"If you have half a brain...." *

_____In the midst of reading Vonnegut the other day, I came across a line in Slaughterhouse Five remarking that cliche romantic situations are actually anything but. There has got to be some level of hell reserved for people like me who take one of the world's greatest expressions against human evil and use it as a tangent for a blog that reveals trivial absurdities in this world like magnetic dog poop and composite turkey. Sins against true genius aside, let's talk about the reality of our little romantic fantasies. With experience we come to learn valuable lessons like chocolate syrup burns your throat, whipped cream leaves sticky residue and causes queasy feelings upon digestion of mass quantities and flavored sex aids usually lead to unwanted teeth marks. Below I have laid out, shone a bright light upon and then destroyed the biggest lies in the big dream of romantic love (making).

Rain (standing in, kissing in, running through, smell of, curling up with book in)

_____Nothing says hot, passionate sex like goose flesh, running noses, sticky skin and heavy chafing soaked jeans. Standing in the rain, running through the rain, doing most things in the rain is usually a highly dangerous thing. Aside from the onset of things like pneumonia and the freezing hack you get deep in your chest, rain and getting caught in it is a miserable experience. Do you know how long it takes to dry soaked sneakers? Even when you think they are dried, you put on your socks and go out only to realize that in a matter of steps, you are standing in a hot wet shoe. That's the worst too because the wet socks are warm because of your body heat and taking them off is comparable to that slightly creepy sensation you encounter when you sit down in a plastic chair that has been previously warmed.

_____When a storm rolls in, most people want to sleep because their sinuses have swelled so extensively their skull feels like it's about to snap from the pressure. People will say they love the smell of rain. I think that inhaling the dirty and toxic rain water during a sinus swell borders on pure genius. And while I am on the thread of inhaling things that are highly dangerous, let's talk about gasoline, Sharpie markers, and that New Car smell. There is nothing awesome about inhaling fumes that have been proven to wipe out brain cells faster than viewing an hour of America's Next Top Model.

The Love of/on the Road

_____One of my favorite myths of the foolish romantic is the joy of the open road. Driving blows, people. If it's not the jerking stop and go of a city street, packed with impatient people like myself waiting eagerly for that flash of green only to get a taste of 30mph before having to stop again and wait to be able to do more than sit there with your right foot on the brake, it's hours of gray, rolling, six lane monotony. "I just want to get in my car and drive for hours". Sorry honey, but unless you have the greatest book on tape known to man or a never ending supply of mentally stimulating music (and I know you don't), driving for hours is the most intellectually arid practice invented. What does your brain do when it is not occupied? It meanders, bringing up thoughts that, most likely, require action. Too bad you are stuck like a bee in a jar, a jar hurling through the air at 80. Plus, being hypnotized by the passing of yellow streaks and phone poles increases your likelihood of passing out if you aren't like me and calculating precisely how the asshole in front of you will manage to stop short and you will be sent sailing through your windshield.

_____"But Anne", you say, "What about road head? Aww yea." Aww No. Since the invention of bucket seats, this practice is not only difficult to perform, but it is highly uncomfortable, a choking hazard if you have to stop short, and yet another reason why people behind you are calculating precisely how they will sail through their windshield when you stop short because your girlfriend has got herself caught on the emergency brake.

Shower Love

_____In my experience, men are the ones who harbor this notion. The shower is cramped and slippery. It is also limited in its capabilities to supply endless amounts of hot water. Unless you are financially gifted, there is no where to sit, hold on to, prop yourself up, or to use for resistance. This means you have to be especially flexible as a female and if you are anything like me, you are moderately flexible and will bend over, stretched to the limit and in great pain, to give the illusion that you can indeed do all the things Barbie and Carmen Electra can do. So, while you are in this awkward position in the romantic destination of a 3 by 5 shower, the water drips down your neck and up your cheeks and inevitably into your nose, causing you to choke and sneeze and sputter like an old jalopy. Let's not even talk about the fact that it's either your head, your ankles or his ass that is in constant danger of the faucet. It's quite clear that shower sex was dreamed up by a homeless person.

Staying in Bed All Day

_____Admittedly, I have often thought and even convinced myself over the years that this was indeed an awesome practice that was at the peak of romantic action. Of course staying in bed all day would appeal to me, the laziest woman alive. Sadly, one day after looking over at my significant other covered in a thin sheen of grease and emitting the potent fragrance of morning, now turned late afternoon, breath mingled with leftover sex residue I knew that this was not the fabled fairy tale I had heard about. After clawing my way out of the bed-ditch our bodies had formed through massive spring abuse and hours of just laying there, I decided that a shower (no sex) would be a saving grace. Unfortunately, after a certain amount of hours, no matter how much you exfoliate or how hot you turn the water up to, you can't get rid of that half drunken all day in bed stupor. A lull like that mixed with the frustration and grime that comes from doing nothing all day inevitably leads to fights or that "Ok, I've had enough of you. Time for you to go home" feeling. I may even go as far as to say the stay in bed day is a surefire way to destroy an otherwise perfect union.

