You may have noticed that my blog has no permanent links in the sidebar. There are several reasons for this. For one thing, I don't understand the etiquette of the linking thing. Do you link to all your friends or just the ones you actually think are funny? What about people who link to your blog that you don't read? Do you have to link them back? If you don't will they get mad and unlink you? The whole thing makes me nervous. Mostly though, I'm just too lazy to go into the template and change the code.
There are, however, a whole bunch of really neato things out on the internet that I'd really like to share. So rather than do the work of adding them all in a sidebar, I'm just going to write a normal, run of the mill post and review them for you here. Aren't you excited? Right. Anyway, in no particular order:
Are you like me and 73%* of the other Americans who are completely addicted to Sudoku? Then for God's sake man, DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK! Billions of free Sudoku puzzles to be solved, all online, all the time. Not only that, but it will keep track of how many games you've played and your average solving time. AND it gives you stats as to how well you stack up in time against the other Sudoku addicts (provided you don't mess up, dummy). For crying out loud, do not do this to yourself.
Having a bad day? Life got you down? Then may I suggest The Daily Kitten. Every day at 10:07 a.m. Eastern, you will find a brand new photograph of someone's sickeningly adorable kitten doing something sickening adorable. It is impossible to not be happy after checking out these kittens. Beware of this site if you feel you are in danger of becoming the crazy cat lady, because this is the site that will push you over the edge. You've been warned.
Speaking of cats, did you know they have their own MySpace thingy? They do. It's called Catster and there are dozens of cute kitties there with pictures and ratings and even their own blogs if they want (and can type). I bring this to your attention because of my addiction to The Travails by Tuesday the Cat. You may know Tuesday from her cameos on Heather's blog, but I bet you didn't know she was a writer herself. Aside from her astute observations about birds and humans, her sage advice can be solicited every Friday in her inspiring advice column. I recommend her latest advice on what a cat would do with a million dollars where she brilliantly equates wisdom with the ability to fit into small spaces.
While we're at it with Heather, you can thank her (profusely) for introducing me to this completely insane story called John Dies at the End by David Wong. Filled with meat monsters, exploding people, talking dogs, Fred Durst, and people gleefully ripping off their own limbs, you will never be so frightened and confused while laughing this hard in your life. If you like it, I recommend buying the paperback as well. We should be supporting David Wong so that he can afford to buy the drugs that will make an equally brilliant sequel possible.
I believe I may have mentioned before my favorite web comic Cyanide and Happiness. But did you know they are now doing Cyanide and Happiness animated shorts? You can laugh your balls off here and here. I think there are other things to do on this website, but I haven't actually checked them out. Sorry about that.
If you enjoy any of the following:
punk rock
supporting new music
swearing
creative insults
British accents and/or people
making fun of emo kids
purple burglar alarms**
alone or in combination, I strongly suggest you check out the world's most hilarious podcast, Punky Radio. It is hosted by Paul B Edwards and Tony Hearn, who also do a show called "Punk and Disorderly" on Mansfield 103.2 FM. That's in England. I've never heard it, because I don't live in England, but I'm sure it's great, though probably has much less swearing and general douchebagotry. You can subscribe to the podcast via Podcast Alley or iTunes or probably however you want really. If you visit Podcast Alley please vote for them, as there are some goofy crybaby emo kids who desperately need to get bitch-slapped. Also leave a comment, because if it doesn't suck they'll read it on the show. The Punky! website has links to everything, including websites for most of the bands they play and their MySpace page. Rock on, smacktards.
A perfect blend of wackiness and sarcasm is a rare thing to find, which is why I was so freakin pleased when I discovered The Sneeze. Steve is a comedy-nerd genius, from his experiments with chocolate breast milk in Steve, Don't Eat It! to his recent assertion that cookies are "the tits of food". I would especially recommend any post involving his son.
So there you have it: everything worth checking out on the Internet (besides porn).
*Statistics courtesy of www.madethefuckup.com.***
**It would make more sense if you downloaded the show. Think of it as added incentive.
***Not a real website.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
If You Want Something Done Right...
You know you're turning into a total bitch when you fire someone from painting their own new house. Which is what I did yesterday while trying to help the owner add a little color to his recently purchased condo. Dude can't paint, seriously. I demoted him to moving the ladder around for me. It was all he could be trusted with.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Amberance - Now Available in Stripes
I get bored easily. So even though I loved loved loved my last haircut, I found myself back in Melle's chair last week begging her to cut it all off. Melle loves to cut my hair because I pretty much let her do whatever she wants. My theory is that I don't cut hair for a living. She does. So who am I to be telling her what would look good on my head? I don't know; it's not my job. It's Melle's job and so I just go in there assuming that she knows what she's doing. People don't really get this, I think because people tend to get hyper-sensitive about their hair. When people ask how I'm going to get my haircut I have to tell them I don't know, because I honestly don't. Every time I've thought I knew how it would turn out I was wrong. The most direction I've ever given Melle is "do something asymmetrical". So when I went in last Thursday night on the way to the bar (did I mention how great it is to get your hair cut next door to your bar?), I found Melle rubbing her hands together maniacally. Well, OK, she was really washing some other girl's hair, but trust me, I could see the wheels turning.
She had nearly completed the haircut when she got this "Eureka!" look on her face and asked me "Can I put lines in it?" I explained to her my theory of haircuts, and so she set to work on carving stripes into my head, giggling to herself "Teehee! You're an investment analyst!" the entire time. Here is the result:
It's a little different as you can see. I am in love with my head now, except that I can't get used to the fact that it looks really cool. Because I am not really cool. My hair is much much cooler than I am, in my opinion.
Though not everyone's opinion, as evidence by my brother's reaction upon my arrival at Tai's:
He's not drunk, just exasperated.
Thanks Melle!
She had nearly completed the haircut when she got this "Eureka!" look on her face and asked me "Can I put lines in it?" I explained to her my theory of haircuts, and so she set to work on carving stripes into my head, giggling to herself "Teehee! You're an investment analyst!" the entire time. Here is the result:
It's a little different as you can see. I am in love with my head now, except that I can't get used to the fact that it looks really cool. Because I am not really cool. My hair is much much cooler than I am, in my opinion.
Though not everyone's opinion, as evidence by my brother's reaction upon my arrival at Tai's:
He's not drunk, just exasperated.
Thanks Melle!
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
More From Amber's Deranged Slumbers
The bartender called at midnight last night. I'm sure he had a reason, but I don't know what it was because I wasn't listening to him. Noticing my unresponsiveness, he asked if he'd woken me up (he had).
"I'm sorry. I'm trying to process this dream I just had. I dreamed I was at a midget wedding." Actually, a little person wedding, as I was corrected in the dream. I also remember one normal sized person talking about her midget son who was not in attendance. "He has a huge head," she was telling us. "He always has. When he was young all the other kids on the soccer team made fun of him for it and it was hard for him to hold it up because it was so heavy. But he's used to it now."
I've determined I need to stop eating whole blocks of cheese just before I go to bed.
"I'm sorry. I'm trying to process this dream I just had. I dreamed I was at a midget wedding." Actually, a little person wedding, as I was corrected in the dream. I also remember one normal sized person talking about her midget son who was not in attendance. "He has a huge head," she was telling us. "He always has. When he was young all the other kids on the soccer team made fun of him for it and it was hard for him to hold it up because it was so heavy. But he's used to it now."
I've determined I need to stop eating whole blocks of cheese just before I go to bed.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Night of the Living Douchebags
Happy Easter y'all. How was it this year? Mine sucked rancid eggs.
The plan was for me, the bartender and the bartender's roommate to drive out to Galena in my car for Easter dinner. A fine plan to be sure, except that the bartender's roommate is a complete smacktard. I hereby christen him with the blog name Fuckwit.
