And-archy in the UK

I just returned from a magical 3-week holiday in England. Words cannot express how much I love that country; I must have some kind of mystical past-life connection to it (...and I'm Irish! My ancestors would consider me a vile traitor!) I hung out with Ian, went punting on the Cam river, nearly killed myself bouldering on the Dorset coast, explored great Cornish towns like Tintagel, Land's End and Polperro (pictured), ate lunch at the hotel that inspired Fawlty Towers in Torquay, fell in love with the town of Clovelly and all its cats, went book shopping in Hay-on-Wye (Wales), and generally had an amazing time.

I will get around to posting the second half of my summer song list--now that it's nearly winter--but first (for Ian), here is one of my favorite Morph shorts.

Cheerio!

The (Other) Songs of Summer, Part II coming soon.

I want to take advantage of increased site traffic to plug the subject of my next interview. Joshua Path is an L.A.-based singer/songwriter whose song "Spider of Love" is currently being featured in the Season 6 trailer for the TV show House.

Path is a brilliant songwriter and musician, and I've become a big fan. His latest CD Headlight in the Sun is available on iTunes, or you can order it on his website. My favorite songs are "Angels Don't Come Around Here No More," "Spider of Love," and the title track "Headlight" in particular really gets me.

Check him out. You'll be glad you did.

I like Rob Sheffield. I loved his memoir Love Is a Mix Tape, and he's usually good for a laugh when he appears as a commentator on those VH-1 pop culture shows. However, I take issue with his music reviews in Rolling Stone. (I also take issue with music critics in general, because I've always questioned their validity; music critics seem to me like they're just writing to impress other music critics. Also, I am certainly not going to buy the new CD from a boring jam band just because some drooling geek in Spin gives it five stars. Similarly, if someone is into Rihanna, they're going to buy her crap CD no matter what Tweedle McFartpants in Rolling Stone says about it. But that's a whole other post...)

Sheffield reviewed the latest Daughtry release in a recent issue of Rolling Stone. I don't know much about Daughtry, other than it's fronted by some bald dorkus whose last name is Daughtry. Oh, and I think he was on American Idol too. That's about it. But check out what Sheffield has to say about him and his band in his review, titled "Daughtry's Lady-Killing Cheese Rock":

Ladies love Daughtry, and and it's never been simple for the men in their lives to figure out why...(H)e has no interest in playing cool; all he cares about is ovary-melting power ballads. Hell, he even calls his band by his last name, a corny trop that rock stars haven't dared since the days of Winger and Montrose....He brings in chick-rock titans like Richard Marx and Nickleback's Chad Kroeger, and teams up with Vince Gill for an ace country heart-tugger...Daughtry is cocky enough to know the ladies love him even more when he makes their boyfriends suffer.

Okay, Rob? First of all, never ever use the term "ovary-melting power ballad" again. Because, ew. And second, why are Richard Marx and Chad Kroeger (who?) considered chick rock? I've always thought of chick rock in terms of bands like the Go-Go's, the Donnas, Elastica, and the Runaways. In other words, chicks that rock, and not candy-ass has-beens like Richard Marx, who is not a chick (despite his hair), or the other lite-rock denizen he cited, Vince Gill. (I still have no idea who Chad Kroeger is, and can't be bothered to google him). I also resent Sheffield's insinuation that most anyone with XX chromosomes gets off on this sort of watered-down dreck. I mean, does he only hang out with menopausal 50-something grandmothers? Is his view of women so narrow that he believes every single damned one of us listens to Michael Bolton while watching Lifetime TV and daydreaming about meeting Celine Dion? Because if so, he's better off writing for Reader's Digest.

Just to clear up any confusion, here's a video of some REAL chick rock.

And speaking of the other kind of "birther," here is my friend Tim's rant on Angelina Jolie. He sent this in an email to me, and it's too good not to share. I'm posting it here (with his blessing, of course).

...For me, the making out episode with her brother(?) was the tipping point, which she followed up by having limousine sex with Billy Bob on the way to some Hollywood function. After that, she could do nothing right in my eyes. The episode where she accused the U.S. of holding up progress in Darfur comes to mind. Never mind that China, with it's oil concessions in Sudan, has been the principal impediment there. But, she's a fast learner, and soon with her own personal foreign policy advisor (yes, really) she was offered membership in the Council on Foreign Relations (unbelievable!). God, how I long for simpler times when the entertainment elite had the good graces to separate their altruism from their incessant celebrity narcissism. The post-celluloid career humanitarianism of Audrey Hepburn comes to mind.

In the end, we can only hope the public appetite for all Brangelina all the time dissipates. The actor Michael Douglas said it best a few years back, "I don't know about Brad Pitt leaving that beautiful woman (Jennifer Aniston) to go hold orphans for Angelina Jolie. I mean, how long is that going to last?" Unfortunately, it's already lasted far too long.

Bill Maher's birther rant:



Word to the third. Well-timed and well said, Billy boy.

Here is another article I wrote, published this month in The Edge magazine (online edition). They asked for stories about special bonds we share with our animals. I wrote about Shelby, my little princess.

No time for much today, so I'm just going to shamelessly promote myself...

Check out my interview with author Clane Hayward here.

Cheerio!

Time for another rant!


Jon Voight in drag. Oops, I mean, "THE HOTTEST CHICK IN THE WORLD!"

Today I will pick apart Angelina Jolie, because a.) I can't stand her, and b.) I can't fucking escape her. Every damn time I go to the supermarket her big forehead is staring at me from the latest cover of Us. Every time I log on to the internet I am bombarded with ridiculous "OMG! Brangelina!" headlines. She sticks a malnourished leg out her front door and we get ten straight days of coverage on how fabulous she allegedly looks. She is photographed eating a Saltine and it's "OMG, is Angelina pregnant again?" And I realize that some of my wrath may be misdirected: after all, it's at least 50% the fault of the media for following her around and filling those asinine, tree-destroying rags with photos of her and Brad and their eighteen preciously-named babies. But I wouldn't mind (or even notice) if she didn't annoy me like she does. And, without further ado, here are the main reason she bugs.

Let's start at the (sort of) top....

"Acting" ability: It would appear that not only is Jolie a graduate of the Nicolas Cage School of Ham-fisted Overacting (witness her scenery-chewing in crap like Gia, Alexander, and Girl, Interrupted), but she also studied with Hayden Christiansen at the Academy of the Petrified Forest (witness her painfully wooden acting in...well, everything else). Does this make her "versatile"? Perhaps. I think it just means she sucks. And what's with some of the roles she's taken on? No offense to Mariane Pearl--who suffered enough way before Jolie portrayed her in A Mighty Heart--but come on. Angelina Jolie can't even play a skinny white woman, a role she should have nailed by now. A pair of brown contacts and a frizzy wig and suddenly she's multi-racial? Seriously? I mean, a good Caucasian actress--Cate Blanchett for instance--wouldn't be able to pull that off. And I don't care if Angelina's father is (reportedly) an asshat; Jon Voight can act circles around his daughter (raw sewage like Anaconda and Tomb Raider notwithstanding). Too bad she didn't inherit any of his talent.