The Beach

_____The waves crashing, Sandy and Danny Zuko making out in sand, chasing each other down a beautiful open shoreline; we all know this image. The part they don't show is Sandy digging wet sand out from her asscrack and parts nearby. After they get up from their rolling around in the surf, they are both covered in clumpy mounds of sand that house millions of sand fleas. When Danny is done helping remove the sand castle from Sandy's hair he turns around, careful not to step on either a hypodermic needle, a used condom, someone's old tampon, a man of war or a half decomposed roll of toilet paper. They run back to their car while they dodge pointy coral, hidden rocks and the homeless man peeing in the bushes. Now Danny's Greased Lightning is nothing short of a child's sandbox and the saltwater leftover on both of them leaves a faint musk of rotting fish that the breeze from the top down action can't cover up. As Sandy's hair blows in the breeze, it is twirled around itself forming dread locks from the leftover ocean that has now turned her hair to straw. The straw texture is especially sexy, the way is smacks her in the face and leaves marks as they change direction. Not even some paint on leather pants and a flying car can bring back the sexy for them after a night of beach lovin'.

So, if you like pina coladas (which are usually made with cheap rum), getting caught in the rain and all the rest of this culture's idealistic romantic love scenarios, you have clearly never experienced any of them without the aid of drugs, alcohol or a very strong dose of delusion.

* Rupert Holmes "Pina Colada"

It's A Boy!

____In today's more liberal world all kinds of lines are being crossed, blurred and tangled up into enormous knots of confusion. This kind of thing is expected in your everyday world when you live within driving distance of places like South Beach. In fact, it's a perk of living in South Florida (and believe me, it's probably the only one). However, gender roles and gender identity are rarely questioned in other realms, or so I thought.

____Last night it was brought to my attention that the name I bestowed upon my overactive female kitten actually belonged to a male. Nermal, the ditsy and annoyingly happy counterpart to the ever dry and wry Garfield, was drawn with gray stripes and eyelashes. These are obvious female traitss. Nermal was also voiced by a female, Desirée Goyette. I'm not talking a female voice that is ambiguous like Bart Simpson's speaker, Nancy Cartwright, but Nermal had a decidedly woman's voice. When this was brought to my attention last night, I immediately felt guilty for corrupting the gender identity of the cat. However, the name and the gender confusion sort of fit. I guess it works being that Nermal the actual cat is extra large, super aggressive and has a throaty meow. Speaking of androgynous eighties childhood characters, I purposely named my effeminate male cat Atreyu after the confusingly femme character in The Never Ending Story. I guess they match now. Don't ever be a pet of mine.

So, I started to think back on other characters from childhood that were in the middle of identity crises.

Tweety -
Male or Female? Decidedly male. Don't believe me? Tweety's sex has always been shrouded in mystery, but the experts at the wiki have come to a conclusion. Here's another site with some more evidence.

Big Bird -
Oh, Big Bird. Big Bird was a tough one for me growing up. My grandmother and Big Bird shared a lot of the same traits; the hair for one. Big Bird was also tall and nervous like grandma. So, Big Bird was obviously female to me. Most people have been wise to the truth of his maleness.


Blue Meanie -
Maybe not as confusing gender-wise because Blue Meanie is obviously a male, but the voicing of Blue Meanie, the make up, the fuck me boots, the weird half pointed hand gesture, etc all point to drag queen.
















Him -
This Blue Meanie rip off from PowerPuff Girls is named "Him", so no question there even if he is totally drag queen.








Atreyu -
Let's just say I had many confused feelings about Atreyu.



Care Bears -
I am fairly certain that there is more than enough confusion going on up there in Care-a-Lot. How many can you confidently identify?






















Are there any others I forgot? Let me know.

Anatomy of a Nerd

As times change and people adapt to their new and ever growing world, our perspectives of what is valuable morph. Our needs are modified in order to fit what qualifies as “success” as things get more and more complex and we become more and more dependent on technology.

Starting in the fifties, the country's attentiveness towards all things technological and scientific has turned on more than a few trends. The nerd, the opposite to others such as a return to nature, a return to a sixth sense, etc, has been present and is rising in popularity. When massive calamities such as Y2K come along, we turn to our intellectuals and for all of their stereotyped clumsiness and uncharismatic quirks, we adore them.