About a week ago, Fuckwit got it into his head that it would be a much better idea for him to drive instead. Fuckwit's driving record is less than perfect. He's had himself a motorcycle accident, had his license suspended for three years, and last Wednesday received a speeding ticket that probably should have also included a bonus DUI. Needless to say, I was loathe to get in a car with him behind the wheel and the bartender shared my opinion. Fuckwit wouldn't budge, and so it was decided we would take separate vehicles for the three hour trip. This appears even more stupid when you know that part of Fuckwit's reasoning for not wanting to ride with us is because he wasn't sure how much money he should bring for gas and tolls. So clearly since he doesn't know, he should drive by himself and pay three times as much.
We got off to a weak start almost immediately. Because, you know, it NEVER EVER rains in Illinois so no one knows how to drive when it does. Really people, why is this such a difficult skill? You are FROM here, you should be used to this by now. Combine that with your typical holiday traffic in Chicago and it took us an hour and a half to get out of the city. It continued to rain on us for the entire trip. Fuckwit got, we thought, pretty far ahead of us since we ended up stopping twice. So we were a little surprised when we got a call from Fuckwit who had missed an exit, blown right through Rockford, and was now lost. Only a little surprised though, because it's Fuckwit and he's not known for being the sharpest knife in the drawer. It would not be the last time I said "He just HAD to drive himself, didn't he?" on this trip.
The bartender and I arrived at the restaurant in Galena, and to prove he has a sick sense of humor, God allowed the heavens to open and turn regular rain into a torrential downpour just as we got out of the car. Ha ha God. You're hilarious.
We wetly entered the restaurant where the bartender's family was already waiting, and then proceeded to wait another 45 minutes for Fuckwit's lost ass to show up. After all that, dinner turned out to be pretty good. I had king crab legs, which were delicious, and I traded the bartender one leg for one of his ribs, which was also delicious. Meanwhile, Fuckwit ordered what seemed to be an entire cow and had himself a few cold beers. We'd predicted that would be his beverage of choice; yet another reason why we didn't want him driving us.
After dinner, we drove to the bartender's mother's house, where we had cake and ice cream in honor of his sister's birthday. It was here that I experienced the highlight of my day - tiny little kittens! Really tiny. A month old and they squeak like mice when you pick them up. So cute.
After about 8.2 seconds of being at the house, Fuckwit started pestering us to head back to Chicago. Now, he'd driven himself, so why he couldn't just leave without us any time he felt like it is beyond me. But he insisted and so we headed out with him following behind us. He had mentioned he was kind of tired (maybe because he came home at 7:30 in the morning?) and might stop for a Red Bull, so when we lost sight of him behind us we figured he'd pulled into the gas station. We drove along companionably, mooing at the cows we saw and singing along with the NoFX cover of Gin and Juice. Traffic was light and the rain had even stopped. All was right with the world.
Forty minutes out of Galena, the bartender's phone rings and I hear the following half of a conversation: "Yeah._____Wait, you WHAT?______By the look out tower?________Fuck.________HOW DID YOU DRIVE YOUR CAR INTO A DITCH?__________Well, it's going to be a while, we're a half hour past that._________FINE." As it turns out, Fuckwit hadn't gone after a Red Bull. Instead he'd relied on the beer he had at dinner and his fabulous driving skills to lose control of his car, run off the road, down a hill and smash his car into a fence. Correction, make that smash his FATHER'S car into a fence. Additionally, he had $30 in his wallet which was obviously not enough for a tow truck, and so could we turn around and come ALL THE WAY BACK and give him some more money?
As the bartender turned around, an uncomfortable silence filled the car. A minute later I couldn't hold it in any longer: "He just HAD to FUCKING DRIVE, didn't he?!?!?" As I heard earlier in the week on my favorite podcast, Punky Radio, saying we were angry is like saying that Hitler was mildly annoyed by the Jews. We now found ourselves parked on the side of the road behind a police car watching the sky get dark and the rain start falling again, staring down an embankment at Fuckwit's car, wondering how the hell it didn't roll over, seething, and waiting for the tow truck. The bartender briefly got out to speak with his roommate; I did not as I was afraid I might invert his nutsack. The tow truck took 45 minutes to arrive and then cleaned the bartender and I out of an additional $100 with Fuckwit's $30. I can't really blame the guy, if some complete fuck up interrupted my Easter dinner, I'd make him wait and rape his wallet too.
An hour and a half after we left the first time, we got back on the road. It was now pitch black, raining like a monsoon and we had about $1.37 in loose change left over from an episode that 1) was not our fault and 2) SHOULD NEVER HAVE FUCKING HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Additionally, we had waited just long enough for the milk trucks to leave the farms and head to where ever they take the milk, so we were stuck behind a convoy of them with no passing lane. It's so much fun to drive in the dark when it's raining, but oh, it's even MORE fun to drive in the dark when it's raining and the spray from the trucks in front of you cuts what little visibility you do have in half. We could not cut a break the whole trip. When the road briefly opened up into two lanes so we could pass the trucks, we got cut off by a truck trying to pass the other ones and ended up passing nobody. Some shithead thought it would be a good idea to pull over to the side, half on the shoulder and half still in the road and shut off all his lights. We were repeatedly blinded by people going the other way who didn't have the courtesy to turn off their brights when they passed.
When we finally got to my house, I turned to the bartender and we hugged each other for a long time. "Happy Easter," he said to my neck.
"Happy Easter to you," I said pleasantly. "This was terrible. Let's never do this again, as long as we live."
The plan was for me, the bartender and the bartender's roommate to drive out to Galena in my car for Easter dinner. A fine plan to be sure, except that the bartender's roommate is a complete smacktard. I hereby christen him with the blog name Fuckwit.
About a week ago, Fuckwit got it into his head that it would be a much better idea for him to drive instead. Fuckwit's driving record is less than perfect. He's had himself a motorcycle accident, had his license suspended for three years, and last Wednesday received a speeding ticket that probably should have also included a bonus DUI. Needless to say, I was loathe to get in a car with him behind the wheel and the bartender shared my opinion. Fuckwit wouldn't budge, and so it was decided we would take separate vehicles for the three hour trip. This appears even more stupid when you know that part of Fuckwit's reasoning for not wanting to ride with us is because he wasn't sure how much money he should bring for gas and tolls. So clearly since he doesn't know, he should drive by himself and pay three times as much.
We got off to a weak start almost immediately. Because, you know, it NEVER EVER rains in Illinois so no one knows how to drive when it does. Really people, why is this such a difficult skill? You are FROM here, you should be used to this by now. Combine that with your typical holiday traffic in Chicago and it took us an hour and a half to get out of the city. It continued to rain on us for the entire trip. Fuckwit got, we thought, pretty far ahead of us since we ended up stopping twice. So we were a little surprised when we got a call from Fuckwit who had missed an exit, blown right through Rockford, and was now lost. Only a little surprised though, because it's Fuckwit and he's not known for being the sharpest knife in the drawer. It would not be the last time I said "He just HAD to drive himself, didn't he?" on this trip.
The bartender and I arrived at the restaurant in Galena, and to prove he has a sick sense of humor, God allowed the heavens to open and turn regular rain into a torrential downpour just as we got out of the car. Ha ha God. You're hilarious.
We wetly entered the restaurant where the bartender's family was already waiting, and then proceeded to wait another 45 minutes for Fuckwit's lost ass to show up. After all that, dinner turned out to be pretty good. I had king crab legs, which were delicious, and I traded the bartender one leg for one of his ribs, which was also delicious. Meanwhile, Fuckwit ordered what seemed to be an entire cow and had himself a few cold beers. We'd predicted that would be his beverage of choice; yet another reason why we didn't want him driving us.
After dinner, we drove to the bartender's mother's house, where we had cake and ice cream in honor of his sister's birthday. It was here that I experienced the highlight of my day - tiny little kittens! Really tiny. A month old and they squeak like mice when you pick them up. So cute.
After about 8.2 seconds of being at the house, Fuckwit started pestering us to head back to Chicago. Now, he'd driven himself, so why he couldn't just leave without us any time he felt like it is beyond me. But he insisted and so we headed out with him following behind us. He had mentioned he was kind of tired (maybe because he came home at 7:30 in the morning?) and might stop for a Red Bull, so when we lost sight of him behind us we figured he'd pulled into the gas station. We drove along companionably, mooing at the cows we saw and singing along with the NoFX cover of Gin and Juice. Traffic was light and the rain had even stopped. All was right with the world.