Lifestyle, quirks: Remember when she first became famous, and she was all raven-haired and goth-y, and in interviews she always talked about her knife collection and how she cut herself and she craved the taste of blood and would do everything short of open a vein right in front of reporters so she could prove just how fucking edgy she was? I do, and it was the first thing about her that set off my bullshit detector. I read that and thought, what the fuck? Is she fourteen years old? Because that's the only age that that kind of lame acting-out (and subsequent bragging) would be considered cool, and even then only by easily-impressed suburban teens who wear black lipstick and shop at Hot Topic. And still, the media ate that shit up with a spoon. "Wow! She's dark!" (YAWN!) And then she further compounded the stupidity by marrying Billy Bob Thornton (despite claiming to be a quasi-lesbian. Again, YAWN!) and she wore a vial of his blood around her neck and they would suck face and paw at one another at awards shows (and wherever else cameras were present). And when the rest of the world--thankfully--responded with a resounding YAWN, she ditched Billy Bob and adopted her first kid, a photogenic Vietnamese toddler she named (ugh) Maddox, and PRESTO! suddenly she was a saint. She eighty-sixed the black clothing and bloody vials, swathed herself in flowing gauzy dresses, and essentially declared to the world (via patronizing interviews and her serene, barf-enducing demeanor) "Look how enlightened and evolved I now am! I adopted this adorable ethnic orphan for the good of all humanity and what have you done for the world lately?" Which, okay, she's an insufferable egotist, but she gave a needy kid a home, so good for her, I guess. But still? She was full of shit. And a half-dozen adopted and biological babies later? She's still full of shit, and an even bigger egomaniac, collecting orphans like Precious Moments figurines and popping out three babies in two years (which, seriously? Is pretty gross.) And--if I may go back to her public transformation from Psycho Goth Chick to Lady Madonna--she reportedly cut all ties with her father after he told an interviewer that he worried his knife-collecting daughter was emotionally unstable. Keep in mind that this was shortly after her big switch-over and Crazy Angelina had become soooo 5 minutes ago, but I guess Jon Voight didn't get the memo that it was taboo to bring up his daughter's past weirdness now that she was Mother Angelina. Her solution to his evil parental concern? Screw you, dad! (To paraphrase my grandmother: you made your bed of crazy, bitch, now lie in it!)

Purported beauty: Let's get this straight. I'm not "jus jellus" of Ms. Jolie's alleged gorgeousness. I'm not jealous, because I don't find her attractive. Her increasingly gaunt appearance, her fivehead, her spongy lips? Sorry, not my thing. And that's fine, whatever. What I resent is the insistence of EVERYONE--men, women, websites, magazines (both tabloid and "respected" ones)--that she is abso-fucking-lutely the most stunning creature ever to walk upright and that us mortal women are supposed to just PASS OUT at the sight of her earth-shattering beauty. Bleh. And, also? Nope. Another thing that bugs is that Jolie fits squarely into that warped equation of "95 lb. frame + boy hips + B cups = OMG so voluptuous and HOTT!" Only in modern-day Hollywood could anorexics with fake tits be considered curvy. And by the way, I happen to be a fan of actresses such as Drew Barrymore, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Scarlett Johansen, Reese Witherspoon, and other starlets who bear the Hollywood-endorsed "hot" stamp of approval, lest you think I'm just some troll who hates the so-called pretty people. And speaking of pretty....

Her man: She can have him. Brad Pitt hasn't done anything for me since Thelma and Louise, and that was nearly 20 years ago. I've moved on. Nothing against the Bradster; he actually seems like an affable, fairly down-to-earth guy. He's also reportedly a huge pothead, so he'd probably be fun to toke up with (but not as much fun as Matthew McConaghey. Dude puts the "HIGH" in "hi-larious!). But, like the single friend who's cool until he/she couples with an annoying partner and slowly becomes just as repellent as they are, the Angelina curse seems to have hit Brad. He joins her in that creepy W photo spread where they portray 60's-era parents with six kids. (Dammit, don't encourage them! Also, why does Angelina appear to be wearing a swim diaper in one of the pics? Is Brad into water sports? Scratch that--I don't want to know). He goes on Oprah and TMI's all over the place about his kids' puke and other bodily fluids. (If I were still enamoured with Brad Pitt, that would have cured my crush right there). And through it all, the couple insists that they want to be left alone by media vultures and paparazzi. "Go away! We want to be regular people and raise our kids privately! Oh, hey! People magazine--you want to buy photos of our newborn? Here ya go! And W magazine, you want these photos of Angelina breastfeeding? There's one where you can almost kind of see her nipple a little bit! Sexy, huh? That would look great on your cover! Wait--hold on a minute--leave us alone! We're intensely private people!" Yeah, see my point? It's rather tiresome. In short: Brad, get a clue.

So, what's next for the biggest pair of lips in show business? You know what I hope? I hope Angelina and Brad renounce the public life, become missionaries, and abscond to a village in some remote country where not even the most daring paparazzo would follow. I mean, think of all the orphans Angelina would have access to, right on the doorstep of her mud hut! Even better? No more crappy Angelina Jolie movies!

Plus, I'd never have to think about her ever again. That'd be a good thing.

I'm a hothead. Literally.

Dammit, I can never be normal. It's not my fault. I don't know who or what is the cause of this, but I know the blame for my various abnormalities does not rest soley on my shoulders. It can't; there are too many other factors (parents, family, environment, disorders, medication, etc.) working together to make up my general weirdness. But I'm just here to complain, not to point fingers.

Now that summer is in full bloom in Minnesota (i.e. the temp has finally climbed above 75 degrees), I am reminded for the umpteenth time how much I hate to sweat. Don't get me wrong, I love summer. I just hate what it does to me. I sweat a lot, and not in the usual, predictable areas where humans are supposed to sweat. I sweat profusely from my scalp, which sucks ASS, especially for someone who spends as much money on her hair as I do. It's not an issue when I'm in my car, where I always have the A/C cranked to full capacity, or in a chilled restaurant or coffee shop. But when I'm out and about and exposing myself to the heat of the sun and the Midwestern humidity (biking, walking to the store, or just doing typical summertime stuff) my hair tends to look like I've just finished swimming the English Channel.

Sweat on other areas of the body is fairly manageable: there is deodorant for the pits, cotton underwear to cool the ass and various naughty bits, and powder and smear-proof makeup for the face. But if, like me, you are afflicted with Sweaty Head Syndrome (SHS), there is not a whole hell of a lot you can do. Compounding the problem is my hair, which is thick and heavy to begin with, so my head probably sweats twice as much as other people living with SHS. I mean, what do I do? Pull a Britney Spears and shave my melon? Not bloody likely. I look bad enough with short hair--I shudder to think what my giant white head would look like naked.