Athletes are somewhat still the leaders in stereotypes of men that get the girl, but with the recent boost in superhero movies and the surge in interest in these physically able men by night/super intellectual by day, the brawny athlete has taken a back seat. The preferred man is a morph between intellectual and smooth talker. He is the nerd without the social frigidness and in superhero cases, he is also the physical wonder.

But, in a world where media has been throwing out images of the unfaithful boyfriend, the liar, the cheater, the con artist and the pick up artists the praise for the nerd has skyrocketed. What is the moral of the show Beauty and the Geek? That these socially challenged guys are actually the greatest people most of the bimbettes will ever meet. But is it really ok to get a cheap laugh from their inexperience and obvious discomfort because we pat them on the head and praise them for not being assholes? Not to mention, does a pretty and sexy girl have to be a total vapid waste of space? Does adoring them give us permission to laugh at them as well? It's the reverse of using Randy in My Name Is Earl for comic relief. Oh, look how cute the idiot is. Today he put his fork in the outlet. It was hilarious. The Big Bang Theory seems to foster the reverse: Oh look at how cute the nerd is. He's upset because he can't be Frodo for Halloween.

A few weeks back I caught an episode of The Big Bang Theory and was offended. Now, I do claim a little territory in the nerd kingdom because of my love for Shatner, writing blogs, reading sci-fi, having dated a D&D master and befriending mostly geniuses. I know that these things put me into that category. Watching The Big Bang Theory was like watching someone claim that Dangerous Minds was an accurate portrayal of a teaching experience.

In addition to the show's serious lack of morals when it comes to making characters out of stereotypes, their selection of punchlines and stereotypical plot fodder is repulsive to anyone who even has any claim in the “nerd” universe. Sure, stereotypes are bad, but I also know they exist for a reason. They work and get a rise out of people because when you point them out, most people think “Hell, that IS true about someone I know of that grouping”. However, to write a show based solely on these things makes your characters nothing more than walking characaters. To saturate your script with catch phrases and trite interests is offensive to those of us who actually know what you are talking about. You aren't connecting with an audience, you are repelling them. It is just as offensive as having a show about an African American family who talks about loving fried chicken and watermelon. It is like having a Jewish family sitcom where all the characters do is count their money and talk in an annoying accent. Or it is like making a show about trailer park inhabitants who are so dim witted, it's amazing they haven't choked on their own spit.

Let me show you exactly what I am talking about.

Watch this: "The Middle Earth Paradigm" Episode of The Big Bang Theory

Or if you Torrent it's Episode Six of Big Bang Theory, The

The Dissection Table

***The episode starts off with a few jokes about a lost paint ball tournament where the “nerds” admittedly lose to a bunch of 13 year old Bar Mitvah attendees. One remarks that the other hid behind a tree barking orders instead of going out there to fight.
Implication: Nerds are no good at physical adventures such as paint ball and they are cowards

***The neighbor girl asks them to a party. They ask, “A boy/girl party?” and “Will there be dancing?”
Implication: Nerds never interact with girls or do anything physical like dancing.

**The nerds ask if the Halloween Party has a theme. The girl doesn't understand.
Implication: Normal people don't know what themed parties are.

***The nerds list cosplay themes like anime, manga, science fiction..
Implication: All intellectuals participate in cosplay. Seriously, people who engage in cosplay don't necessarily run in the same circles as people who are proficient in science or are into computers or who are even intellectual (or whatever category you are cramming these ambiguous and sad characters into). People belonging to the cosplay subculture and even gamers in general or anime fans all have separate interests with separate circles of friends. The thing they may have in common would be that they are seen as “unpopular” in a high school setting, but the last time I checked, that didn't make you a nerd.

***The nerds all dress as The Flash and they bicker over it.

Implication: The Flash is some sort of hero to the nerds of the world. All I can say is that this is totally ridiculous. The Flash is just a random comic book character and not even a very good one at that. Even comic book enthusiasts don't worship The Flash. So here we are again, mixing up groups and interests in the name of who would be unpopular in a high school setting.

***The nerds fight over the Frodo Baggins costume.

Implication: Nerds love the LOTR trilogy and they all want to be Frodo. The LOTR trilogy is a pop nerd phenomenon. Most Fantasy fans acknowledge it and have read it and enjoyed it, but there are far better books of this genre as well. In fact, the nerds here are very science oriented, the group of Fantasy enthusiasts isn't necessarily the same. Yet another pigeon hole for these “nerds”.

***The nerds show up five minutes after the agreed upon time and the blond girlie host is caught off gaurd because no one has shown up yet and she hasn't even showered.
Implication: Being rude is cool and being punctual is lame. When did we become the society in Idiocracy?