Forty minutes out of Galena, the bartender's phone rings and I hear the following half of a conversation: "Yeah._____Wait, you WHAT?______By the look out tower?________Fuck.________HOW DID YOU DRIVE YOUR CAR INTO A DITCH?__________Well, it's going to be a while, we're a half hour past that._________FINE." As it turns out, Fuckwit hadn't gone after a Red Bull. Instead he'd relied on the beer he had at dinner and his fabulous driving skills to lose control of his car, run off the road, down a hill and smash his car into a fence. Correction, make that smash his FATHER'S car into a fence. Additionally, he had $30 in his wallet which was obviously not enough for a tow truck, and so could we turn around and come ALL THE WAY BACK and give him some more money?
As the bartender turned around, an uncomfortable silence filled the car. A minute later I couldn't hold it in any longer: "He just HAD to FUCKING DRIVE, didn't he?!?!?" As I heard earlier in the week on my favorite podcast, Punky Radio, saying we were angry is like saying that Hitler was mildly annoyed by the Jews. We now found ourselves parked on the side of the road behind a police car watching the sky get dark and the rain start falling again, staring down an embankment at Fuckwit's car, wondering how the hell it didn't roll over, seething, and waiting for the tow truck. The bartender briefly got out to speak with his roommate; I did not as I was afraid I might invert his nutsack. The tow truck took 45 minutes to arrive and then cleaned the bartender and I out of an additional $100 with Fuckwit's $30. I can't really blame the guy, if some complete fuck up interrupted my Easter dinner, I'd make him wait and rape his wallet too.
An hour and a half after we left the first time, we got back on the road. It was now pitch black, raining like a monsoon and we had about $1.37 in loose change left over from an episode that 1) was not our fault and 2) SHOULD NEVER HAVE FUCKING HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Additionally, we had waited just long enough for the milk trucks to leave the farms and head to where ever they take the milk, so we were stuck behind a convoy of them with no passing lane. It's so much fun to drive in the dark when it's raining, but oh, it's even MORE fun to drive in the dark when it's raining and the spray from the trucks in front of you cuts what little visibility you do have in half. We could not cut a break the whole trip. When the road briefly opened up into two lanes so we could pass the trucks, we got cut off by a truck trying to pass the other ones and ended up passing nobody. Some shithead thought it would be a good idea to pull over to the side, half on the shoulder and half still in the road and shut off all his lights. We were repeatedly blinded by people going the other way who didn't have the courtesy to turn off their brights when they passed.
When we finally got to my house, I turned to the bartender and we hugged each other for a long time. "Happy Easter," he said to my neck.
"Happy Easter to you," I said pleasantly. "This was terrible. Let's never do this again, as long as we live."
Heather and Amber Have Finally Cracked
PGS DenMILF: i made a gay Easter egg last week
PGS DenMILF: it's a rainbow
VelociHeather: did it go clubbing?
VelociHeather: :-)
PGS DenMILF: yeah, in the fridge. all the straight eggs went with it because everyone knows that gay eggs are the most fun
VelociHeather: hahaha
VelociHeather: it woke up the next morning in the butter tray, hungover
VelociHeather: "Shit - what did I DO last night?"
PGS DenMILF: throwing up yolk
VelociHeather: covered in ketchup
VelociHeather: shell slightly cracked
PGS DenMILF: "i'm never going to The Scramble again!"
VelociHeather: then he looks over and sees his friends fried
VelociHeather: "NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
PGS DenMILF: shouldn't have given them that mayonnaise. he knows they can't handle the hard stuff
VelociHeather: AAHH!! SOMEONE DEVILED CHARLIE!!! NOOOO!!!
VelociHeather: THE PAPRIKA - IT'S EVERYWHERE!!!
PGS DenMILF: quick! get the tabasco sauce!
PGS DenMILF: but it's too late. the tragedy is he was so young
VelociHeather: and delicious
PGS DenMILF: it's a rainbow
VelociHeather: did it go clubbing?
VelociHeather: :-)
PGS DenMILF: yeah, in the fridge. all the straight eggs went with it because everyone knows that gay eggs are the most fun
VelociHeather: hahaha
VelociHeather: it woke up the next morning in the butter tray, hungover
VelociHeather: "Shit - what did I DO last night?"
PGS DenMILF: throwing up yolk
VelociHeather: covered in ketchup
VelociHeather: shell slightly cracked
PGS DenMILF: "i'm never going to The Scramble again!"
VelociHeather: then he looks over and sees his friends fried
VelociHeather: "NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
PGS DenMILF: shouldn't have given them that mayonnaise. he knows they can't handle the hard stuff
VelociHeather: AAHH!! SOMEONE DEVILED CHARLIE!!! NOOOO!!!
VelociHeather: THE PAPRIKA - IT'S EVERYWHERE!!!
PGS DenMILF: quick! get the tabasco sauce!
PGS DenMILF: but it's too late. the tragedy is he was so young
VelociHeather: and delicious
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Expensive Taste
Last night I dreamed that I tried on a little black strapless dress at Abercrombie when I was out shopping with Kelly. The price tag said it was $3600.
I put it back on the rack.
I put it back on the rack.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Dresden Dolls
A week ago, if you'd told me I was going to see a rock show that was stranger than Hank III, I would have laughed in your face. Even though you didn't, and I didn't, I take it back.
The bartender bought me tickets to see the Dresden Dolls on Friday night for no apparent reason other than he knew I wanted to go. I say tickets because he bought me two, but I ended up going alone because there's been a rash of douchebagotry going around.
The first thing I noticed was that I didn't get the memo about the dress code. Apparently at Dolls shows you're meant to show up dressed as a creepy doll. Even if you're a dude. Also, there was a couple dressed up as a doctor and a nurse handing out vials of something I was pretty sure I didn't want to drink.
I also had not been expecting the strippers. The first thing I saw when I walked in was a girl wearing nothing but panties and pasties prancing around onstage. Turns out the opening act was a burlesque show. It also turns out they got in a little bit of trouble for it, because they found out after the fact that it's illegal to have women in pasties where alcohol is being served in Chicago. Though less trouble than they got in for the same thing in Salt Lake City, they pointed out. Oops.
The next act was a band called Reverend Glasseye, which sounded sort of like folk music mixed with carnival music. Except much louder and they were very angry about something. Possibly religion. But it was very interesting.
The next act was something called Buried Alive, which consisted of a girl and a boy doing some kind of interpretive dance/performance art thingy. I can't be sure, but I think it was about two dead people having sex, or possibly two people trying to kill each other through having sex. I could be wrong. I do know there was definitely sex, flowers and a grave. This performance prompted my favorite moment of the night. There was a girl standing near me who was pierced all the way down both sides of her neck and her chest. She had a series of rings in the holes and a red satin ribbon woven through them like she was some kind of human corset. It was this girl who, after the performance, turned around and said "That was weird."
Finally at about 1:15 in the morning the Dresden Dolls took the stage. Holy crap. Allow me to bow down before all that is awesome about the Dresden Dolls.
Thank you. They played a great mix of songs from their upcoming album and songs off their old one. Coin Operated Boy was particularly awesome. I was originally drawn to this band by Amanda Palmer's lyrics, but let me tell you: Brian Viglione steals the live show. Their recordings don't do his drumming justice at all. Additionally, recordings don't capture his hilarious mime-like stage antics. What an incredibly talented performer.
Besides their own stuff, they also covered "Amsterdam" by Jacques Brel (who I love) and, bizarrely, Black Sabbath's War Pigs which turned surprisingly awesome with nothing but a piano and drums.
I hate to admit this, but I left before the encore. Because it was already past 3 a.m. and so 6 hours past my bedtime. Also I figured if I left a little early I had a better chance of not get trampled by an army of creepy dolls. You should totally check out the Dresden Dolls if this tour is coming through your town. Now with more boobies!