I did google searches on both "excessive scalp sweat" and "sweaty head" and turned up some information, but nothing very useful. I learned that SHS is clinically known as "cranio-facial hyperhydrosis." I also came across a website that promised "Four Tips To Stop Your Head From Sweating," which was bogus, because three of the remedies that it recommended (scalp deodorant--seriously!, anticholinergic drugs, and risky surgery that involves cutting the nerves) are pretty much out for me. The fourth "tip" was a link to a website hawking a book entitled (hilariously) Stop Sweating and Start Living. At this point, however, I'm about ready to order it. And by the way, why hasn't anyone invented some sort of medical head vaccuum that sucks the sweat glands dry? Because that actually sounds appealing, and fairly feasible. Better than (ew!) scalp deodorant, anyway, which I don't even want to know about.

It's good to know that I'm not alone, as I found a funny blog post from a fellow SHS sufferer.

Too good to be true?

Sorry to keep beating this dead horse (like the media keeps doing), but it seems Palin just announced she is resigning from office. Does this mean she will quietly fade into the ether and take her fucked-up bass-ackwards family with her?

Oh please please please please please!

And they say all the good ones are taken...

I can't stop giggling about this.

It was posted on gawker.com two days ago, just hours before the news of Michael Jackson's death broke. Gawker routinely posts oddball findings from the internet. I don't know who has the time or inclination to dig these people up, but I gotta hand it to them--this one's a doozy. Single ladies, take note! Mark is a high school physics teacher looking for love. Are you the Goddess he seeks?

Here are some of the attributes his Goddess is required to possess (see my comments in italics):

3.2. Body:
She is extremely attractive. She's HOT. She turns heads wherever she goes.
She is sexy. VERY sexy.
She is beautifully dressed and beautifully groomed.
"Beautifully groomed" makes me think of one of those long-haired purse dogs all done up in pink ribbons and bows.
She has a trim waistline. Alternatively, if her waistline is ALMOST (but not quite) trim, she is willing to trim it down for me and keep it trim for me. No exceptions
So basically what he is saying is, "No Fat Chicks."
She has excellent posture.
Is he going to test her by making her balance a book on her head? My mom used to do that to me. (My posture still sucks).
Her hair is her own and at least TO HER SHOULDERS.
Notice how he is adamant that her hair be "her own." Beyonce is going to be crushed.
Alternatively, she is willing to grow her hair long for me and keep it long for me. No exceptions.
I love how the two things he is absolutely unwilling to bend on are her waistline and the length of her hair. Deep.
Her voice is not low or raspy. (Alto is fine; baritone is not.)
This is the biggest WTF? right here. Baritone? Is it even possible for a woman to have a baritone voice (without some serious hormonal injections)?
She is in excellent health, although she may have some minor health issues she is working on.
Which minor health issues are acceptable? Piles? Flatulence? HPV?
She is tobacco free and drug free. She is either alcohol free or nearly so.
Well, that leaves me out.

In addition to being a high school physics teacher, Mark is an entreprenuer. He has a Global Vision (always capitalized) that involves some sort of software that promises to revolutionize the computer industry, bringing LIGHT (LIGHT is always in ALL CAPS) to the world. His description of the whole thing is pretty damn vague; a combination of corporate managerial doublespeak and New Age dreck that made my head hurt. He is very clear, however, that he stands to become a billionaire:

....marriage includes financial and legal dimensions, and the complexities of my Global Vision will necessitate a pre-nuptial agreement. I will be generous, giving the Goddess I seek 100% legal control over an appropriate portion of the anticipated wealth.

Yes, she may be a Goddess, but she still gots to sign a prenup! But she will have control of an "appropriate portion" of his money. (What is an "appropriate portion", anyhoo?)

Here are Mark's thoughts on chivalry:

I am intensely chivalrous, and, if you date me, you are required to respond to my chivalry as a LADY. You are the GIRL. Chivalry is about you allowing me to HONOR the girl in you. This means you let ME walk on the street side of the sidewalk, and you let ME open all doors for you (including when you are exiting from my car). It means you let ME decide where I would like to take you (e.g. what restaurant, what concert, what hotel, etc.), and when I tell you where I would like to take you, you tell me your FEELINGS with the understanding that if I sense that you are uncomfortable or disappointed with my offer, then I will change it because my goal is to make you HAPPY. It means that when I offer you flowers and gifts, you accept them graciously.... you should have empty vases in your home. It means that you let ME pay for everything on our dates, even if you have a lot more money than I do. It means if we are at a restaurant and I am hungry and you are busy talking, that when our food finally arrives you realize that YOU must take the first bite, and by ignoring your food as you keep yacking away you are making me starve!

Can he be any more of a control freak? Also, "yacking away as you are making me starve"? Nice.

And--you know it!--he has an extensive list of qualifications for his Goddess's sexuality.

3.6. Sexuality:
She believes in the light-filled MAGIC of sacred sex. She wants to utilize this magic to manifest our Global Vision. She realizes that her sacred sexual union with me is crucial for manifesting the Global Vision.
She is free from all physical and emotional impediments to the complete expression of her sexuality.

And are you ready for this? Cause it's hilarious:

If she has been a prostitute, that is GOOD!! We can discuss it at length. I have written a book (not yet published) entitled, Resurrecting the Innocence in Prostitutes. Fascinating topic! And it's an important part of my Global Vision.

His vague Global Vision includes resurrecting the innocence of prostitutes? How exactly does he do this? (Actually, I don't think I want to know...)

And more about sexuality, because he goes on and on and on about it:

She intensely longs to be worshipped as a Goddess by the right man... a man who knows EXACTLY what he is doing. He teases her hard and relentlessly, which makes her laugh uncontrollably. (He already makes me laugh uncontrollably, so that's believable). The sound of his voice, his words, his appearance, the way he looks at her, his powerful mind, his radiant heart, his intense sexuality, his confidence, his poise, and his very presence.... weaken her knees, fill her stomach with butterflies, send shivers up her spine, make her heart pound, overwhelm her with desire, and make her VERY wet. She cannot help but surrender herself to him, melting naked into his arms, whereupon he worships her as a Goddess.... he is the priest, she is his altar. She becomes the Goddess he is worshipping... she is elevated into extreme Goddess-ecstasy.... exploding and screaming!.... so many times you lose count.
The lady I seek somehow KNOWS deep down inside that if she surrenders herself to the right man and is worshipped by him as a Goddess in just the right way, she can move mountains.... she can move the whole world! She WANTS to make this sexual magic happen and to bless the world with the resulting miracles.

He also claims to be a tantra master (see below). For the record, I had a brief involvement some time ago with a guy who also claimed to be tantric (sadly, it wasn't Sting). The guy was seriously one of the worst lays ever. Ladies, take heed if a guy tells you he is into tantra. It is a complete and utter bullshit line frequently used by middle-aged white guys who are fundamentally insecure about their sexual prowess. But I'm not bitter.