***The nerds watch and analyze the partygoers like a science project.
Implication: People with intellect don't understand simple interactions.

***Frodo nerd decides to not be intimidated by the love interest's boyfriend who is dressed as Tarzan, touting that he is superior in the information age because he is smart. The Tarzan man picks up Frodo nerd after Frodo throws around a few insults coated with large words.

Implication: This scene is just embarrassing to both sides because now they have stereotyped the physically able man as an idiot and in the end, he still picks up Frodo and embarrasses him enough to make him leave the party.

***The love interest cries on the shoulder of the nerd who is unsure of how to comfort her.
Implication: Intellectuals are cold and have no idea how to comfort.

***Love interest kisses nerd and he asks how drunk she is and doesn't take advantage of her.
Implication: Only drunk girls give it up to social rejects who wouldn't even take it when handed to them.

This show needs to be more responsible and less offensive to those of us who understand more than the mere catch phrases and nerd quirks that general society has tied to being a loser. Just because a nerd gets kissed in the end doesn't make it acceptable to laugh at him for the other 19 minutes of this torturous and shallow show.

Magnetic Poop Is Choking Hazard

When this blog first emerged, it did so as a result of trauma. Last year's holiday season brought us the terrifying child's toy Butterscotch Pony, the life-sized pony that requires that parents assemble it away from their children for its mechanical head is packaged separately and such a vision may scar young children.

This year the prize winner for toy best kept away from children is Barbie and Her Doggie, Tanner. Yes, folks. You can feed Tanner biscuits that look the same going in as they do coming out. You can also dazzle your young one with a fabulous magnetic pooper scooper. I am sure that's what every little girl wants: to to play with her dog's crap in a twisted training regime that will condition her to carry around pockets of plastic baggies every time she walks real Fido. She could try magnets in her real life to clean up after her pooch, but I am not sure that would work.

Even more shocking is the media hooplah around the toy and its magnetic pooper scooper. Apparently, the magnet comes loose and kids can choke on it. Also, kids have been eating the round "biscuits".

At least they weren't converted into a date rape drug upon digestion.

You don't have to take my word for it. This seems to be a hot blog topic.

The Technology Liberation Front already wrote my blog for me and even illustrated it with a better graphics.

Y Jesus?

Hilarious Offensive Material Provided By: This Guy

We now continue with your regularly scheduled blog...

Zen and the Art of the Grillz

______As I advance in years, I watch the youth around me voraciously cling to trends and pop culture practices in order to find a group that will welcome them and embrace them as individuals. However, once in a while a trend is so artfully expressed, so creatively refined, that it ascends beyond the fifteen minute time limit. In today's terms, this would be that which is classical and timeless, a trend that is more “a revolution of the mind”*, such a force of truth and beauty that to part with it would mean the collapse of our social civilization.

_____I am talking about that which is the staple of an entire cultural experience: The Grillz.

_____Its wearers sacrifice the health of one of their most important orifices to honor the practice of Grillin'. Hours of bleeding gums, chipped enamel, rotting remnants of your last five meals, Grillz fosters them all while still showing your dawg you have enough cheese to afford such high gloss ice. These oral ornaments are a salute to the creator in thanks for his most masterful creation housed in the human body, “teef”.

_____True Grillaz, wearers of the Grillz, know that any old snap-ons or cubic zirconium studded incisors are a shameful display and are only worn by the most sycophantic of Grillaz wannabes. Proper Grillz require an oral jeweler, a rare genius gifted in the application of, removal of, and general maintenance of Grillz. To be sure that your oral jeweler is of a high caliber, you may want to ask him these few questions:

1. How many Grillz have you installed?

2. If one were to lose a few karats by accident, how long would it take for it to pass through one's digestive system?

3. Would you be willing to recover said karats?

4. If I can't afford gold, which polishes would guarantee my brass Grillz won't tarnish?

5. Can I please get a certification of authenticity with my Grillz so I can pass it on as a family heirloom?

Maintaining healthy Grillz is important if you are serious about honoring this legendary practice. Here are a few rules to abide by when wearing your Grillz:

1. Never ever smile with actual happiness with Grillz in your mouth. This will cause scratching and bleeding in your inner mouth.

2. Remove Grillz whenever engaging in oral sex of any kind. Not only is it extremely disrespectful to wear Grillz while engaging in such activities, it is a surefire way to lose your companion for the evening.

3. When displaying proper dedication, it may be necessary to skip meals or start an all liquid diet when proper cleaning utensils are not available and you are asked to dine in any situation.

4. BRACES are by no means the “training bra” of a mature Grillz. Please don't cheese like they are.

5. Incorporating his lord and savior into any piece of jewelry is the finest way to commemorate an entire religion's basis of existence. This is true for Grillz are well.