The bartender bought me tickets to see the Dresden Dolls on Friday night for no apparent reason other than he knew I wanted to go. I say tickets because he bought me two, but I ended up going alone because there's been a rash of douchebagotry going around.
The first thing I noticed was that I didn't get the memo about the dress code. Apparently at Dolls shows you're meant to show up dressed as a creepy doll. Even if you're a dude. Also, there was a couple dressed up as a doctor and a nurse handing out vials of something I was pretty sure I didn't want to drink.
I also had not been expecting the strippers. The first thing I saw when I walked in was a girl wearing nothing but panties and pasties prancing around onstage. Turns out the opening act was a burlesque show. It also turns out they got in a little bit of trouble for it, because they found out after the fact that it's illegal to have women in pasties where alcohol is being served in Chicago. Though less trouble than they got in for the same thing in Salt Lake City, they pointed out. Oops.
The next act was a band called Reverend Glasseye, which sounded sort of like folk music mixed with carnival music. Except much louder and they were very angry about something. Possibly religion. But it was very interesting.
The next act was something called Buried Alive, which consisted of a girl and a boy doing some kind of interpretive dance/performance art thingy. I can't be sure, but I think it was about two dead people having sex, or possibly two people trying to kill each other through having sex. I could be wrong. I do know there was definitely sex, flowers and a grave. This performance prompted my favorite moment of the night. There was a girl standing near me who was pierced all the way down both sides of her neck and her chest. She had a series of rings in the holes and a red satin ribbon woven through them like she was some kind of human corset. It was this girl who, after the performance, turned around and said "That was weird."
Finally at about 1:15 in the morning the Dresden Dolls took the stage. Holy crap. Allow me to bow down before all that is awesome about the Dresden Dolls.
Thank you. They played a great mix of songs from their upcoming album and songs off their old one. Coin Operated Boy was particularly awesome. I was originally drawn to this band by Amanda Palmer's lyrics, but let me tell you: Brian Viglione steals the live show. Their recordings don't do his drumming justice at all. Additionally, recordings don't capture his hilarious mime-like stage antics. What an incredibly talented performer.
Besides their own stuff, they also covered "Amsterdam" by Jacques Brel (who I love) and, bizarrely, Black Sabbath's War Pigs which turned surprisingly awesome with nothing but a piano and drums.
I hate to admit this, but I left before the encore. Because it was already past 3 a.m. and so 6 hours past my bedtime. Also I figured if I left a little early I had a better chance of not get trampled by an army of creepy dolls. You should totally check out the Dresden Dolls if this tour is coming through your town. Now with more boobies!
That's A Parent
I'm having a kid.
Don't panic, I'm not actually pregnant or anything. It's just that I decided last week that I'm having a kid sometime in the next four years or so, even if I have to go out and buy the sperm. Because kids rock.
I was walking home from work last week. As I was walking past a house on my street about a block up from mine, out popped the cutest kid ever. He was one of those super white kids. You know the kind, with the white blonde hair and pale skin and you just know they glow in the dark? He jumped out on the porch as I walked by his house. "Hi!" he said.
I assumed he was talking to the kids a couple houses down and not to me, because I was a stranger, but no. When I didn't answer him he tried again.
"HI!" he shouted.
"Hi!" I said.
"Do you like my NEW SHOES?"
Either he was never taught the lesson about not talking to strangers or else he just wasn't down with that, because the kid had no fear.
"I do like your shoes," I said. "They're very nice."
"WATCH ME!" he shouted with glee. "They make me go FAST!" and with that he took off running down the street to when the other kids were playing.
I was completely charmed right out of my shoes. Two seconds later I became very afraid for him, because what if I'd been a kidnapper or something?
And that was when I decided I wanted a kid just like him. Except that doesn't talk to strangers.
Don't panic, I'm not actually pregnant or anything. It's just that I decided last week that I'm having a kid sometime in the next four years or so, even if I have to go out and buy the sperm. Because kids rock.
I was walking home from work last week. As I was walking past a house on my street about a block up from mine, out popped the cutest kid ever. He was one of those super white kids. You know the kind, with the white blonde hair and pale skin and you just know they glow in the dark? He jumped out on the porch as I walked by his house. "Hi!" he said.
I assumed he was talking to the kids a couple houses down and not to me, because I was a stranger, but no. When I didn't answer him he tried again.
"HI!" he shouted.
"Hi!" I said.
"Do you like my NEW SHOES?"
Either he was never taught the lesson about not talking to strangers or else he just wasn't down with that, because the kid had no fear.
"I do like your shoes," I said. "They're very nice."
"WATCH ME!" he shouted with glee. "They make me go FAST!" and with that he took off running down the street to when the other kids were playing.
I was completely charmed right out of my shoes. Two seconds later I became very afraid for him, because what if I'd been a kidnapper or something?
And that was when I decided I wanted a kid just like him. Except that doesn't talk to strangers.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Not Your (Grand)Father's Country Music
PGS DenMILF: holy crap i am so tired today
VelociHeather: yeah?
PGS DenMILF: you know hank williams?
VelociHeather: the singer?
VelociHeather: not personally, but i've heard his music
PGS DenMILF: i saw his grandson play last night
PGS DenMILF: hank III
VelociHeather: ooh, neat
PGS DenMILF: probably the most bizarre concert i'll ever get to see
VelociHeather: Hank III: Revenge of Country
PGS DenMILF: and how
PGS DenMILF: set 1: total country music. hillbilly twangy stuff with slide guitar and steel guitar and violin etc.
PGS DenMILF: except all the words were about drugs
PGS DenMILF: set 2:
PGS DenMILF: and mind you, they actually CHANGED CLOTHES for this right onstage
PGS DenMILF: psycobilly/hellbilly supercharged punk/country
VelociHeather: wow, now that's weird
PGS DenMILF: violin slide guitar still included
PGS DenMILF: no wait, it gets better
PGS DenMILF: 10 minute break
VelociHeather: haha
PGS DenMILF: they come back out
PGS DenMILF: regular instruments now except still with the stand up bass they've had the whole time (played by a dude with a raging mohawk)
PGS DenMILF: and they play screaming death metal
VelociHeather: ha!
PGS DenMILF: not even kidding you
VelociHeather: did you expect this at all?
PGS DenMILF: no
VelociHeather: I mean, did you know it'd be a weird show?
VelociHeather: Why did you go?
PGS DenMILF: i had no idea what i was getting myself into
PGS DenMILF: the bartender asked me to
PGS DenMILF: he had an extra ticket
PGS DenMILF: strangest crowd of people i've ever seen at a concert
VelociHeather: sounds hilarious
PGS DenMILF: hicks in boots and cowboy hats with large belt buckles mixed with mohawk/spikey haired tattooed punks with spiked belts mixed with hardcore metalheads in platform boots with their ears gauged so big you could pass a loaf of french bread through them and their goth chick "i'll kill you by looking at you" leather clad girlfriends
PGS DenMILF: i wish i would have had a camera
VelociHeather: i wish you'd had one too
VelociHeather: yeah?
PGS DenMILF: you know hank williams?
VelociHeather: the singer?
VelociHeather: not personally, but i've heard his music
PGS DenMILF: i saw his grandson play last night
PGS DenMILF: hank III
VelociHeather: ooh, neat
PGS DenMILF: probably the most bizarre concert i'll ever get to see
VelociHeather: Hank III: Revenge of Country
PGS DenMILF: and how
PGS DenMILF: set 1: total country music. hillbilly twangy stuff with slide guitar and steel guitar and violin etc.
PGS DenMILF: except all the words were about drugs
PGS DenMILF: set 2:
PGS DenMILF: and mind you, they actually CHANGED CLOTHES for this right onstage
PGS DenMILF: psycobilly/hellbilly supercharged punk/country
VelociHeather: wow, now that's weird
PGS DenMILF: violin slide guitar still included
PGS DenMILF: no wait, it gets better
PGS DenMILF: 10 minute break
VelociHeather: haha
PGS DenMILF: they come back out
PGS DenMILF: regular instruments now except still with the stand up bass they've had the whole time (played by a dude with a raging mohawk)
PGS DenMILF: and they play screaming death metal
VelociHeather: ha!