Some of his sexual claims:

Extremely passionate tantra master who does not ejaculate (except on rare occasions). Stays fully hard through multiple male orgasms without ejaculating.
Yeah, one word: VIAGARA
Can and will genuinely DELIVER (orgasms) so many times you lose count.
Vasectomy (but I can have it reversed).
100% straight (i.e. heterosexual).

Not to be nit-picky, but I didn't think it was possible for anyone to be "100% straight," according to Dr. Kinsey's scale, anyway. But I'm just an unenlightened mere mortal. What do I know?

I am looking for a balanced woman who has the courage to unite with an extremely strong man and dance this exquisite Love Dance with him. I am looking for a woman who will LET her man LIFT her into extreme ecstasy.... FOR LIFE.

If you are looking to do a little Love Dancing with a controlling, narcissistic hippie, (or if you're just in the mood for a good laugh), Mark's website is here.

Namaste!

Michael Jackson 1958 - 2009

I'm pissed off, I'm bummed out, I'm in shock. I was ten years old when Michael Jackson peaked with Thriller, so I was there; I remember him before he went completely off the rails, when he was just known for being Michael Jackson. I don't think anyone born after 1980 can really understand the impact he had, and that's tragic. I hope that when the dust settles, he is remembered most for being a phenomenal performer and artist.

I found a clip of the Thriller video, edited down to (mostly) just the dancing. When this video came out, I had to run out of the room for the first 5 minutes because the part where he turned into a werewolf scared the holy hell out of me (I was a big weenie). But I always came back in the room for the dancing part.

R.I.P. King of Pop

Dave Caves

As you may have heard, David Letterman and Sarah Palin have been feuding because of a joke Dave made on his show last week.

The break down is this: Palin was in New York with her family and attended a Yankees game with one of her daughters. On his June 8 show, Dave made a joke about Palin's daughter getting "knocked up" by Yankees' player Alex Rodriguez (Madonna's gross ex-mantoy). Palin then got her Victoria's Secret High-leg Briefs all in a wad, crowing that Dave's joke was "perverted" because the daughter she had attended the Yankees game with was her 14-year-old daughter, Willow, not Cutty Sark or whatever the hell she named that older one who did get knocked up by her cute (but dumb as hell) hick boyfriend Levi. There then followed an assinine "But it was the older slutty daughter I was talking about, not the one that's still jailbait," half-assed apology from Dave. That wasn't good enough for Palin, so here's what Dave said last night:



Even though I wish he hadn't have caved, (if only because I love Letterman and hate Palin and her ilk with a passion), I feel his second apology last night was sincere, articulate, and heartfelt. The same cannot (ever) be said of Palin. Here was her response:

"(I accept) on behalf of all young women, like my daughters, who hope men who `joke' about public displays of sexual exploitation of girls will soon evolve."

Right. I loooooove how she suddenly becomes a feminist when it's convenient for her, like when she criticized the media for being "sexist" back when she was campaigning with McCain. Meanwhile, back in her home state she makes women pay for their hospital rape kits and would have them carry their rapist's spawn to term, since abortion is murder (it's fine to kill moose and gun down wolves from choppers, though).

By the way, why does anyone still care about this woman? Obama dispatched her and Old Man Potter months ago. Go away, Susie Moosekiller. You were good for a laugh, but you're just old news now. Fuck off back to Alaska, and try to keep your underage daughters from following their older sister's stellar example.

Dog lovers, I'm looking at you.

America loves them some dogs. Dogs, dogs, dogs...everywhere. Even people who aren't into the big lovable messy slobbery drooly kind are into dogs now: witness the booming trend of neat little purse dogs. (Which begs the question--what does Paris Hilton, et al do with all the doggie doo that must accumulate in their designer handbags? They must go through purses like Kleenex).

I'm a cat person myself--if I tried to stuff one of my cats in my purse I'd need plastic surgery afterwards--and that's part of the reason I prefer them to dogs. I like that cats think for themselves and they're smart enough to say "HELL NO!" to some of the things that dogs willingly go along with. But, that's why most people like dogs. And I can respect that. Dogs are pretty cool.

So it's time for y'all to put your money where your mouth is, and contribute to the International Fund for Animal Welfare's campaign to stop the dog massacre in China. I donated, and you should too. Read on...

A massive cull in the Chinese city of Hanzhong has claimed the lives of more than 30,000 dogs - and now we need your help to make sure that it never happens again.

The local government ordered the mass slaughter of all dogs as the result of a few cases of rabies deaths. Dog killing squads are stalking the streets, mercilessly beating dogs to death with sticks and rocks.

Friendly dogs - even healthy family pets - are being slaughtered right in front of their owners. Can you even begin to imagine how you'd feel if that happened to your dog?

Click here to donate to IFAW's campaign to stop the slaughter.

This is just my own .02, but what the hell is up with China? What unbelievable ASSHOLES.

My cousin's voice on Real Time With Bill Maher

I am posting this because my cousin Jon did the voiceover on the "Spring Break in Mexico" skit at the beginning of this episode. Jon is a voiceover artist, musician, sound engineer, sometime actor (he was an extra in The Outsiders! Yes he was!) and all around cool dude. Some of his other projects have been recording the Priceline.com radio spots with William Shatner, and doing the sound mixing for music for the old nineties TV show Real TV. He rocks.

I have been reading up on tattoos over on Cracked, and it's been quite enlightening. I learned, for instance, what message my tattoos are truly sending out to the world. The one on my ankle, apparantly, says "Cute Little Princess, now with real tattoo accessory." I can live with that. The other one on the small of my back says, "Yes, buying me a drink will totally work." Scarily accurate.

As for the tats themselves, I'm fine with the on my ankle. It was an impulsive decision I made when I was 21. It's meaningless, small, and inoffensive. My other one--on the small of my back--was an asinine decision I made when I turned 30. I will be having that one removed sometime in the (hopefully near) future. With a belt sander, if necessary.

Talkin' Bout My Generation

Gen Xers are reaching the stage where we've settled down, signed mortgages, popped out a kid or five, developed crow's feet, gotten fat, gotten bald, and generally begun that rapid downhill slide towards middle-age. Predictably, Hollywood is looking to cash in on our nostalgia. According to various movie sites, here are just a few Reagan-era dead horses that are set to be dug up and beaten: Footloose (rumored to be starring--ugh--Zac Efron), Red Dawn, Top Gun, Tron, Short Circuit, The Goonies, The Karate Kid, and Weird Science.

And I just read over on jabootu that they're planning to retool Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, a 1985 film that starred a young Sarah Jessica Parker.

I remember seeing the original Girls in the theatre. I wanted to see it because I was a Cyndi Lauper fan and naturally assumed that the plot had something to do with her (it didn't). But Sarah Jessica was cute and likeable, her love interest was the perfect tough-yet-sensitive dreamy James Dean stereotype, Helen Hunt was enjoyable as the quintessential wisecracking best friend, the rival girl was cartoonishly bitchy, and the story--which revolved around the goody-goody heroine and her new wrong-side-of-the-tracks boyfriend competing in a dance contest--was total paint-by-numbers "Omigod, don't let the mean girl win!" broadly overacted 80's dramedy.