6. By no means shall wearing tin foil or gum wrappers ever be considered anything less than blasphemy.

7. Grillz are a powerful weapon. Please bite responsibly.

Quality grillz can be purchased at:

Grillz Authority

Abercrombie and Grillz

The Grillz Barn

Resortation HardGrillz

and, the most reliable of all Grillz retailers: Grillz R Us. (please be sure to turn you volume up for the complete experience)

*quote hijacked from Vanilla Sky

Bricks, loads, and dumps

Turkey Composite

When the stress rises beyond the shrug off or the close your eyes until it goes away phase, I like to indulge in doing as little as possible. Somewhere deep in the cracked corners of my personality, I feel that by not interacting with the world, it can't possibly explode in my face. For instance, a bad day may decide to top itself when I come home to make dinner by ensuring that I char whatever meal I decide to prepare. Or perhaps it manifests its last stab of the day in a hilarious visual to accompany the song "Fire, Water, Burn". Either way, I decide that when these days come around and do what they do (no kiss) that I do as little as possible as not to aggravate whatever force is in charge of things like turning my car into a magnet for paint or making sure that I put a pair of pants on with underwear still stored in the leg. Inevitably, I discover it and yank it out in front of my entire staff after feeling that something was off and perhaps I had gained weight in my back knee area. So, tonight, after a day I shall never relate, I decided that I needed to stay away from the stove and get some drive thru dinner.

Feeling like a greasy and gluttonous manatee, I chose something with a comfort food feel. Yes, turkey and mashed potatoes. Sure, it's only like 6 or 7 bucks, but really - we are paying for convenience here.

I come home with my little baggie containing a cafeteria style divided plate and plastic covering and dig in. Potatoes, perfect for something that comes in flake form before you water to it. Veggies, not bad. Turkey. Is this turkey? It tastes, and sort of looks like, a wet washcloth. This isn't turkey! This is some kind of composite of gamey poultry and parts of other animals that were rejected from the hot dog factories.

I am a purist in a lot of senses. I like to have furniture made of wood, not pressed wood or composites of wood or cardboard with flecks of oak in it. I expect this kind of blended materials from, perhaps, construction paper- not from turkey.

Below the pie chart will demonstrate the complete oneness of the "bird" or "animals" I just consumed.

Who thought that when you blended all those ingredients together you'd get something that tasted like a down comforter after you put it through the washer?

It just goes to show; on bad days, just stay in bed and don't move.

Worst.Cookie.Ever. (H)

Below is a scanned fortune I got after opening my fortune cookie. This is real, folks.


I wish this wasn't actually my life...

i is for idiot

Why is my favorite MP3 skipping? I thought we created MP3s to end the mind splattering effects of skipping. Records skipped and scratched and made all sorts of womb-like noises when they warped. Tapes slowed down your favorite beat and garbled lyrics. When CDs skipped, it sounded like an epilepsy fit. When iTunes skips, it sounds like you've been duped. Duped into Dling and getting yourself into a net where Apple controls whose computer what files are played on, which tunes you are willing to fork cash over to get, and how to read your most intimate collection of life soundtracks. Seriously, the way it does all those creepy things subversively when you first get it can be frightening. It labels all your songs, does all this research without you knowing, bringing back full album artwork and categorizing your files. While it goes behind your back and arranges all of your personals to fit the patterns of their master music filing system, you are left with grandfather speeds of processing, leaving the skipping song to grind on your nerves.

Who trusts something this invading? I mean, now somewhere - there is an imprint of your account. For some reason, the identification of my bank card is less personal and offensive than the identification linked to my personal music.

Yea, I have heard the arguments: iTunes is awesome. iTunes syncs with your ipod (which I DO NOT own). iTunes labels everything and makes it easy for you to pay legally for your music. iTunes only updates all your crap once and that is it. iTunes forces you to start a sentence with a lowercase letter.

I personally don't think a matter of filing that a half dyslexic secretary could organize is any trade off for the privacy and right to keep your crap as messy and random as it once was on Windows Media Player.

EYEtunes is more like it.

Yea, I'm a hater.

The Highway Communion

I don't know about the rest of the nation, but living in So. Florida has afforded a subversive culture centered around the highway. The situation is unique to Florida's design. South Florida was built on the beach, as close to the sand as possible, and over time cities have expanded more and more to the west. This continued until they hit upon the everglades and were forced to stop. Aside from the ever pungent smell of the man-made lakes, the half sinking developments on the brink of the marsh, and the spotting of rare birds on the highway, the impact on nature was barely measured...I mean immeasurable. Because of the urban sprawl, massive highways were constructed so that middle class inhabitants could bypass all of the overpriced and upper class developments to go see their other middle class friends on the other side of the county. There is no one here who doesn't have to take at least a 20 minute drive to visit their good friend. It's become so bad that even if you live down the street from a friend, you are forced through five lane roads with a light every three cars.

