There is a saying that makes people's heads catch fire about what should be a right and what should be a privilege...which I'm not going to mention.
However, it got me thinking about something.
Back in the day, when the Bill of Rights was being drawn up, this is what healthcare looked like:
There was no question about whether someone could afford the help they needed, or if in fact they wanted the help they were getting, because if they lived through the night they'd probably give the doctor a bottle of booze or a horse or something or maybe they'd shoot the doctor if he messed up and that was that.
Now--with the exceptions of that nurse who recently exposed hundreds of people to hepatitis C...and everyone who catches MRSA in the hospital...and the ludicrous drug-pushing that goes on--medical care seems appealing. I want in. Nineteen years is enough. Especially coming off a weekend where I ended up face down on the concrete waving my good arm until someone noticed. Only I'd have to pay 10x more a month to insure this lump of flesh banging away at the keys than I do to insure my car, providing I lied about my pre-existing condition and never mentioned I'm Google-able and then...let's just whisk past how I've been spending a majority of my time.
So I have a selfish reason for wanting the utter bullshit I've been hearing and receiving in e-mails over access to necessary healthcare for poor people to stop. Any further argument involving the word socialist from anyone who regularly enjoys the cold touch of a stethoscope will merely be met my bleary glare and a very special finger extended on the arm that still works properly.
Poor people have as much of a right to live as those snowflake baby things in the petri dishes. Healthy poor people have a 50% chance of being not as poor within a short amount of time, too, according to a statistic I just pulled out of my ass. MMM, increased productivity!
The opinions expressed in this post are those of the personality of the blogger that comes out on every alternate solar eclipse not visible to the U.S. and should not be taken personally if you, the reader, feel poor people should die. She really loves you more than politics but needed to get this off her wheezy chest in order to resume the life she rather fancies despite all the falling down.
Summary: I am for the public option and single-payer plan and all the stuff the senate is dicking around about. President Obama wants the public option. It's the Senators looking to be re-elected by poor people haters that are dragging their feet. Remember this ten years from now. Also, I have a bow saw if anyone needs their leg seen to.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Don't Look...Bite This!
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Just For Spies: ELIMINATE Gray
The other night we're watching Body Of Lies--I thought it was good, btw--and there's a scene where Leonardo DiCaprio's character changes his hair color, and then changes it back.
We started getting silly, and wondering how he changed it back so quickly and the people around him didn't smell dye, etc, and I said....
"He used Just For Spies."
BOOM!
Ah, I entertain myself.
(pictured: Jackal Brown. Also look for Bourne Blonde, wherever spy supplies are sold.)
Monday, March 02, 2009
Take The Tater Train To Terror Town
Have you ever been doing something and suddenly a freaky voice comes across the TV or radio saying that a test of the Emergency Broadcast System is about to take place and even though they assure you that it's only a test, the sound they play strikes primordial fear into your very soul?
I have.
One of those uncontrollable unexplained phenomena of my existence involved me being so terrified of ordinary Emergency Broadcast Test announcements I would drop my Lego and scurry into the kitchen, to the relative safety of seeing where my mother was. Eventually she caught on, something about me running out of the room every single time a special report would break into a show must have given it away, and to this day we laugh heartily over, "This is a test," or "This is a special report," being followed by the sound of my feet in the hallway.
It still scares the living crap out of me.
While I get that special reports back in the '80s usually meant bad things had happened, I won't even try to deny that I still have random unwarranted fears, usually when I'm tired, usually when I'm confronted with something I don't recognize, and usually I end up laughing so hard at it that I eventually end up blogging about the things my mind does to me so you can all have a good laugh.
The most recent incident of "The Fear" was triggered by an NPR show called, fittingly, Hearing Voices.
Clicking on the link will take you to the very show, and the offending segment begins around the second minute. Listening to it now, it's clever, this interaction with Julie, the Amtrak God. Only the night--or rather, morning--it played on WFUV I had just had a nice day complete with a visit from family who traveled by Amtrak. It was, needless to say, much much later. Early, people who sleep call it.
I had just finished washing my face when I first noticed the disembodied female voice saying, "I don't know."
She didn't exactly sound anything at all like anyone in my family, but suddenly here was this woman making travel plans in my head where once there was music coming out of my headphone radio. The other disembodied voice was guessing what the woman meant by, "I don't know," and their exchange went on until the voice said something terrifying.
"I think you asked for November 10th."