I shudder to think what they'll do with the new version. I'm guessing it will star one of the High School Musical kids, a Jonas brother, a Gossip Girl, Robert Pattinson, and a wink-wink cameo for us oldsters (something like Helen Hunt popping up as the heroine's music teacher), with soundtrack by Miley Hannah Cyrus Montana.

Hearing about this latest planned remake was the final straw for me. I would like to take this opportunity to implore all studio heads and the powers that be in Hollywood: on behalf of my generation, for the love of all that is holy, please STOP raping our childhood memories.

Or, at the very least, don't use a Jonas brother to do it.

The Amazing Adventures of Morph -- Episode 1

Ian introduced me to Morph a while back, and now I'm hopelessly addicted. I've been watching episode after episode of The Amazing Adventures of Morph, and I keep going back to this, episode 1 of the series.

The original one is hands-down my favorite, partly because it features Gillespie. I love Gillespie. I love how he raises his eyebrows salaciously when Morph jumps into his arms. I love the big pile up fight he gets into with the other clay people. I love his buttons. I love that his name is Gillespie. He rocks.

I also love this episode because it's the one where they write a book. I look at this and wish I'd had similar help with my novel. It would have been awesome to just orate into a microphone while a little silver tin-foil girl inside a box took notes. I would have adored having a clay creature to untangle all the strips of paper and organize it into pages--pages that simply slipped into a professionally bound book.

I think that's how Stephenie Meyer wrote Twilight.

I'd Rather Be Blogging

More Shelby photos to come, as well as more frequent updates.

One of my resolutions this summer is to blog more (I really challenge myself, don't I?). Life has been complicated lately: cat issues, emotions and stuff, endings, beginnings, edits, rejections, query letters, and trying to get a million things accomplished at once. Additionally, I have been turning my attention to the nefarious time-hoovering black hole known as facebook, which has sucked away time better spent on my blogging. But no more! I'm not quitting the facebook, just taking a little vacation from it while I use the brain cells I've been devoting to it to post stuff here. When it comes down to it, I'd rather have people reading my blog than my facebook page. Besides, how many more useless "Which (80's sitcom character, teen movie, one-hit wonder) are you?" quizzes do I need to take, anyway? (For the record, I am Punky Brewster, Say Anything, and Haircut 100, respectively).

I promised a Shelby photo montage, and here it is. These are just a handful of shots from Shelby's first year (there are MANY more, but these were the best of the bunch).


So cuuuuuute! This is Shelby at the shelter, the day we picked her up. We adopted her on April 1, 1995 from an all-volunteer feline rescue organization in Indianapolis called Cats' Haven.


Me and my old boyfriend Rick holding Shelby and her mom, who was being cared for at the shelter. Her name was Kimmy and she was one badass cat!


This is (from left) Shelby with her brother and one of her sisters. She had another sister identical to the black and white one who had already been adopted.


Me and Shelby the night we brought her home. This is at my first apartment, the one that Rick and I shared on Evergreen Court in Indy. Vertical blinds, beige carpeting, avacado green fridge. I remember it well. Notice that I had yet to discover eyebrow tweezers.


Shelby and my mom. She was crazy about Shelby, her "grandkitten."


Shelby with my stepdad. He's usually not that into cats, but Shelby could make a cat lover out of anyone.


Awwwww! Have you ever seen anything so adorable????

In Loving Memory of my sweet Shelby Valentine


Shelby passed away on May 4, 2009 after being diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in late February. It has been a very hard few months for me, knowing that the end was near for her, but I tried my best to make her comfortable, pamper her (even more than I usually did!), and give her extra love and attention.

I miss her terribly, and I had to wait to post this tribute to her until I was feeling up to it emotionally. I also envisioned putting up a montage of photos of Shelby--as a kitten and throughout her life--as a kind of "Academy Awards In Memory Of" type of deal. I will still do that, because Shelby (diva that she was/is) would absolutely expect that sort of a tribute. I have to wait to get my scanner fixed before posting all the photos I have in mind, but will do that as soon as I can.

Peace to my little Shelby Valentine
Febrary 1995 - May 2009
She is loved and missed by all who knew her, human and feline alike.

This is a review I wrote that was supposed to run in 360 Magazine last year, but then it folded...so, yeah. Here it is in a much cooler, financially stable context. (This blog will not go bankrupt, I promise you that).

The Hypocrisy of Disco by Clane Hayward

Most twelve-year-old girls think their mothers are crazy, but Clane Hayward had real reason to doubt her mother's sanity when she moved them out of their dilapitated cabin and into the middle of a California redwood forest to avoid paying rent. She didn't believe in landlords, because "no one can really own the land. The land abides and we will live on it by the grace of God."

The Hypocrisy of Disco is Hayward's memoir of her tumultuous twelfth year. Born in San Francisco in 1967, "just before the Summer of Love," to H'lane, a deeply weird, perpetually stoned hippie earth mother, and Claude, a part-time trucker who is rarely around, Clane is a flower child who longs to live a normal life "where everything has a regularness and sameness."

"Nothing in my life moves in a straight line," muses Clane. In the redwood forest with her mother, her brother Haud and half-sister Ki, Clane's bedroom is a tarp stretched on the ground at the base of a tree. Next, the family relocates to a field near Monte Rio, California, then to an abandoned ranch, and later to a tent just outside a trailer park. Clane is never quite clear on the reasons for their unorthodox lifestyle. "(Mom) says it's because she's a gypsy. I have pictures in my head of all the places I've ever lived, and some of them don't make any sense to me."

Feeling lonely and isolated, Clane finds solace in C.S. Lewis books and her own imaginings of a fantasy life where she lives in a house, sleeps in a real bed, and has a mother who makes her cucumber sandwiches and lets her paint her toenails.

Despite the inherent tragedy of a young girl spending a significant part of her childhood homeless, Hayward's book never feels like a downer, and there are moments of real joy, like when she sneaks off to a friend's trailer to eat junk food and watch The Muppet Show ("The Muppet Show is the greatest thing I have ever seen."). Later the same friend takes her to the roller rink, where Clane marvels at the colored lights, the mirrored ball and the thumping disco music: "My heart is pounding as we rent skates and change into them and glide, a little clumsy at first, onto the rink and pause at the fence to look at everyone going by and then....we fling ourselves, whooping, into the thick of the skaters on the rink, arms flailing, hair flying."

The Hypocrisy of Disco is a fascinating read that needs a sequel, or at least a continuation. By the concluding scene—-Clane's thirteenth birthday party--I was satisfied, but itching to know more. What was Clane’s adolescence like? How did she go from rambling California vagabond to Texas middle school teacher (as the author's book sleeve bio indicates)? One can only hope that Ms. Hayward has more books inside of her; a life like hers begs more volumes.