PGS DenMILF: not even kidding you
VelociHeather: did you expect this at all?
PGS DenMILF: no
VelociHeather: I mean, did you know it'd be a weird show?
VelociHeather: Why did you go?
PGS DenMILF: i had no idea what i was getting myself into
PGS DenMILF: the bartender asked me to
PGS DenMILF: he had an extra ticket
PGS DenMILF: strangest crowd of people i've ever seen at a concert
VelociHeather: sounds hilarious
PGS DenMILF: hicks in boots and cowboy hats with large belt buckles mixed with mohawk/spikey haired tattooed punks with spiked belts mixed with hardcore metalheads in platform boots with their ears gauged so big you could pass a loaf of french bread through them and their goth chick "i'll kill you by looking at you" leather clad girlfriends
PGS DenMILF: i wish i would have had a camera
VelociHeather: i wish you'd had one too
Friday, March 31, 2006
More Female Insanity
Anyone who has Hotmail knows that on the left hand side of your screen there's a bunch of links to recent fluff pieces on MSN. I tend to click on these pretty frequently because it's not work. Today I came across an article from the "Dating and Relationships" section of MSN about what to do if your man checks out other women. In it I discovered that part of the reason why women are crazy is because it is encouraged by the vast media conspiracy through the art of misinformation.
Here are a couple of lying paragraphs with my comments and corrections in parentheses (for the full article, click here):
Can you live with it?
Some feel that if you trust your mate, appreciating another’s beauty shouldn’t be a problem. (Because some people are rational.) “Trust is really important,” Lavinthal says. “If you know your man isn’t a cheater, then let him have a little fun by looking at other people. (Excuse me? "Let" him have his fun? I'm sorry, is he your boyfriend or your dog?) It comes down to the old ‘look but don't touch’ adage. As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t see a problem. (Because as long as he keeps his hands to himself, there isn't one.) If this issue really bugs you, then it’s best to be honest and let your boyfriend know that his fascination with others is not appreciated or acceptable. If he continues to behave badly and it’s making you crazy, then it’s probably best to break up, (before he breaks up with your psycho ass first)” advises Lavinthal, adding with a laugh, “or if you really love him, invest in one of those cone-shaped plastic head things that dogs wear.” (Yes, because that isn't insulting at all. Apparently he is your dog. Tip: If you really love him, this joke won't seem funny to you.)
When you can’t stand his roving eye
If you’re not the kind who can make light of this situation, then heed this advice. Says Dr. Gilda, “Gawking is a put-down to the person in your presence. If a woman continues to stand for a guy doing it and hopes it will change, she’s in fantasyland. (Likewise, if a woman is annoying and whines about it all the time and hopes it will change, she's in fantasyland.)” So here’s her advice: Don’t confront him with “you” language, as in, “You are doing this,” “You are not a good boyfriend,” “You are embarrassing me...” Instead, communicate your feelings: “I feel insignificant when you flirt with other women in front of me.” This will allow for a conversation you can both learn and grow from, rather than a major screeching match. (This is not a "conversation". This is called a "guilt-trip" and it's not very nice.) Also, try to get your guy to think and talk about why he constantly needs to check out other women. (I'll just tell you. It's because other women keep walking by.) Perhaps this is a habit leftover from hanging out with his buddies or brothers during his high-school or college days. Maybe he’s insecure and is hoping to get some positive acknowledgment from the women he’s drooling over. (He's not looking for acknowledgement. He looking at her ass. That's it.) Whatever the case, if you both become more aware of his actions and their impact, you’ve got a great chance of getting past this and onto happier terrain... where he’s making total eye contact with you. (Want to know how to get him to make total eye contact with you? Next time he's checking out a girl, just say "Wow, those are some damn fine tits! I'd love to tap that ass." He'll turn around to look at you so fast he'll get whiplash. Problem solved!)
Pay attention now, because here's how it works: This is what guys do. It's a natural body function, like peeing. Would you ask your man not to pee anymore? No, because that's stupid. Also, he can't. A better thing to do is get a grip on yourself, grow some self esteem, realize that you're the only one he's fucking and get over it.
Besides which, that chick does have a great rack.
Here are a couple of lying paragraphs with my comments and corrections in parentheses (for the full article, click here):
Can you live with it?
Some feel that if you trust your mate, appreciating another’s beauty shouldn’t be a problem. (Because some people are rational.) “Trust is really important,” Lavinthal says. “If you know your man isn’t a cheater, then let him have a little fun by looking at other people. (Excuse me? "Let" him have his fun? I'm sorry, is he your boyfriend or your dog?) It comes down to the old ‘look but don't touch’ adage. As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t see a problem. (Because as long as he keeps his hands to himself, there isn't one.) If this issue really bugs you, then it’s best to be honest and let your boyfriend know that his fascination with others is not appreciated or acceptable. If he continues to behave badly and it’s making you crazy, then it’s probably best to break up, (before he breaks up with your psycho ass first)” advises Lavinthal, adding with a laugh, “or if you really love him, invest in one of those cone-shaped plastic head things that dogs wear.” (Yes, because that isn't insulting at all. Apparently he is your dog. Tip: If you really love him, this joke won't seem funny to you.)
When you can’t stand his roving eye
If you’re not the kind who can make light of this situation, then heed this advice. Says Dr. Gilda, “Gawking is a put-down to the person in your presence. If a woman continues to stand for a guy doing it and hopes it will change, she’s in fantasyland. (Likewise, if a woman is annoying and whines about it all the time and hopes it will change, she's in fantasyland.)” So here’s her advice: Don’t confront him with “you” language, as in, “You are doing this,” “You are not a good boyfriend,” “You are embarrassing me...” Instead, communicate your feelings: “I feel insignificant when you flirt with other women in front of me.” This will allow for a conversation you can both learn and grow from, rather than a major screeching match. (This is not a "conversation". This is called a "guilt-trip" and it's not very nice.) Also, try to get your guy to think and talk about why he constantly needs to check out other women. (I'll just tell you. It's because other women keep walking by.) Perhaps this is a habit leftover from hanging out with his buddies or brothers during his high-school or college days. Maybe he’s insecure and is hoping to get some positive acknowledgment from the women he’s drooling over. (He's not looking for acknowledgement. He looking at her ass. That's it.) Whatever the case, if you both become more aware of his actions and their impact, you’ve got a great chance of getting past this and onto happier terrain... where he’s making total eye contact with you. (Want to know how to get him to make total eye contact with you? Next time he's checking out a girl, just say "Wow, those are some damn fine tits! I'd love to tap that ass." He'll turn around to look at you so fast he'll get whiplash. Problem solved!)
Pay attention now, because here's how it works: This is what guys do. It's a natural body function, like peeing. Would you ask your man not to pee anymore? No, because that's stupid. Also, he can't. A better thing to do is get a grip on yourself, grow some self esteem, realize that you're the only one he's fucking and get over it.
Besides which, that chick does have a great rack.
A Smashing Good Time
I believe I posted something yesterday to the effect of "Aw poop, nothing is happening to me." I would like to revise that sentiment to "Yay! Nothing is happening to me!" This is because I am very happy today due to the fact that nobody hit my car yesterday.
It was a typical Thursday evening at Tai's. I had eaten Chinese and been told I looked like a double amputee because I like to sit on my feet. MrSteve, who is annoyingly on the wagon, showed up and drank tap water because he is a traitor. He was followed by Pothead Pete. I don't remember anything Pete said to me and he probably doesn't either.* I had a delicious glass of Strongbow in front of me and all was right with my world.
From outside we heard the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal at a high rate of speed indicating that, oh shit, there's been an accident. 911 calls commenced and the bar patrons poured out into the street like the nosy people we are. We surveyed the carnage: a blue car with its passenger side in some disarray was in the middle of the street. A white car had its entire front end smashed in including a broken front axle. In front of that was a white van that had been slammed into so hard that it jumped the curb and wrapped its back end around a parking meter, but not before it slammed into the car in front of it and buried its hood in the car's trunk.