As a result, you live in your car, which is actually a good thing considering how the stark heat is hot enough to make your hair start to smolder once you are exposed to the bare sun. Most of the time people mistake this time in the car for alone time. I say that people should roll down their windows and share the experience with the other 200 people on the road with them. We already sort of communicate with them. A passing glance, a nonchalant flip of the bird, or even a polite yet firm honk of the horn are everyday ways to get to those around you. Below you will find list of activities that will break the ice with other drivers who share in the same misery and drained bank accounts that come with commuting.

The things we have done in the car:

* Make signs. Perhaps you want to brighten someone's day with a, "Hey, you're hot. What's your #?", or a "Take your hand off your boyfriend's cock and drive!".

* Projectiles are often an important way to hail someone's attention. Some people use pennies, we prefer something tastier and with staining abilities: melted M & Ms.

* I, personally, don't take my pants down while driving, but I have been mooned several times on the highway; a delightful way to introduce yourself. Nothing says, "Hey, ho. I want attention" than naked ass cheeks pressed against tinted windows.

* "Honk if you're....." stickers usually work. Insert whatever word you want: poor, hungry, horny, getting fired for lewd conduct, etc.

* Learn sign language. I-95 during most times of the day is nothing more than a farm for exhaust. I say have a chat with the car next to you with your hands. You can also just carry around a pad and pen and pass notes.

Whatever you choose to do to connect to your fellow commuter, for the love of God, keep the music to yourself. There is nothing more obnoxious, and by default, nothing that defeats the purpose more than trying to share your love of dirty gangster rap by ruining your expensive sound system in an attempt to spread what you, no doubt, find to be deep and prophetic musical stylings that can barely be heard over the the chatter and rattle of the exterior of your less than prestigious car.

Do I really need to tell you why this is here?

Truth Serum

In the world that inhabits our senses today, we seem to run into many things that are against our sensibilities, so we slowly adapt to the disappointment. We accept situations that may not fit our desires as long as we can contort them in our psyche. When our fantastical walls crumble, we are left with the truth; that terrible situation that was just so obvious to everyone else around us.

The BIG things we lie to ourselves about:

*Love - Everything that is included in this deluded fairy tale we continually tell ourselves is attainable. It's like a religion we've subscribed to that promises to provide us with everlasting happiness. It even advertises that it can erase your sins if you continue to stay loyal. When we think divine intervention itself has somehow aligned us with our "soulmate", we give into it blindly thinking we don't have to suffer to make things run smoothly. Survival and social breath was once tied to this entire concept, much like being a good Christian was in medieval times. Now that being single isn't a crime or a sign of deviance, we as people don't settle anymore for someone who will either cook or provide for us. We want happy times all the time. Because we have this power now and we've entitled ourselves to break hearts in the name of our selfish whims, the entire foundation of romantic love has disintegrated. Why do we keep buying into an institution of survival when we are not in a crisis situation? It becomes a vestigial burden and a continual disappointment. We've all seen Sex and the City. The show is literally a visual of millions of single women sitting there scratching their heads over this evolutionary phenomenon. That's not to say that people don't need people, but our notions of what is supposed to happen are continually knocked on their asses and then we sit here and write blogs about the anachronism known as romantic love. If you want to know the truth, I am sure romantic love was dreamed up by the church in order to convince the masses that a higher power was involved in their crummy existences and that all they toiled about with was not without merit. It's like a 12 step program for the chronically afraid.




*Intelligence - Oh, do we lie the most to ourselves here. We make up tools continually to measure our smarts, but we've just proven our own stupidity in the mere action of entertaining the thought that we are allowed to systemize a field which we barely comprehend. We use our self proclaimed smarts to dominate others and climb to the top of the pyramid because ignorance and fear are closely tied. We are afraid of what we don't know, so if we know the most - we are the least afraid. At least that's what we tell ourselves, but we all know that the more you know, the scarier everything is. Ignorance is bliss. Flowers for Algernon, anyone?



*Immunity - Along with our tendency for giving ourselves more credit than we deserve, we somehow also believe that we are special. I guess it's natures way of making us give a shit, but seriously - a person not deluding themselves constantly knows perfectly well that bad luck happens all the time and it doesn't discriminate. There is some kind of weird bubble around most people who think that everything will always be alright. Their souls are shaken to the core when something does happen. Recovery then is almost impossible. We will one day see war in our backyards, and by that I mean people bleeding, buildings burning, etc. No, I am not a revolutionary or whatever name you call the people who push for change via violence (almost all groups desperate enough to make an impact), I am just saying no matter where you stand on this sphere, you will see it one day. You are not immune.