What I've Been Reading...

I'm Perfect, You're Doomed: Tales From a Jehovah's Witness Upbringing by Kyria Abrahams

If I were unimaginative enough to rate books and movies in terms of “grades” (“duh, guess this one gets a D...”), I'd probably give I'm Perfect, You're Doomed a B-, an A for effort, and in the top margin I'd scrawl a note in red ink: “Definitely engrossing, but should be funnier. Keep writing!” But I'm sure Kyria Abrahams doesn't need my encouragement to keep writing, and she knows more about being funny than I do, (she's now a stand-up comedian, after all). That said, I liked this, although with a title as awesome as I'm Perfect, You're Doomed, I was expecting more.

I did learn a lot about the Jehovah's Witnesses, a fundamentalist sect of Christianity that boasts followers like Michael Jackson and Prince. The basic gist of the religion is this: theirs is the one true religion, and Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and everyone else (including followers of other branches of Christianity like Catholics, Mormons, Episcopalians, etc.) are all poseurs and are going be wiped out in the Armageddon. Only Jehovah's Witnesses will be spared and get to live on in a world free of atheists and other icky sinners. The Armageddon could happen tomorrow, it could happen twelve years from now, it could and will happen basically at the whim of Jehovah, so you'd better watch out, you'd better convert, and you'd better not miss any meetings at the Kingdom Hall. Oh, and celebrating any kind of holiday—Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Easter, and even birthdays, is strictly verboten.

It's disturbing, but also quite hilarious when told through the eyes of Abrahams, a typical eighties child who loves Ricky Schroeder of Silver Spoons fame, even though her mother tells her that he “doesn't seem like a very nice boy.” From the age of eight, when Kyria is considered old enough to attend the Fellowship School, she is locked in an internal battle between adhering to the Witnesses' strict religious code and engaging in sinful activities such as attending the birthday parties of “worldly” friends and collecting Smurf figurines. Smurfs are demons, apparently, and there are stories circulating throughout Kyria's congregation about a Smurf doll that spontaneously came to life—right in the middle of the Kingdom Hall—screamed “Oh, shit!” and then burst into flames (because, y'know, Smurfs are evil and they hate Jehovah). Kyria becomes even more conflicted when she hits puberty, starts listening to ungodly bands like The Cure, and develops crushes on worldly boys (in Jehovah's Witness-speak, “worldly” is not a compliment). She longs to follow her heart and her hormones, but still wants to be a good Jehovah's Witness; the possibility of getting caught breaking the rules and thus being “disfellowshipped” is constantly hanging over her addled head.

When Kyria turns eighteen she marries a fellow Jehovah's Witness—a twenty-four-year-old part-time math professor and “stinky nerd” named Alan. She can barely stand him to be in the same room with him, but she is desperate to escape her warring parents and be able to have “legal” sex. At this point in the book things become murkier. Kyria becomes increasingly unsympathetic and downright nasty; treating her new husband horribly and trying to have sex with his friends. You almost want to give her a good shoe in the ass and tell her to grow up. On the other hand, such behavior seems understandable coming from the child of a dysfunctional home, a girl who grew up learning not to get too comfortable in “this” world, since any day now Jehovah would wipe out all the bad stuff so that the real believers could live a better life in “The New System of Things.”

By the end, Kyria thankfully grows up a little, gets gently knocked around by life and those fearsome “worldly” people, and is able to find her place among the sinners. I'm Perfect, You're Doomed isn't the best memoir I've ever read, but it is eye-opening, often humorous, and smartly written. And it's a good thing that Kyria turns out to be far from perfect, thank God—er, Jehovah—because who'd want to read about someone who is?

Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper by Diablo Cody

I was reluctant to pick up this book, mostly because I didn't love Juno, the film based on Cody's Oscar-winning screenplay. While it was a great story (not to mention wonderfully cast and well-acted), I found the hipster dialogue distracting, and the wink-wink cleverness rather annoying. I had heard good things about Cody's stripper memoir Candy Girl, but I wasn't keen to slog through more suffocatingly cool prose that her fans love so much.

Thankfully, the book isn't plagued by the same issues that caused Juno to crash in on itself. Candy Girl turned out to be a funny and very well-written account of Cody's stint as an exotic dancer, a year she spent in the employ of various Minneapolis strip clubs while settling into a new relationship with her musician boyfriend. Her writing is wry and sharply observed, and she doesn't skimp on dishing the juicy details while examining the bizarre quirks of an industry that is paradoxically exploitative and empowering (both for the dancers and the spectators, it seems).

Cody is determined to wring as much from the stripper experience as possible. She dances at all kinds of clubs, from the classiest to the seediest and everywhere in between. One is a cabaret-style bar with delusions of intellectual grandeur: the patrons puff expensive cigars and the walls are lined with shelves holding leather-bound books that no one reads. Another club is a gaudy neon nightmare that routinely holds “panty auctions” where a dancer prances across the stage wearing panties bearing the club's logo as the customers bid on the chance to prize a pair of undies straight from a stripper's body. One club, Dreamgirls, is staffed by such a ragtag crew of mohawked dancers and verbally abusive managers that Cody hilariously dubs the venue “Night Terror Girls.”

One thing I didn't need was the book's second-to-last chapter, “A Stripper Was Born,” a sort of denouement wherein Cody attempts to explain away her decision to pursue a brief career as a dancer. The chapter's placement is odd, and I think it would have served her story better had it been included at the beginning of the book—if it needed to be there at all. It seems superfluous for Cody to justify her choices, since it's pretty clear at the outset that she is a free-spirited nonconformist who is comfortable with her body. Plus, she's a writer, first and foremost. She got a great story out of it. That seems as good a reason as any to climb up on the pole and give it a whirl.

DVD Round-up, Part II: Drama!

Okay, here is my (long-awaited? You decide!) short list of dramas I've seen recently...(in alphabetical order, since I'm feeling anal today).

Arranged (or, "Yes, We Can All Just Get Along")
This was a little indie film I found tucked away in the "foreign" section of my video store (even though it's an American film). It is a simple story of friendship between two young public school teachers in Brooklyn: one an Orthodox Jew, one a devout Muslim. After a few awkward encounters in the staff room, the two women end up bonding over their dislike of the school's principal after she calls both of them into her office to passive-aggressively chide Rochel for her modest long skirts and Nasira for her headscarves. (At one point the brash principal even tries to foist money on them so they can buy more "fashionable" clothes). The women also find themselves in similar situations because of both cultures' beliefs in arranged marriage: Rochel's mother has enlisted the help of a shadchan to find her a husband, while Nasira's father has begun setting up meetings with eligible Muslim men. They lean on one another for support, commisserating over their bad dates and sharing their doubts about adhering to strict religious tradition in an increasingly secular society. It's a bit predictable, but well-written and nicely acted.

Verdict: A good one to watch with your mom (and I mean that in the best possible way).