Now, when automated disembodied voices mention dates that naturally freak me out and no one else in the house is awake, bad things start happening. The afterimage of the bathroom light drifts through darkened rooms trying to get me, the eyes of my Mr. Potato Head Darth Vader start following me everywhere I go, and I...scurry into the room where my mother was sleeping until I bounced off the wall to just stand there like an idiot, the pulse in my ears somewhere around 500 and my arms doing their own involuntary dance that would put the Hand Jive to shame. Flailing, I think it's called.
At this point changing the radio station to some innocuous disco was completely out of the question, not that it had occurred to me. Sunday morning radio is populated by freaky talking people but rarely is anything so mentally jarring as a chick who keeps saying, "I don't know," and having a computer guess what she wants.
Some hours later, after I'd blacked out for a while and got up to do Sunday-like things, I came out of the bathroom to find...standing in the doorway of my room...staring right at me...Darth Tater.
Reason #97 my Mum rules: the same twisted sense of humor.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Bring The Pokémon!
A few movie nights ago Mum pulls out this bag of seemingly harmless popcorn. Yet halfway into the movie I began to get sleepy and hear music in my head. Never mind that I was wearing my radio and it was totally late.
I woke up with numbers scribbled on my face in a clockwise fashion with a magic marker. Judging by the way my nose threw a shadow on the four, I was facing entirely the wrong direction.
...I know, I totally would have expected pudding to do this, right?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Bronx Diet
It's a well-known fact that The Bronx rose up out of the oceans of time as farmland. The ancient first Americans--Aquehung to the girls in the park--knew how to eat, as evidenced by their inability to die of cholesterol. Only the bullets of mad canoeists such as Jonas Bronck and cowboys were able to halt the immortality of early Bronxites.
So I was thinking, why hasn't the ancient knowledge of the fruits of the Earth been passed down to the humans milling about now? Why indeed. I must end this.
Food is all around: Due to its vast farming history, the soil of The Bronx is rife with the seeds of food. If it grows out of the ground it will make you feel good when you eat it. It is a fact. The magical mushrooms which sprout from the mercury-laden soil is rich in poisonous hallucinogens, perfect for those unable to buy both food AND drugs. Keeps the kids quiet and turns any long-time spouse into something fresh and interesting!
A river runs through it: There is no lack of interesting things to drink in The Bronx! The flavorful waters of the coincidentally-named Bronx River are just water to be drunk. But if water rats have bred in is not your thing, there are Snapple dispensers on every corner, full of tasty delights. Spicy Hobo Urine can be found bottled in the tall grasses on special days of the week. Check with your neighbor if they've found any, don't let them hoard it all!
Soup's on: Dandelions are just dandy! The entire entity known as the humble dandelion can be eaten, and you will not only lose forty pounds of fluids but you will be unwilling to taste anything but the fiery bitterness of the dandelion leaf. Waiting for the cottony phase of the dandelion yields delightful candy for junior!
Something On The Side: Drug stores are within crawling distance of every pavement for quick veggie side dishes known as chips. Here the humble potato has already cut itself into handy mouth-sized slices of crunchiness after mating with the local favorite onion and mineral sour cream.
Looks good on your face, too: Dollar stores are treasure troves of friendly garnish. Natural crystals formations known as lipstick are delicious when sliced over a salad of dandelion greens and raw morchella esculenta!
Not all things found in The Bronx are edible. Some things, such as automobiles, were dropped by wild birds and should not be ingested. If found, police should also be abstained from on account of their high doughnut and caffeine content. Rainbow water, commonly found in parking lots and along garages, will give you shiny hair but you will most likely be dead of indigestion before noticing.
I hope these handy eating tips make 2009 a healthier year and teach you self-reliance in case you ever get off the bus at the wrong stop and need to survive on wits alone until rescued. Soon even you will be giving a big cheer to the delectable cuisine of The Bronx!
Mangia.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
You haven't lived until you're smelling of three strangers' urine.
It just seems my luck that I wait forty years for a blind date, and my utterly clueless coworkers set me up with a woman so enamored of one Richard Bruce Cheney that she had reconstructive surgery to fashion herself into a 90-pound version of her hero. Oddly, this did not instantly dawn on me when she showed up at my cardboard excuse for a door with a hunting rifle slung over her shoulder. She doesn't know the area, I thought. She'll relax once I show her my magic trick with the deviled eggs.
Man, was I wrong.