So, I guess in the end my advice is to live alone, stop thinking, and be afraid.

Hmm..not at all what I had in mind.


Oh well.

We Just Throw Parties

I call up my best friend, the Human Google, today and inquired as to what he's got planned for his Saturday night on this blessed of all weekends, The Labor Day extension. In the past, I'd be calling him up while I white knuckle it on some distant highway, driving my precious automobile to the most feared of all locations; a club made out of some old warehouse in the middle of the ghetto. I am usually still telling him about how my nerves have successfully made my entire digestive tract into a slip and slide as I swerve between pee soaked homeless men in order to park my car in a location that won't make it easy for them to use it as a lavatory. After this, I nervously walk up to the place, hoping that I've got my dress and make up correct to fit in at whatever hellhole I have somehow sacrificed my dignity to attend. Once inside, I am still nervous because not only am I an amazon, but I am also alone and can't tell if I will actually recognize my friends in the dark. Forget about hearing anything and forget about feeling the cell phone vibrate. The music is too damned loud and at this point, I think I may have a concussion from the bass.

After I get to the bar and am ignored by the female bar tender, I get my usual: vodka tonic. I do this for a few reasons; vodka tonics are strong, they won't make me bloat, the tonic eases my now vat of acid acting as a stomach, and they don't taste like a hypoglycemic nightmare. I drink and awkwardly stare in the dark at people that I am not sure are my friends. When I do see them, I remember that I don't know them all that well. Any friends that I am close with have learned that these kinds of situations suck. So, I dance a bit to the music that is too loud to be enjoyed. I look around and wonder if any of these people are dying of thirst like I am. I wonder if the man now grinding himself into me realizes that he is at level with my knee, and as much as my knees need lovin too, it's quite uncomfortable. Of course when I lose balance from this dance of midget on stork, he thinks I am being affectionate.

It's not a rare occurrence for me to be at these places on an all girl night. When us girls want to "stand in a circle around our purses and shoes"*, I am frequently the last to get hit on and therefor the "cockblocking bitch". I don't mean to be and, hell, who wants to admit they never get hit on? It isn't because I am super ugly or fat or anything. It's usually because I live in a place where short girls with tiny everythings are coveted by short men with tiny other things. It's just how this town is. I'll just say it: I'm white. That's not to say I can't dance or don't have assets. I am just not the type that would ever cook dinner in my stilettos after arranging my Precious Moments figurines when I come home from church with our twelve children, all named after my husband, who is the picture of machismo. Tall, white girls don't usually do it for these folks. So, I am left. If I do get approached, it is by the most intoxicated or the most creepy person in the bar.

My best friend, Human Google, often shakes his head in amazement when I tell him what I did the night before. He is eager to remind me that real people don't do things like that exclusively. Sure, once in a while it's fun to say you lost twenty percent of your hearing in an effort to get close to people, but for the most part people of quality know better; they usually throw parties.
So, for tonight, a Saturday night, I am sitting home writing long winded blogs and he is out at Vagina Slims, feeling uncomfortable while he drinks his screwdriver and girls with low self esteem dance on bars in glorified underwear. I know he is looking around right now realizing he's actually surrounded by horny frat guys, who frankly scare him and make him ashamed of his gender. Who knows, maybe he'll even try and rub himself on a random girl because that's what he is continually told is fun.

Nah, he's just standing there awkwardly screaming in order to have some sort of conversation with the guys he went there with. They will all come home without numbers or names, just as I have and wonder how the hell people find this sort of thing entertaining.




*Dane Cook reference

Yes, I am a dork

Slop + Mess +Art =

**Insert excuses for lack of blogging action here.**

They may include, but are not limited to, alien abductions, the removal of a Siamese twin, doing jail time for attempts on the president's life, and falling in love.

Decleaning Your House

If you are anything like myself, (a human being with no flaws at all, a fantastic physique, a face a model would kill for, and more money than you can count, but enough brains to invest it and do my own taxes), then you probably loathe the idea of cleaning, yet you desire the sanitation and relaxation that comes with a clutter free lifestyle.

Here is my revolt. Here is your guide to loving the character-rich apartment that a mess makes.

Rules

1. Refrigerators need to be turned off or thrown away:

   Refrigerators are cold, meaning they can hold food for a long time before it decays. This is

   both good and bad. You want your house to have its own fragrance so that people can return and feel nostalgic for the old times. The fridge stink can aid this, but it does take longer than – say, putting your leftovers on the windowsill or in the dryer. Also, an efficient fridge will take away from the colorful forms of life that you have brought into the universe. You are creating life from fuel. If that's not the greatest thing ever, I don't know what is. You are the god of your fungal colony. The fridge just delays your universe.
   