Directly behind and a foot away from this insurance nightmare sat Alistair. I hadn’t seen Alistair all week. He was on loan to the bartender because his car is totally lame. He was being returned to me that night, and just in time because I have exactly no food in my house, not even cheese, and it’s time to buy some groceries. He was the last car in line parked on the very corner. He was also the only car on that side of the street that hadn’t been touched.
The bartender returned from checking on Alistair and looked at me. “Boy,” he said, “I was going to move your car to that spot in front of the bar earlier and I never got around to it. Good thing I didn’t.” Because if he had moved it Alistair would be a very large accordion right now. But he’s not, there’s not a scratch on him. Nothing happened to him.
Yay for nothing!
*Last week, MrSteve invented a great new game called "Let's See How Long". The way you play is to start a game of pool with Pothead Pete, accidentally knock the 8 ball in at the beginning of the game, and then wait and see how long it takes Pete to notice. Sadly, we learned it's possible to play this game more than once per night. Pete is not known for his attention span.
It was a typical Thursday evening at Tai's. I had eaten Chinese and been told I looked like a double amputee because I like to sit on my feet. MrSteve, who is annoyingly on the wagon, showed up and drank tap water because he is a traitor. He was followed by Pothead Pete. I don't remember anything Pete said to me and he probably doesn't either.* I had a delicious glass of Strongbow in front of me and all was right with my world.
From outside we heard the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal at a high rate of speed indicating that, oh shit, there's been an accident. 911 calls commenced and the bar patrons poured out into the street like the nosy people we are. We surveyed the carnage: a blue car with its passenger side in some disarray was in the middle of the street. A white car had its entire front end smashed in including a broken front axle. In front of that was a white van that had been slammed into so hard that it jumped the curb and wrapped its back end around a parking meter, but not before it slammed into the car in front of it and buried its hood in the car's trunk.
Directly behind and a foot away from this insurance nightmare sat Alistair. I hadn’t seen Alistair all week. He was on loan to the bartender because his car is totally lame. He was being returned to me that night, and just in time because I have exactly no food in my house, not even cheese, and it’s time to buy some groceries. He was the last car in line parked on the very corner. He was also the only car on that side of the street that hadn’t been touched.
The bartender returned from checking on Alistair and looked at me. “Boy,” he said, “I was going to move your car to that spot in front of the bar earlier and I never got around to it. Good thing I didn’t.” Because if he had moved it Alistair would be a very large accordion right now. But he’s not, there’s not a scratch on him. Nothing happened to him.
Yay for nothing!
*Last week, MrSteve invented a great new game called "Let's See How Long". The way you play is to start a game of pool with Pothead Pete, accidentally knock the 8 ball in at the beginning of the game, and then wait and see how long it takes Pete to notice. Sadly, we learned it's possible to play this game more than once per night. Pete is not known for his attention span.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
I Have Nothing to Say
You may have noticed I am incredibly boring lately. This is because nothing is happening to me.
Instead I offer this: Which is the more offensive word and why? Friggin or frikkin?
Discuss.
Instead I offer this: Which is the more offensive word and why? Friggin or frikkin?
Discuss.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Enough About Cats, Let's Talk About Me
I have a small reputation for not always behaving according to traditional gender stereotypes. I am as likely to say "Check out the tits on her!" or "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?" as any guy I know. My fall activity schedule revolves entirely around being home for Monday Night Football. I would rather drink beer than any pansy-ass fruit flavored girl cocktail you could mix me. I like to paint walls and hang shelves and wield power tools. I read Playboy like I'm being tested on it. Blow jobs are neat. Et cetera.
Having established said reputation, I need to point out that there are certain gender roles I consider sacred. I have no idea where I got these outmoded and quite possibly sexist views from, but there you go. Among them are the following:
Such as today when Fish gave me a review of the meal created by a girl we know for the Liz residents. It was not good. Apparently she prepared fried chicken with cereal on it, and some broccoli with a cheese sauce that didn't appear to contain any cheese. There were other atrocities committed, but those were the two that stood out in my mind. The hell? Look, I don't even eat broccoli but I can cook it for you and remember to include cheese in the cheese sauce. And if you wouldn't put a drumstick in your morning bowl of Lucky Charms, what would possess you to sprinkle cereal on your dinner?
Both Fish and JoE messaged me today to thank me for knowing how to cook an edible meal:
Fish: I have yet to find someone (outside my parents) who can touch your cooking dear
PGS DenMILF: aw
***
JoE: you cook well
PGS DenMILF: why thank you
JoE: just wanted to let you know, that I appreciate you
Aren't they great? I think maybe I'll go make them a ham or some other meat with no Fruit Loops.
Having established said reputation, I need to point out that there are certain gender roles I consider sacred. I have no idea where I got these outmoded and quite possibly sexist views from, but there you go. Among them are the following:
- Women should not call games. Sitting at the anchor desk and giving me highlights after the fact is fine, eye candy on the sidelines asking questions with painfully obvious answers has its place, but play by play and color will never sound right spoken by a woman.
- Men cut the grass. This is not to say that women shouldn't learn to cut the grass as well, but before men can use their penis for anything other than taking a leak, they should have to pass lawn mowing first.
- Likewise women should cook. Men are allowed to cook too - my father is probably the most excellent cook I know. But damn it, ladies, you need to know the difference between a saute pan and a skillet, and you need to know how to make at least one dinner that includes meat and vegetables that doesn't come in a box labeled "Lean Cuisine" and that doesn't taste like burnt gym socks.
- Also ladies, at the very least, learn how to sew a button onto a shirt. Ok, you know what? Guys too, actually. There's no excuse for not being able to figure this out. I take this one back, it's unisex.
Such as today when Fish gave me a review of the meal created by a girl we know for the Liz residents. It was not good. Apparently she prepared fried chicken with cereal on it, and some broccoli with a cheese sauce that didn't appear to contain any cheese. There were other atrocities committed, but those were the two that stood out in my mind. The hell? Look, I don't even eat broccoli but I can cook it for you and remember to include cheese in the cheese sauce. And if you wouldn't put a drumstick in your morning bowl of Lucky Charms, what would possess you to sprinkle cereal on your dinner?
Both Fish and JoE messaged me today to thank me for knowing how to cook an edible meal:
Fish: I have yet to find someone (outside my parents) who can touch your cooking dear
PGS DenMILF: aw
***
JoE: you cook well
PGS DenMILF: why thank you
JoE: just wanted to let you know, that I appreciate you
Aren't they great? I think maybe I'll go make them a ham or some other meat with no Fruit Loops.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Amber and Heather Beat a Path to Fame and Fortune
VelociHeather: you should just move here and be our fun quirky neighbor who walks in whenever they want
PGS DenMILF: that would rule. I'll walk in and start looking through your fridge
PGS DenMILF: sometimes you'll come home and find me there, cooking on your stove
PGS DenMILF: I'll be like "Hey guys! I'm making gezpacho!"
VelociHeather: hahahaha
PGS DenMILF: Maybe sometimes you'll be sitting there eating breakfast and suddenly I'll come up from out of the basement with a basket of laundry and go "Hey," and then just keep walking back to my house
PGS DenMILF: and you and Amy will look at each other for a moment and then go back to your cereal
VelociHeather: exactly
VelociHeather: then i'll write a sitcom
VelociHeather: and make millions
VelociHeather: you're now my co-writer
PGS DenMILF: Tuesday should talk in your sitcom. Or better yet just roll her eyes at strategic points
VelociHeather: with a loud "WHA WHAAAAAA" at that point
PGS DenMILF: or if she talks kristen could talk too. that would be our gimmick. at the end of every show the cats get together to break it down and make fun of us
PGS DenMILF: they are both very pithy
VelociHeather: they are
VelociHeather: it'd be like cat MST3K
PGS DenMILF: there it is.
VelociHeather: why aren't we in hollywood making millions right now?
PGS DenMILF: i know. clearly we've missed our calling.
PGS DenMILF: that would rule. I'll walk in and start looking through your fridge
PGS DenMILF: sometimes you'll come home and find me there, cooking on your stove
PGS DenMILF: I'll be like "Hey guys! I'm making gezpacho!"