My idea of going to see Koyaanisqatsi before eating was the first mistake, as she swore loudly all through the bit with the Soviet tanks and wound up shooting me in the leg when I tried to get friendly. After we were kicked out I had to resort to riding around in her lap being I couldn't drive anymore.
Just my luck it was free Long Island Iced Tea night at the Jiffy Lube just before the highway turnoff. The idea was that anyone keeping their car--and somehow the entire world--in tune deserved to get 100% shit-faced as a reward. Oh, there had to be ten cars with drivers whose eyes were as glazed as the simonized metal monsters that rolled over us. I lost count after seven, anyway.
Strangely enough, my companion for the evening didn't say a single off-color word as this was happening. At first I thought she was dead, and tried to reason how I would explain this to my husband, but then a kindly vagrant came over and stood the wheelchair up before making off with it, dislodging the gravel from her throat and ensuring she would live to yodel again. Being we were quite squashed into the gel-and-faux-fleece seat cushion, we were treated to an evening of bum festivities, such as seeing who could piss the furthest after chugging bourbon banana smoothies, and then came a midnight recital of drunken poetry.
"Ah rung up the fat barney with toadlicker and marbles corn tingled," I think one toothless gent was insisting. I nodded along best I could with his tale, hoping that as long as I seemed transfixed my date wouldn't get too frisky. The third SUV to go over her head had dislodged the recent nose job she'd had and I wouldn't even know what I was snogging if I took the chance. As it was the man who stole the wheelchair was having his way with it by a flaming trashcan and I had no intention of sitting in it ever again. So my first blind date ended with us all unwittingly eating a poisoned wild bird from behind the airport. It tasted just like bologna.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Streets Will Run With The Gravy Of The Non Pie-Eaters
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Having digestive disorders has taught me holidays aren't about food, they're about sappy warm fuzzy loving of your loved ones, so have a good time however you do it where you are, and as always thanks for reading my blog, it really keeps me going. Seriously.
Of course after you read my chilling tale of horror you may rethink encouraging me. *ahem*
On a chilly November morning, one shot rang out in warning
The ones who could fly took to the sky
Carrying the signal that justice was dawning.
From coast to coast many humans played host
To travellers hungry for flesh.
Restaurants and food banks all shared the same boast
That their turkeys had just arrived fresh.
From ovens and freezers, the vigilantes rose
Taking up weapons their slaughterers chose
"Pardon me!" the headless turkeys said
Pulling out muskets to shoot the chefs dead.
The sun set on houses engulfed in flames
Grinders ground down the meat-eaters' remains
A message was left in the ransacked malls
Smeared ten feet high in blood on the walls
A simple wish meant for you and I
EAT PIE OR DIE.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The Eight Demands Of Migraines
I Am Having A Migraine, Therefore I Am A Migraine
Thou Shalt Not Make Me Want To Kill You
Thou Shalt Not Idolize Rave Lights
Thou Shalt Put No Billy Mays Before Me
Thou Shalt Not Make Wrongful Smells
Remember The Migraine Days And Clear The Schedule
Thou Shalt Not Empty The Medicine Bottle Without Replacing It
Thou Shalt Not Claim To Understand The Triggers, For They Are Mysterious And Many, And Violaters Shall Be Cast Into Puke
Sunday, November 09, 2008
One Last Throw Down
A few days ago I posted the Obama/McCain Dance-Off video, but it was at the end of a very long thing and it deserves a spot all its own because it's awesome, no matter who you rooted for.
Friday, September 19, 2008
What The World Needs Now.
Think about it...
They've served in World War II, fought the legal system, rained down sulphur in Sodom and Gomorrah, and worked for the CIA.
They'll reform childcare, and make sure everyone gets a hundred-and-fifty grand education for a dollar-fifty in late charges at the public library.
They're for the working people, but if you don't live up to your potential, they'll f'ing kill you.
If that's not enough to convince you, even the first lady would have a load of foreign policy.
Need I say more?
Okay, I will. Kevin Smith for Secretary of Defense.
Eh? Eh? You know it could work.
Hi, my name is Lynda, I'm a silly person and I approve this message.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Almost the Definition of Irony
Did you know it was National Invisible Chronic Illness week? Neither did I! I didn't even know there was such a thing.
It's too late in the week to get into my history of burning innards and disco brains, or how I eventually became grateful for the nosebleeds because it was like big messy proof that something weren't right in this girl. Wasn't always pleased to wake up with one, though.
