of two things: 1.) There are a lot of pervs out there all wanting a chunk of Kurgan's ass of their own to kiss, chew, or lacquer with finger paints. 2.) There are a lot of guys who think they look like Kurgan. Or, worse, girlfriends who think their guys look like Kurgan. Sure you do, sugar britches. In fact, most bald guys look like Kurgan. My sister and I probably won't maul you on the street, but good luck to you, nonetheless. Clancy, on the other hand, should watch his back.

Another boyfriend with asshole tendencies...Arnie. He has real nice boobies. Do you think Alyssa Milano had to fight every impulse in her body not to look directly to her right? A lot? Even just to sneak a peek? I've never seen a better rack on a man.

You don't have to be a mean-spirited jerkwad shanking every Benetton spokesmodel in the neck to be an asshole. You can also be the Tool variety. What makes a person a Tool? So many things, but there's an undercurrent of delusional lameness running though all of it. Tool behavior might include a glut of cheesy one-liners (Commando is a treasure trove of unparalleled dorkery), or groping a Hawaiian Tropics runner up and expecting her to be grateful (while hamming it up for the camera), and perhaps even doing a movie where you pretend to be pregnant when maybe you should just learn to embrace your inner meathead and commit to the parts that you are loved for: half-naked killer soldiers from the future or alternate-universe present. K? Nice rack, though.

Then you have this boyfriend: God, what an asshole. Your friends hate him, your moms hates him, even your cat hates him and tries to pee on his head. He's Stanley the Manly, the one that hits with love. I admit, the first time I saw this photo I about fell out of my chair. I think I was thirteen, the absolute worst age in life as it is drenched in hormones and hysteria and life will just never, ever be good (incoherent screaming, etc.). So, you see this picture and you think: smooth skin, muscled arms, pouty lips, cruel eyes, cheap shirt, messy hair, raw sexuality, brutal, impulsive, rough, gimme gimme gimme. Don't lie, girl. You know it is true.

But he is an asshole. Just ask the DuBois sisters, though the wife does fall for the old "Screaming at the Foot of the Stairs because I Just Can't Live without You, Baby" routine. Don't we all at some point, though? This one tops the asshole charts for the obvious reasons; he even out-assholes Kurgan who, while a cuckoo thrill killer, at least never misportrays himself as a loving husband. Stanley Kowalski is as nice as candy until he's got you pinned to the wall with a bloody lip and a hot cotton concussion forming from the smack to the back of your head. Hot.

This lovely young woman is named Nick Rhodes. He is an asshole because he never called me. I mean, what the fuck?

Look, I realize that we all have tendencies. I tend to snack and crack wise at the television. Do the TV people hear me? Yes? I don't know. I do know that I caught seven shades of hell for crushing on this fellow and all because he was a little womany.

He's not an asshole because he is womany. We can even forgive him for that skinny tie. We may not be able to let his wedding photos slide. What groom goes this far to show up the bride? Tails? A top hat? Twelve layers of Max Factor? That pushes you into Tool territory, Nicky.

By the way, the bride was a model and is related to Sue Ellen Ewing from Dallas. She's gorgeous, right? He divorced her. And he still hasn't called. What up, bitch? I forgive you, though. Especially if you give me a hollah at the foot of my stairway.

Stevie Nicks - Edge of Seventeen 1981 Live

This is Stevie Nicks doing “Edge of Seventeen,” by far my favorite of her long list of credits, both as a solo artist and as the tambourine whammer in Fleetwood Mac. I spent my preteen and teens years worshipping the ground she stomped on with her tiny little feet in those enormous, ruffled, thigh-high boots.

A person like Stevie Nicks is really only digestible in this format. Her real self (or the “real” self she portrays to the world) is too much for any standard-issue human to handle. I remember reading some teen bio about her—you know, the type with lots of exclamation points and no negative facts—and even the storybook version of her life reads like an issue of Crazytown Tinies. Fact or fiction…who knows? But it is fun to think that this woman buys mansions only to make her bedroom in the master closet. Or that she used to love rollerskating parties with her bffs (those are two of her closest bffs singing in the background, by the way) and that you knew you’d been selected for the inner circle if she gave you a Sister of the Moon necklace. Sounds made up, right? What if it isn’t?