2. Drawers are stupid:
   
   Doing laundry is a necessary evil. It should be completely abolished, but lo and behold “society” doesn't approve of your own personal scent and it doesn't treat people kindly when it realizes the tie dye effect on your shirt is actually just a pattern created by rings of your own sweat. So, you're stuck cleaning your clothing. It's necessary to get rid of your drawers and scatter your clean clothes about the room creating colorful rugs and patterned piles of art. These piles of wearable art are also a wonderful alternative to furniture. They can be arranged to mimic beds, sofas, tables, and even litter boxes.
   
   

3. Dvds and Cds are excellent building blocks:
   
   I have walked into many houses adorned with shelves packed with DVDs and CDs. These fixtures are trite and uninteresting. I suggest, after sprawling your DVDs on the floor, building towers, houses, and even a domino-like trail of pillars. Now, your precious treasures have doubled their entertainment value.
   

4. Shower texture:

   Why is getting clean always a messy process? A bathtub full of products to rid your body of dirt do nothing but leave their films and shaving scum all over the place. Why even deal with this if your next shower just adds to the collection? You, fine homewowner, need to understand the value of saving. If you are patient, you will be able to reap the rewards of a uniquely textured bathtub. No more slipping on the smooth surface, and no more of that harsh white porcelain blinding you. Shower cake also holds heat, so you will remain in hot water longer than with a regular tub.

5. Vacuums suck:
   
   Carpet is coming back, people! Now, you are pressured into carpeting your wonderful tile or hardwood floor. That could cost a fortune! Fear not, a simple toss of your Hoover can actually create that soft, warm, shag carpet feel. Carpet build up will even be expedited if you own animals. Now you can stop cleaning up the shedding of your favorite pet. Throw that damned vacuum away and grow your own carpet with dust bunnies and dirt trailings.
   
   

So stop wasting your life getting rid of the inevitable. Embrace it and become one with the mess. You'll see that you have more time and energy and perhaps, if you are lucky, discover a new strain of bacteria.

Living on the Landfill

Let's go visit Genna. Drive two miles down the road to wait in the mile long line to get into her spectacular “gated” community. Waterfalls roar on either side of the guard house. The rush mutes out your inner screaming as you wait three hours to finally get inside of this cookie cutter labyrinth. Yes, it looks like a vision of conformity that only Disney's Celebration could truly emulate. The winding road leads you to a street where you slowly drive past each house, slightly pausing to see if you have counted exactly 12 houses in to find your best friend. Even the numbers on these cloned domains don't help. Is she 121145 or 124511? A car would be a helpful cue, but who doesn't own a Honda these days? A black Honda, or maybe it was silver. Fuck. Well, you pull into the driveway of a house that you “feel right” about and you knock on the door hoping you have either found your best friend or at least someone who resembles your friend. Genna opens the door. Jackpot. The houses get bigger, the rooms get smaller and you bunch into her broom closet of a room where you can't close the door because the foot of her bed is in the way. Silly girl, did you think you could have your room and sleep in it too? You sit on something that you may suspect is the vacuum cleaner or perhaps it is a sleeping dog. She goes on and on about her life in a matchbox home and you can't help but think of rotting diapers. Why is this image looming overhead? Because that is the image looming in the air. Yes, the breeze has decided to blow in a westardly direction and the visible green gas has now managed to cloud every part of the development, from the waterfalls to the man made lake in the backyard with the banks that seem to be melting into the hole that was dug to raise prices on the cardboard cottages. Genna's clothes, hair and cat now emit a trace remnant of these fumes. I have often looked at her pets, especially the dog-sized goldfish, that she has managed to keep alive and thought that their accelerated growth rate was due to Genna's excellent fish nutrition regime. I was wrong. It's obvious that whatever corrosive chemical they are using on that landfill has not only helped the gulls circling over it become as massive as eagles, but it has seeped into the water supply and the air supply enlarging everything within a three mile radius. Her cat is merely a stomach with legs and her eight year old niece is an amazon. The effects of the gas from the mountain of decay have also become psychological. Genna is now on an never ending hunt for a perfume that will block out the reality of her living situation. At night she gets up and takes showers to rid herself of the smell, something like burning eggs and moldy towels, but the water just ingrains the funk into her skin. Once in a while I question her family's decision to buy property on a hazardous waste site and then I think of my apartment, only two miles up the road and remember why I tolerate the location; it's the only place I could afford that wasn't an efficiency. I did trade a kitchen, a full bathroom, and a bedroom for some altered genes and cancer, but wouldn't you?