So instead I'll make fun of the latest NY Deptartment of Health and Mental Hygiene bulletin about sleep, called Sleep: Are You Getting Enough?. This is on the same page as the 9/11 memorial. Um. Sleep well! Hope you wake up.
According to the bulletin, many people don't get enough sleep, but some people don't need so much, and newborns need to sleep away their youth. Tsk. So if you happen to be a newborn and you are not getting 18 hours of sleep, ask your parents for Benadryl. They'll be giving it to you soon enough. (I should note nobody ever drugged me to sleep as a kid--no, Nan was happy to have the company watching Britcoms and the Late Night Double Feature and I learned a lot from late-night HBO. You can search YouTube for Dressed To Kill on your own.)
Some reasons for not sleeping include having a fast-paced lifestyle or children in the bed. No explanation for what a newborn is to do if he happens to be in bed with himself. One offered solution is to go to bed only when sleepy. I predict all of New York is going to be really quiet tomorrow afternoon.
Then they go into how you may not be sleeping because you might not be breathing, or have a disease keeping you awake. Well...I hadn't thought of that...gosh....
The last page goes into the usual accusations of being a lazy sod, or a drug addict, or using the bed for unbedly activities, and promotes use of the medical industry. It took four people to create that brochure and waste an hour of my night. Well, the whole hour wasn't a waste as I found the original CBS Late Late Show intro and the WPIX Film Festival. I used to wait for those things, man. Never used to be able to explain how great they were, either, because all the other kids I knew went to bed way before Hart To Hart even came on. I used to feel like a freak because I couldn't sleep on command, and it's cost me jobs and friendships, but those late hours of the night were made for something, and someday, maybe, I'll figure it out.
Until then, turn off the TV and go to bed.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Checkmate, I Think.
Way back when I used to fill my free time with quizzes like, "What flavor are you?" and "Are you an introvert, as if taking this test on a Saturday evening couldn't tell you?" I did the Jungian Personality Sorter thing that told me what I already knew, I'm J.F. Sebastian. Or Qwi Xux.
Not Your Typical Personality Types has a different take on the results, which I think is more dead-on. Judge for yourself, this is mine:
INTJ: The outside contractor
INTJs are solid, competent personalities who may seem aloof and even arrogant, but who are typically highly skilled in any field which interests them. INTJs are confident in their skills and knowledge, self-assured, and imaginitive; their exceptional problem-solving skills make them ideal architects, auto mechanics, and tools of the evil empire. While it requires the driving will to conquer of an ENTJ to imagine the Death Star and the evil genius of an ENTP to invent its devastating weapons systems, the skill and technical prowess of the INTJ is what makes the whole thing work.
The INTJ sees life as a problem to be solved. For that reason, the INTJ is the person a company brings in from the outside to streamline production processes and identify redundant assets for termination. The INTJ's combination of analyticial problem-solving skills and complete and utter disregard for the morality or consequences of his actions also make him ideal for the job of hatchet man, CIA operative, and helpdesk operator.
RECREATION: INTJs are often baffled by the strange and incomprehensible recreational rituals of other people, such as going to parties, watching television, and having sex. Instead, they prefer to spend their leisure time installing twin missile launchers in their cars to deter tailgaters and playing chess with megalomaniac CEOs of the Tyrell corporation.
COMPATIBILITY: Silly person, INTJs don't have relationships! They may, however build their own friends.
Famous INTJs include J. F. Sebastian and Sgt. Apone.
Friday, August 08, 2008
I'm Unqualified To Judge But The Music Is Pretty, and Jackie Chan Is Involved.
I'm not going to jump on a very high soap box* about the summer Olympics starting in Beijing...a few hours ago in real time, but in my future. You know, it freaks me out that half the world gets the future before us. I mean, it's hardly a consolation that I get 4PM before Alaska, because they've got nicer weather. But I digress*.
There's never been an Olympics that didn't have some controversial preparations or teams or judges or massacres...in my lifetime anyway*, but that's not what these things are supposed to be about, they're about fair play and laying down arms and shiny happy people holding hands...oh sod it, we're twenty steps away from being China so while I'm not buying any pins this time around* and I will continue to glare disapprovingly at the TV*, I fully expect Jacques Rogge to end with the customary best games ever twaddle and that'll be that. Onto the next one. I'm so jaded*. (Don't buy blood jade from the Burmese mines, kids.)
The point of this post was really to show you what Black20.com did with the Official 2008 Olympics Theme: Please Ignore The Communism. The half of me that finds stuff like this funny thought it was hilarious. Plus it's got Jackie Chan!