VelociHeather: hahahaha
PGS DenMILF: Maybe sometimes you'll be sitting there eating breakfast and suddenly I'll come up from out of the basement with a basket of laundry and go "Hey," and then just keep walking back to my house
PGS DenMILF: and you and Amy will look at each other for a moment and then go back to your cereal
VelociHeather: exactly
VelociHeather: then i'll write a sitcom
VelociHeather: and make millions
VelociHeather: you're now my co-writer
PGS DenMILF: Tuesday should talk in your sitcom. Or better yet just roll her eyes at strategic points
VelociHeather: with a loud "WHA WHAAAAAA" at that point
PGS DenMILF: or if she talks kristen could talk too. that would be our gimmick. at the end of every show the cats get together to break it down and make fun of us
PGS DenMILF: they are both very pithy
VelociHeather: they are
VelociHeather: it'd be like cat MST3K
PGS DenMILF: there it is.
VelociHeather: why aren't we in hollywood making millions right now?
PGS DenMILF: i know. clearly we've missed our calling.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Kristen cat could eat no fat, Her mom could eat no lean, And so between the two of them, They licked the soup bowl clean.
This awful bastardization of a beloved children’s nursery rhyme is brought to you by Kristen Ann, hands down the cutest cat who has ever lived. It popped into my head last night as Kristen and I were enjoying our evening meal.
Remember that stupid joke from when you were a kid, “What’s grosser than gross?” It always ended in something that would never actually happen, like “sliding down a giant razor blade into a pool of alcohol,” which doesn’t seem gross so much as painful, but kids are dumb. Well, for me the thing that is grosser than gross is soggy bread. I don’t want to look at it, I refuse to touch it, and I’d rather be ass raped by a wild orangutan than have to eat it.
In general this is not really a problem because I don’t eat a whole lot of bread. The only time it comes into play is when I’m having French Onion soup. French Onion soup is my favorite soup in all the land. This may or may not* have to do with the fact that the whole thing is covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. For the uninitiated, it works like this: you poor some soup into a bowl or crock. Then you float a piece or bread on top. You cover the bread with a whole bunch of cheese and stick it under a broiler until the cheese is all melty and toasted. You then collapse in paroxysms of joy. Mmm, cheese…
The problem is once you have broiled your awesome cheese, you are left with a layer of soggy bread separating your cheese from your soup. As anyone who’s ever seen me eating French Onion soup can attest, I will spend the better part of 20 minutes carefully peeling back my cheese and fishing the bread out of my soup with my spoon. Many people have asked me, “Amberance, why don’t you just get the soup with no bread in it?” No friends, this is not an option. The bread is an integral part of the cooking process. Cheese does not float on its own, so without the bread my lovely cheese is going to sink to the bottom of my soup. If it’s under my soup instead of on top of it, it’s not going to get all toasted and bubbly when I stick it under the broiler. I have no choice but to use the bread and then carefully remove it (I’ve already tried wax paper. It doesn’t work.).
The result of this is that I end up with a pile of wet bread hanging out on my plate whilst I enjoy the bread-free fruit of my labor. Generally I turn it so the bowl is in between me and the bread so that I won’t have to look at it.
Kristen Ann is the most well behaved animal on the face of the planet – unless you’re eating something that she wants. When that happens she becomes quite the furry little behavior case. This was the situation earlier this week when I decided to make myself a delicious batch of soup. I sat down at the dining room table with my soup and a fat glass of chocolate milk and set about by pre-soup eating bread extraction. In the meantime, Miss Kris had realized I was eating something that smelled very much like beef. Curiosity led her to jump up on the dining room table. She’s not allowed on the dining room table and she knows it, but she also doesn’t care. I yelled at her and tried to swish her off the table, but she sidestepped my swipe and stayed on the table just out of my reach. I’m a pushover, so I ignored this and continued to work on the bread. Bread removed, I started in on my soup, slurping up onions and cheese with glee.
My little Kristen happens to be a goddamn kitty genius. Her grasp of science is unparalleled amongst cats. Noticing that I was engrossed in my cheese, Kristen took advantage and crept up to my plate. She sniffed at the bread, decided it was worth it and pawed a piece off of my plate on onto the table. She’s picky like her mom, and wanted nothing to do with wet bread either, but she did want to get at the beef flavor she knew it contained. Here is where her scientific genius kicked in, for she realized that applying pressure the bread would cause it to contract, releasing the beef broth it was currently holding. Armed with this knowledge, she pressed her little mitten paw down on the bread. Sure enough, the beef broth was released, wetting her little paw, which she then raised to her mouth to lick. It was so damn cute I didn’t bother trying to stop her. Instead I wrote a really stupid poem about the two of us sharing a bowl of soup.
Remember that stupid joke from when you were a kid, “What’s grosser than gross?” It always ended in something that would never actually happen, like “sliding down a giant razor blade into a pool of alcohol,” which doesn’t seem gross so much as painful, but kids are dumb. Well, for me the thing that is grosser than gross is soggy bread. I don’t want to look at it, I refuse to touch it, and I’d rather be ass raped by a wild orangutan than have to eat it.
In general this is not really a problem because I don’t eat a whole lot of bread. The only time it comes into play is when I’m having French Onion soup. French Onion soup is my favorite soup in all the land. This may or may not* have to do with the fact that the whole thing is covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. For the uninitiated, it works like this: you poor some soup into a bowl or crock. Then you float a piece or bread on top. You cover the bread with a whole bunch of cheese and stick it under a broiler until the cheese is all melty and toasted. You then collapse in paroxysms of joy. Mmm, cheese…
The problem is once you have broiled your awesome cheese, you are left with a layer of soggy bread separating your cheese from your soup. As anyone who’s ever seen me eating French Onion soup can attest, I will spend the better part of 20 minutes carefully peeling back my cheese and fishing the bread out of my soup with my spoon. Many people have asked me, “Amberance, why don’t you just get the soup with no bread in it?” No friends, this is not an option. The bread is an integral part of the cooking process. Cheese does not float on its own, so without the bread my lovely cheese is going to sink to the bottom of my soup. If it’s under my soup instead of on top of it, it’s not going to get all toasted and bubbly when I stick it under the broiler. I have no choice but to use the bread and then carefully remove it (I’ve already tried wax paper. It doesn’t work.).
The result of this is that I end up with a pile of wet bread hanging out on my plate whilst I enjoy the bread-free fruit of my labor. Generally I turn it so the bowl is in between me and the bread so that I won’t have to look at it.
Kristen Ann is the most well behaved animal on the face of the planet – unless you’re eating something that she wants. When that happens she becomes quite the furry little behavior case. This was the situation earlier this week when I decided to make myself a delicious batch of soup. I sat down at the dining room table with my soup and a fat glass of chocolate milk and set about by pre-soup eating bread extraction. In the meantime, Miss Kris had realized I was eating something that smelled very much like beef. Curiosity led her to jump up on the dining room table. She’s not allowed on the dining room table and she knows it, but she also doesn’t care. I yelled at her and tried to swish her off the table, but she sidestepped my swipe and stayed on the table just out of my reach. I’m a pushover, so I ignored this and continued to work on the bread. Bread removed, I started in on my soup, slurping up onions and cheese with glee.
My little Kristen happens to be a goddamn kitty genius. Her grasp of science is unparalleled amongst cats. Noticing that I was engrossed in my cheese, Kristen took advantage and crept up to my plate. She sniffed at the bread, decided it was worth it and pawed a piece off of my plate on onto the table. She’s picky like her mom, and wanted nothing to do with wet bread either, but she did want to get at the beef flavor she knew it contained. Here is where her scientific genius kicked in, for she realized that applying pressure the bread would cause it to contract, releasing the beef broth it was currently holding. Armed with this knowledge, she pressed her little mitten paw down on the bread. Sure enough, the beef broth was released, wetting her little paw, which she then raised to her mouth to lick. It was so damn cute I didn’t bother trying to stop her. Instead I wrote a really stupid poem about the two of us sharing a bowl of soup.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Fear and Drinking in Las Vegas
Hi. I'm back. From Vegas.