Betty Blue (or, "Bitch Crazy")
A guy with a hook on his hand rips apart a mattress. A woman eats a pizza topped with garbage. A young man rubs soup on his face in an attempt to comfort his grieving girlfriend. A student film? Nah, it's Betty Blue, a well-loved French arthouse film from 1986 that I just recently got around to watching. And the film is, well....weird. The story centers on the outstandingly dysfunctional relationship between Zorg (Zorg?) an unambitious would-be writer and his young girlfriend Betty, who is more than a little insane. The plot is meandering and relatively non-existent. It is probably best-described as a "character-driven" film, with a lots of psychosis all around. Beatrice Dalle turns in a believable performance as Betty (she's good at acting crazy, anyway). She is definitely interesting to watch, mostly for her outlandish behavior but also for her vibrant, fabulously slutty 80's dresses. (She also seems to have an aggressive aversion to underwear.) She and Zorg (Zorg!) ramble around Paris and the French countryside, carousing with fellow neurotics, pissing off people and having lots and lots of sex. As their relationship progresses, Zorg becomes increasingly unnerved by the frequency of Betty's "fits", but his codependent allegiance to the cute little nutcase keeps him chained to her side. Betty finally goes completely berserk and pokes out her eye (this happens off-camera, thankfully). Zorg dresses in drag(!) and goes to visit his beloved in the hospital, where he commits a startling, irreversible act.

Verdict: Unfocused but entertaining, with an oddly beautiful ending that almost makes it worth sitting through. Almost.

The Class (or, "I'm Sorry, Did You Say Something?")
The thing that pissed me off most about this Oscar nominated French film was the review I read in The Onion's AV Club, which basically praised the film for not being your typical, cliche-ridden "maverick teacher inspires troubled students" film common in mainstream American cinema. Fine, geeks, it's all well and good to flout the rules, buck tradition and avoid tidy endings....but seriously. This director's "daring" decision to employ non-professional actors, the endless improvised scenes and the conflict-free plot put me right to sleep after 45 minutes, and I saw this thing in the theatre. The only other film that's ever done that to me? The Grudge, Part 2.

Verdict: Zzzzzz.....

The Lair of the White Worm (or, "Ken Russell Hates Women")
The best things about this 1988 crapfest: the title, Hugh Grant, and the ending.

Verdict: Don't bother (not that you would).

DVD Round-Up, Part I: The Comedies

There's not a whole hell of a lot to do in January, so I've been renting a lot of movies. These are reviews of the ones that weren't Mystery Science Theatre episodes.

Step Brothers

I actually saw this one in Indy during Christmas. I didn't expect much from it, as Will Farrell's attempts at comedy generally leave me cold, and it depresses me to see a talented actor like John C. Reilly dumbing himself down for lame summer movie fare (sort of akin to seeing Steve Buscemi pop up in horrible Adam Sandler "comedies." By the way, what is up with that? Does Sandler have photos of Buscemi molesting a goat or something?) That said, Step Brothers is not bad. There are some genuinely funny moments, and a pretty ingenius gag about a Billy Joel cover band. Of course, there are also the yawningly predictable masturbation jokes, unfunny sex jokes and the inevitable "Will Farrell loses his shit" scene that Farrell must be contractually obligated to include in every one of his films (either that, or there are people who think it's really funny to see a grown man throw Veruca Salt-sized hissy fits. I am not one of them).

Verdict: Funny enough to merit a four-dollar DVD rental on a slow night.

Hamlet 2

I put off renting this one for a while, simply because I am a HUGE Steve Coogan fan (I'm Alan Partridge is pretty much my favorite TV show ever), and I was afraid of being disappointed (the previews I saw were not promising, word-of-mouth even less so). Nonetheless, I was able to suck it up and fork over the money--mainly for The Coog, of course, but I was slightly cheered to learn that it was directed by Andrew Fleming, who helmed the truly awesome Dick and wrote and directed the underrated, little-seen Threesome.

Hamlet 2 was....okay. It starts out great, with a montage of "highlights" from actor-cum-high-school-drama-teacher Dana Marschz (Coogan)'s pitiful career, including a starring role in an ad for herpes medication and a hammy turn in Xena: Warrior Princess. From there, the comedy gets broader and a lot less funny. The most frustrating aspects of the film are the overwritten script and the abundance of useless characters and scenes that go nowhere. One of the many unecessary subplots involve Catherine Keener, who plays Coogan's long-suffering wife. While I love her as an actress, there is absolutely nothing for her to do. She could have been completely cut from the movie, and it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference. Ditto David Arquette, who has little dialogue and too much screen time. Amy Poehler's hard-nosed attorney character is funny, but similarly useless--she is thrown in late in the second act seemingly as an afterthought. (Weirdly enough, Elisabeth Shue turns in one of the movie's best performances...as herself). The funniest part of the film is easily the grand finale, with Coogan and his (predictably) rag-tag group of drama club misfits going balls-to-the-wall in their staging of Coogan's self-penned theatrical manifesto, featuring songs like "Rock Me, Sexy Jesus" and lyrics about getting "raped in the face" (you had to be there).

Verdict: Passably funny, but could have been SO much better.

The Love Guru
Ugh. Let me first clear up something here: I did not rent this. A friend had it and I agreed (under duress) to watch it with him. This friend has horrible taste in movies.
This friend, thank Godfully, does not read my blog.
I've always found Mike Myers intriguing. I've seen and read some in-depth interviews with the guy and he actually comes across as thoughtful, witty, even urbane. Then he goes and makes crap like The Love Guru, probably the most wretched cinematic turd he has ever produced (which is saying something). The man is definitely an enigma.
I won't rehash the plot of The Love Guru, because it doesn't have one. The film is pretty much entirely comprised of (deep breath): fart jokes, poop jokes, boner jokes, dick jokes, booger jokes, pee jokes, midget jokes, kicked-in-the-groin jokes, multiple jokes involving elephant sex (don't ask), bad CGI, Justin Timberlake's shameless mugging, Jessica Alba's painful acting, Ben Kingsley (!) cashing a paycheck, John Oliver (the cute Brit from The Daily Show) destroying any chance he had of a career in film, pointless cameos by Deepak Chopra, Jessica Simpson, Val Kilmer, Mariska Hargitay, and Kanye West, and--of course--Myers himself, camping it up to beat the band in the worst comedic performance since, well, the last unfunny Mike Myers vehicle.
Mike Myers should not be allowed to make any more films. In fact, I propose that he be forced, Clockwork Orange-style, to sit and watch Take the Money and Run, Sleeper, Love and Death, and Bananas on a continuous loop until it sinks in that there is a subtle art to slapstick comedy; that slapstick does not mean endless scatalogical references and lame sex jokes. And then Myers should issue a public apology for foisting shit like The Love Guru onto the moviegoing public. There really is no excuse for this film.

Verdict: Unwatchable.