*The punchline to practically everything I said here could be, "Because I'm getting old."
Thursday, August 07, 2008
One Day You'll Grow Tall And Strong, And Kill Me In My Sleep.
Continuing the story behind the Twitter post that became legend, I would like to show you my tree of DOOM.
A presumed descendant of the sweetgum which grew behind our old shed for 60 years, I very nearly mowed this little beauty which decided to sprout up near the daylilies. Under cover of...well, unless the ladder is involved I go unnoticed...I transplanted it to a place where I knew it would be safe, and protected, and could grow freely and would block that afternoon sun the way Wandlimb used to before she upped and left town to hook up with her boy the original used to.
When you spend the majority of twenty-five years looking at a tree, then it dies and has to be cut down, but another of its kind suddenly appears one day...snap, you'll do anything to have those leaves waving to you again on some breezy October night.
So I put the gazing ball in front of it. Three years passed, not a word. Suddenly my mother's leg is mostly healed (knock wood), and WHAT IS THAT?!
The original tree died in part because there was a shed on it. I joke that it killed itself to get away from us, and that's not far from the truth. The roots hit the retaining wall between properties, hit the shed, then hit itself, over and over again, until 60 years later it got weak enough for the unruly termites to have a banquet.
60 years.
I don't really have to worry about this little tree, do I? I don't really have to worry about the five-year-old mulberry growing near the location of the original that lived 80 years, or the black cherry tree that just appeared in 2002. My grandfather's favorite tree, the cherry tree he used to sit under, not only is still going at 90, it housed baby robins this year. The birds love these trees as much as I do, and therefore the cats are also obsessed with our trees. These trees obviously belong here.
I never go into how all this could be taken away at any minute, because it's not at all amusing. Do I want to think of that, or do I want to make out with look at my little minty twig of happiness? Because, man, those leaves are delicious. Turned my lips numb today, but they're freaking tasty!
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
The Cleaning Isn’t The Hard Part, It’s The Danger of Getting My Skull Cracked.
Anyone who has been waiting for a reply from me for more than a year will not be surprised to learn that I’ve never willingly been involved in a long-term committed relationship commonly referred to as friendship dating. I may be selling myself short, but I suspect few people would find someone who fills every waking moment with their own interests and has a tendency to turn dumb and fall down when exposed to sunlight "hittable."
I like my house, I love my yard, I’m not looking to run away--there’s another rub. Mr. Knightly didn’t stay at Hartfield to keep Emma’s cats happy, and even if he did, he sure as hell would not be interested in sleeping in a bed that tilts 30 degrees. Maybe Beldar the Conehead would dig that, but...no.
So it struck me as odd when I was minding my business, finishing up my little comic strip for the day, very happy with the way my life has been going, when I detected things being said not six feet from me that hinted I ought to have been married off by now and also that these women I live with, who ought to know better because it was their insistence that I not work after sundown "in this area," seem to want to go to Costa Rica. Not really, of course, they couldn't even stand a few hours in Montauk, but it was on House Hunters International, the titanomagnetite beach of Costa Rica. Shiny.
They’ve heard that perfect mates can be found online, you see. They’ve just heard this. From a success story. Therefore my years of stories about meeting men who told me they wanted to surprise me by waiting on my porch and would greet me with, "Turn on ur webcam," must be lies.
I rarely bring up that there is someone I’ve been very deeply in, "OMG you’re so amazing," for years. I’m as socially awkward as the strange local man who shuffles around behind me humming off-tune crazy music by the banana displays, so I never even mention it to he-who-I-consider-a-male-muse. Call it pathetic, but I'd rather not hurt someone and it's a lot less dangerous than opening myself to meeting insanely jealous maniacs who will burn my house down rather than help me clean the gutters if I happen to mention I liked Jar-Jar. I am more likely to acquire the skill of cleaning my own gutters.
(Because it's been gnawing at me that someone could read this and miss the sarcasm, I want to point out that I only refer to Mum and Nan as "these women I live with" when they do things totally out of character and make me feel inadequate. It's like the game parents play where kids suddenly have lots of proper names and are the child of the other parent. There's no better women to live with, even if they do apparently want to get rid of me.)
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
I Can't Wait To See The Golden Compass.