As it turns out, what happens in Vegas actually DOESN'T stay in Vegas and the reason for this is that I have a blog. The trip was ostensibly for the Tai's Til 4 family of employees and patrons to attend the bar and restaurant show which was in town. The real reason was for us all to get very very drunk and gamble a lot. I've been trying to write this post for 3 days now, but for some reason these people keep giving me work to do. So instead of the original post I was going to write that would have taken you six days to read, I now present the abridged version:
As it turns out, what happens in Vegas actually DOESN'T stay in Vegas and the reason for this is that I have a blog. The trip was ostensibly for the Tai's Til 4 family of employees and patrons to attend the bar and restaurant show which was in town. The real reason was for us all to get very very drunk and gamble a lot. I've been trying to write this post for 3 days now, but for some reason these people keep giving me work to do. So instead of the original post I was going to write that would have taken you six days to read, I now present the abridged version:
- The bartender, who was my roommate for the trip, and I headed over to Paris the first day to sit in the sports book. I am not a gambler myself, so I was basically there just to watch television. The bartender finds this "not gambling" thing completely foreign and set out trying to convert me by teaching me how to read stat sheets. He might have had a better chance if he hadn't started the lesson with, "Hey math geek, check this out."
- Later that evening, we traipsed over to New York New York and met MrSteve for drinks at the Irish bar. We proceeded to get very drunk. Also, I spent a lot of time staring at our bartender, whose nametag said he was called Lee, because he was the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. In our drunk, the three of us decided the best course of action would be to all stand near the bar, pull out our phones, and start texting people we left in Chicago, where it was approximately 3 a.m. It seems we texted Brandon a few times, which he was very pleased about given that he had to get up in the morning for his first day at a new job. Also, all three of us sent a barrage of messages to Big Charlie, who was also drunk. A good time was had by all.
- The second day, MrSteve and I decide it's time to hit the Star Trek Museum. This was by far the thing I was most looking forward to in Vegas, because I am a huge geek. Luckily, MrSteve also likes to get his geek on so I had a partner. There are two rides at the museum. The first one we went on was Klingon Encounter, where I got to stand on the bridge of the Enterprise, somewhere near the tactical station (hello, NERD!). Somehow Steve and I managed to lose each other in the gift shop after the first ride, and I ended up going on the second ride by myself. This was a mistake because I had no one to grab onto when the Borg started jumping out from behind things and dragging people away to be assimilated. I assure you, it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
- Afterwards, MrSteve and I decide to hit up Quark's Bar for an alcoholic beverage. This beverage is called a Warp Core Breach. It is served with dry ice in it so that it smokes and bubbles, and it tastes like purple. While enjoying this, a very drunk woman began trying to start a very loud an incoherent conversation with us. Eventually we moved down to sit closer to her and her husband. Their names were Don and Matilda (I know there's a Waltzing Matilda joke in there somewhere, but I just can't find it) and they were at the Star Trek museum celebrating their 21st wedding anniversary. Don was very nice and normal, was a 49ers fan and talked football with me for some time, while MrSteve was dragged by Matilda into a conversation I'm not entirely sure he needed to be there for. All was well until suddenly I found Matilda behind me, playing with my hair and stroking my neck. Much as I enjoy people playing with my hair, it's kind of creepy when total strangers do it, and I was more than a little freaked out.
- That night, a large group of us went over to The Foundation Room for some fun and vodka. We were waiting for a few late comers to show up when the body came over to the bartender and me and told us he'd taken some new pictures on his phone he wanted to show us. Apparently he'd gone out and hooked up with not one, but two different women his first night in Vegas. Which we didn't know when he came walking up to us and so we were totally unprepared for his pictures. We both stood with our mouths hanging open as the body narrated his little slide show: "This is a picture of her tits, and this is a picture of her sucking my dick, and this is a picture of me sticking it in her ass..." He looked at us for our approval of his two conquests, but we were a little bit freaked out. All the bartender could manage was "I can't believe I just saw your dick."
- The next day I woke up with a fever and a sore throat, because that is exactly what I should have been expecting on my first real vacation in 10 years. Needless to say I was pretty upset, though not as upset as the bartender was. We had discovered the day before when Steve and I went to Star Trek that I was the bartenders lucky charm. Whenever I was standing next to him he won, and whenever I was somewhere else he lost. He had taken to dragging me around with him to all his favorite slot machines and rubbing my head for luck. Sure enough he lost that day.
- The bartender was waiting for a phone call from his friend who was driving us to the airport on our last day. When the phone call came he had just gotten out of the shower and came running out of the bathroom stark raving naked to answer it. This made me extremely happy because I think he should be naked all the time. Later when he was dressed he asked me if I was feeling any better. I told him it should be obvious that I wasn't by the fact that I didn't attack him when he was running around all nekkid, which he agreed was a good point.
- Ever gotten on a plane when you're sick? Don't. It sucks about seven kinds of ass. It sucks about 700 kinds of ass when you're sick and sitting next to Fatty McGee who is taking up half your seat and can't seem to sit still, and also you're in an aisle seat and are prone to motion sickness and really really need to be by a window, and also you want to try to sleep but four other people on the plane are snoring like it's their job, and also there's so much turbulence that you're sure the plane is going to fall right out if the sky.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
It's Got a Good Beat, but I Can't Dance To It
I can hear my downstairs neighbors having sex. I know they can't hear me having sex, because I'm not having any*. And while I know I have a reputation for being sort of pervy, this is actually not a good thing. Because it usually wakes me up.
Their bedroom is right below mine, and apparently their bed is on the same wall so whenever they get busy the noise shimmies up the wall into my room. Also, they seem to be "morning sex" people. Because the thumping usually begins right around 5:30 in the morning (though thankfully ends at about 5:33).
So what I have is people thumping on the wall and waking me up at 5:30 in the morning. In and of itself this is not so bad. But today while I lay there listening to them mate I realized that I would never want to sleep with either one of them. The guy is average and the girl is actually pretty hot, but it makes no difference. They are just so damn boring. I never hear her at all. She does not moan, scream or talk. At first I wasn't even sure that she was awake. But then after listening I decided she's just bored. She's bored because this guy is freaking boring. I mean really. It's almost unnatural the way he manages to keep the exact same rhythm and intensity. It never varies. He's like a fucking metronome. And clearly she has no original ideas of her own either. This was all going through my head when the thumping stopped as abruptly as it had started. I shook my head with pity and went back to sleep.
*at home**.
** with other people.
Their bedroom is right below mine, and apparently their bed is on the same wall so whenever they get busy the noise shimmies up the wall into my room. Also, they seem to be "morning sex" people. Because the thumping usually begins right around 5:30 in the morning (though thankfully ends at about 5:33).
So what I have is people thumping on the wall and waking me up at 5:30 in the morning. In and of itself this is not so bad. But today while I lay there listening to them mate I realized that I would never want to sleep with either one of them. The guy is average and the girl is actually pretty hot, but it makes no difference. They are just so damn boring. I never hear her at all. She does not moan, scream or talk. At first I wasn't even sure that she was awake. But then after listening I decided she's just bored. She's bored because this guy is freaking boring. I mean really. It's almost unnatural the way he manages to keep the exact same rhythm and intensity. It never varies. He's like a fucking metronome. And clearly she has no original ideas of her own either. This was all going through my head when the thumping stopped as abruptly as it had started. I shook my head with pity and went back to sleep.
*at home**.
** with other people.
Take That, Bitch
Co-worker I actually talk to: One time my cat wanted me to wake up so she took her paw and smacked me right in the eye.
Me: Wow, really? Kristen never does that. She just head-butts by arm when she wants to wake me up.
CWIATT: That's what Ginger normally does. That was the first time she ever bitch-slapped me.
Me: Wow, really? Kristen never does that. She just head-butts by arm when she wants to wake me up.
CWIATT: That's what Ginger normally does. That was the first time she ever bitch-slapped me.
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