Even if it is, look at this video. The crazy white shawls kicking up (dancing white-winged dove, get it), the high kicks showing great legs under that weird witch persona, the grizzled voice, the smoky eyes, corona of angel’s hair, even those fierce nose holes all put together in this tiny little woman whose trademark stomp and tendency for drama beyond drama creates a compelling character even the most stoic non-believer can’t deny. I really doubt there is anyone on this green earth like her.

Shake Your Money Maker

I was thinking about the videos that used to make me leap off my ass and run to the living room and this is the first song that came to mind. This song was on Mtv’s rotation back in the days when I spent pretty much every waking moment mooning in the glow of music videos. My mom knew the worst punishment in the world was to take away my Mtv. And while I waited with barely contained child’s impatience for videos by Duran Duran, Motley Crue, Culture Club, Stevie Nicks, and so on, The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” always had me bouncing off the walls. Look at them. Could they be more fresh faced and precious? I miss The Clash and heart them forever and ever.

Interesting how relevant this song is to my present. So very interesting. Anyway, enjoy.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Yes, I am Watching You Eat

I have a complex.

Please insert a manageable amount of food.

Please chew with your mouth closed.

No talking while chewing.

You are not a cow. That is not a cud.

Smacking and wet smloching sounds are prohibited.

Milk mustaches or visible milky products in or around the mouth will make me vomit on your head.

Sharing of wet food from the same spoon will make me vomit on your head.

If anything falls out, I will kill you.

If you are a child, you are sitting at the wrong table. You need to go to the card table. In the corner. Away from me.

Monday, September 03, 2007

Zachariah Fennel

My sister's cat died the day before yesterday. He was 19 years old. If you are doing the math, that means he was born in 1988. Loving memories of Zach...

1. When my sister came back from school in Arizona, she had an entire family of cats: Maria and Bernie (mama cat and uncle cat), plus five babies with the weirdest names you could image. I think there were five, anyway, with names like Riboflavin, to boot. Zach was instantly memorable.

2. Zach liked to play fetch with our rolled up cigarette packages. Not just chase, fetch. Like a dog. It was awesome. An interactive cat.

3. He was a snugglelove. Sometimes he'd forget to retract his claws when he'd balance on your lap. Yowch. But the whole time his motor was running and his moony eyes were on you, imploring and full of love.

4. His meow was always high, like a baby's cry, and eventually it turned into nothing more than a raspy squeak. You'd be surprised at how charming a live squeaky toy is, especially one that purrs and nuzzles and waits to be petted.

5. Zach and his sisters stayed with my mom and me for awhile (the reason is lost in the mists of the 80s, along with banana clips and "Frankie Say Relax" t-shirts). His sisters broke a lamp, Zach burned a tattoo of lurve in our hearts. How can you not love a handsome catdog? My best friend and I were responsible for bringing Zachy home from the vet after he got his wires snipped (thank you, Bob Barker). He was still kind of drugged up when he tried to jump off of the chair. Have you ever seen a cat do a walking handstand? Quite a sight. He was pretty impressed by it, too, by the look on his face.

Over the years, this little man has always been around and it will be a terrible feeling to visit my sister's house knowing that Zach won't be there with his insistent squeak. Much love and godspeed, Zachy.

Housewife Training

I used to cook. I did. Before the full time job. Now? O hells no. More than anything, I used to bake. And I was good, yo. Not anymore. I burn your cookies. I burn your toaster strudel. I burn your water. But I have evidence of glory past...

Christmas cookies, could you die? Note the "police" and "fire dept." cookies. We were straight for Mr. Rogers' neighborhood. Guh.

Christmas Family tradition: An orange and slice of Merck's coffee cake. The marbling is brown sugar, butter, and walnuts. The cake is soft and rich. It is hard not to eat the whole cake in one sitting. In five minutes. Less.

Red, White, and Blue Cheesecake, straight from Gourmet magazine. If you knew how much cream cheese went into this sucker, you'd have a sympathetic coronary. Hot damn, it was good.

If I'd been a better housewife, I would've given this a shot. This is from one of my grandma's old cookbooks, published in 1937.