I read the books when they first came out, right before I read The Hobbit and all that came after. His Dark Materials is not Lord of the Rings. It is not The Chronicles of Narnia. It is not Harry Potter. It is what it is, and I love it, and if one more movie trailer starts with, "In the tradition of" any other series, I am going to have to write my own damn series that has like, people in it, and pass it off as the next series of people going from place to place--possibly by broom--doing stuff that doesn't involve fart jokes.
Yes, coming soon to a theater near you, a band of orphaned curlers discover a tiny magical person prophesized to alter the fat content of donuts forever living in the ancient Scottish quarry of the sparkly granites and must go to space to rescue the chalice of chelation before the the queen (played by Dame Edna) eats the last donut made by the baker with the flaming hands, who is kept in a vegetative state in a burn unit until the skip returns.
Think I could get Annie Lennox to do the theme song?
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Give Me A Pill That Makes Me Slur.
I'm feeling very honest at the moment, and that never ends well for me, but that is the consequence of listening to the Bryan Ferry song from Legend too much. I get migraines, and part of the glory that is a migraine--for me--is that my jaw gets very stiff and it appears to people who don't know me very well--like for three decades--that I am having some sort of stroke or drug overdose. This always amuses me a few days later.
One thing I found to be useful after a night of banging my head on the keyboard to get relief was an article that describes a device that goes between the front teeth and can reduce jaw stiffness or something, I don't remember what I read by now because the lightning, it is in my head.
Seeing as I'm uninsured and unable to find a dentist willing to work at 2AM in exchange for say, a nice lemon pie and a few bootlegged B-movies, I looked at the one thing I knew would bring relief. My trusty little happy face pencil. Except instead of using it to stab myself through the temple, I put it in between my front teeth. Oh, if my family could see me now, never mind drug overdoses, I'm gonna die from the lead poisoning!
No, you know, I think these pencils were made in China, and a lot of the paint has been gnawed off over the past few months. Not to mention that I've been wary of putting the pencil in my mouth the past few migraines because I dropped it in the yard the other day while I was drawing, and you know, ants breed out there.
The thing that amuses me even more than being told I need medical attention is being told that the Excedrin Migraine that I take once I notice my elaborate aura is what is causing me to slur. Personally, I see no reason to take pills to give me slurs. I am not that emo. And God knows I am emo, but no, HGTV or the occasional Tony Scott film and the big ass hunk of chocolate cream pie (which was fabulous BTW, damn it) possibly maybe coupled with the 9000% humidity, decongestant withdrawal, and psychotic hormones out to remind me I am a woman maybe sorta are all things that are higher on the slur-causing list that a puny single dose of an over-the-counter aspirin/Tylenol/caffeine "preventative."
I totally have taken one aspirin, one Tylenol, and a cup of coffee to fashion my own version of this thing in the past out of desperation. No research has been done on one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer, but I'm guessing if I tried that the migraine would be the least of my problems. Being arrested for public nakedness with disfiguring hives, maybe, but then I'd really have some hardcore trouble to talk about at family gatherings.
Because honestly, crawling away to chew on a pencil (even if it did fall on the ground) and taking two weeny little Rite-Aid Excedrin knock-offs only when the pain gets so horrendous I think trepanation with a Swiss army knife might work is small time.
Which reminds me, I saw the Tom Waits movie Big Time, and it made me want to live another day. Which is kinda sad, because the next day I got this blasted migraine. HAHA, I kid. There are three days out of a month when I don't feel like I'm either going to die or kill for some reason, and after 25 years I've pretty much realized that no amount of happiness pumped into my eyes and ears changes that (although I'm not turning down a nice loud Level 42 song in my ear right now), but I'm used to it. I wish everyone else were. I mean, it's not like I block doorways.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Bad Haiku for a Summer's Day
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Even better than the real thing.
I know, I know, you're all probably off celebrating memorials with flaming grills, but me, I'm hiding indoors, where it's cool.
And what do I think is cool? People making fun of other people and making something even better out of just...weirdness. This week, you need to travel for the funny, but it's so worth it. It'll be like traveling for the holiday without the traffic congestion!
Julie Klausner & Jackie Clarke (genius ladies I'm obsessed with) made Welcome To Our House, an homage of sorts to Brenda Dickson's lifestyle video, "Welcome To My Home." The original video is on the same page, and you really need to see both to fully grasp just what fashion means.
If you haven't yet seen the recent addition to Weebl's Stuff called Thrust Squad, you need to. It's silly. It also makes my desk chair very happy that all I do to it is just sort of sit on it. Someday I'll whip out the webcam and show you what I got. But until then, just...enjoy.