Pineapple Express

Seth Rogen and James Franco are funny, (writer) Judd Apatow is funny, Pineapple Express is....well, probably the funniest mainstream comedy I've seen in a while, which is saying something. Rogen and Franco are basically a white Cheech and Chong pursued by a ruthless pot kingpin (a concept that is funny in itself). There are a few lame bits, but overall I enjoyed it.

Verdict: Funnier if you're stoned, but funny in its own right, too. And Huey Lewis does the title song!



Next time: Drama!

So this is the new year...and I don't feel any different.

THE NEW YEAR MEME
From Sunday Stealing

1.) Looking back on 2008, what might your theme song have been?
"Hit the Heartbrakes" - Black Kids

2.) If 2008 were a movie, who would play you?
Jude Law in drag.

3.) What was your greatest gift of 2008?
Going to England.

4.) What are you committing to this year?
SUCCESS

5.) If January could be represented by one song, what would it be?
"Money (That's What I Want)"

6.) What do you wish for your body in 2009?
Drop 20 pounds.

7.) Name one thing you would love to try in the new year.
Volunteering for a worthy cause.

8.) What do you long for 2009 to bring?
See #4.

9.) If that happened, how would you feel?
Vindicated!

10.) Where would you love to vacation in 2009 if money were no object?
England, Wales, Amsterdam, Denmark, Bermuda

11.) What would you like the theme of 2009 to be?
Positive change

12.) If 2009 were a book, and the title was 5 words or less, what might the title be?
Some Fantastic

YES. WE. DID.

I'd like to take a short break from the politcal madness to pose this important question:

Is Madonna blind?

Guy = hotness


A-Rod = fugness


Oy. The guy looks like a hunk of brown wax that melted over a mannequin.

Also, she's calling Guy (and supposedly Englishmen in general) "emotionally retarded"? As if American men are known for their boundless warmth and sensitivity. Tell me another one, Madge.

At least maybe now she'll give up the nauseating faux-British accent.

PS--Guy Ritchie? Call me.

I have a question. It's about Sarah Palin's hair: Is it fiberglass, or steel?

On a lighter note, I will award one million points to whomever catches that fairly obscure movie reference.

New song by the fabulous Jane Jensen.



How do I love this girl? Let me count the ways:

1.) She was a B-movie actress in the 1990's and starred in the cult film Tromeo and Juliet.
2.) Luv Song. Also, Highway 90. Also, King of My Heart. Also...well you get the picture.
3.) She is from my hometown (Indianapolis)!
4.) She is like an American Shirley Manson, but quirkier. (And blonde!)
5.) Comic Book Whore
6.) The CD booklet for Comic Book Whore.

Oh, just stop reading this and go check her out, cause she rocks.

Dave = Awesome.

Also, Keith Olbermann--will you marry me?

EXCELLENT article in the latest Rolling Stone by the brilliant Matt Taibbi, the best political writer out there. I've been eagerly awaiting his thoughts on Palin, and he did not disappoint.

An excerpt:

Here's the thing about Americans. You can send their kids off by the thousands to get their balls blown off in foreign lands for no reason at all, saddle them with billions in debt year after congressional year while they spend their winters cheerfully watching game shows and footballl, pull the rug out from under their mortgages, and leave them living off their credit cards and their Wal-Mart salaries while you move their jobs to China and Bangalore.

And none of it matters, so long as you remember a few months before Election Day to offer them a two-bit caricature culled from some cutting-room-floor episode of Roseanne as part of your presidential ticket. And if she's a good enough likeness of a loudmouth Middle American archetype, as Sarah Palin is, John Q. Public will drop his giant sized bag of Doritos in gratitude, wipe the Sizzlin' Picante dust from his lips and rush to the booth to vote for her. Not because it makes sense, or because it has a chance of improving his life or anyone else's, but simply because it appeals to the low-humming narcissism that substitutes for his personality, because the image on TV reminds him of the mean, brainless slob he sees in the mirror every morning.

Sarah Palin is a symbol of everything that is wrong with the modern United States. As a representative of our political system, she's a new low in reptilian villainy, the ultimate cynical masterwork of puppeteers like Karl Rove. But more than that, she is a horrifying symbol of how little we ask for in return for the total surrender of our political power. Not only is Sarah Palin a fraud, she's the tawdriest, most half-assed fraud imaginable, 20 floors below the lowest common denominator, a character too dumb even for daytime TV--and this country is going to eat her up, cheering her every step of the way. All because most Americans no longer have the energy to do anything but lie back and allow ourselves to be jacked off by the calculating thieves who run this grasping consumer paradise we call a nation.

See more Gina Gershon videos at Funny or Die

Not as awesome as Tina Fey (who is?) but still pretty damn funny.

Word.

Right now you may be asking yourself, WHY is Andie so happy? You may be, but that is pretty damn unlikely because I haven't seen anyone that I know today, and I don't think anyone really gives a rat's ass anyhoo.

But I AM happy!

Sure, it has something to do with the fact that just a few minutes ago in Sebastian Joe's coffee and ice cream establishment, they played "Dirty Creatures" by Split Enz. This made me so ecstatic I almost got up from my comfy armchair and danced the macarena. After that they played the Thompson Twins, who are almost as good. (SHUT UP. Just shut up right now because I am not taking any more crap about my taste in music. Or don't, because I am not even listening to you). (Also, I have to admit that I have not a clue "they" are. Whomever chooses the music that is piped into Sebastian Joe's sound system, I suppose--but I am not entirely sure if it is a CD or somebody's iPod or some sort of sattellite music service that pipes in endless music. Text me if you know the answer to this one. Do it now. I'm serious).

The biggest reason I am happy today is that I have declared myself legally insane.

Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, They are now playing Tears For Fears. Could this day get any better?

Back to my insanity.

The biggest thing that prompted this declaration is that today I am proudly walking the streets of south Minneapolis in sweatpants. You see, long ago, about the time that grunge died, I made a promise to myself that I would never wear sweatpants in public because I believe it is just wrong to do so. (The gym doesn't count, by the by). But today before I walked to Starbucks (yes, first I was at Starbucks, now I am at Sebastian Joe's. Think I may need to curb my caffeine habit?) I consciously swathed myself in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top before leaving the house.

Yup.

True, these are sweatpants...but not just any old pair of sweatpants.

These are my (relatively) new PINK sweatpants purchased with SIMON REID's money (see previous post) at Vicky's Secret. I capitalize PINK not only because of the color of said sweatpants, but because that's what it says on the ass in big capital letters. I love it. In fact, I picked out this pair of sweatpants at the store largely because the word PINK is emblazoned across the ass. In maroon-colored, high-school-letterman's-jacket style letters, which is even more awesome. (PINK is the name of a clothing line by Victoria's Secret. I really want them to come out with a WHITE clothing line, so I can buy a pair of sweatpants with some guy's money and walk around with the word WHITE on my ass. Actually, it would be even better if the name of this fictitious clothing line were WHITEY).

I almost forgot to mention that there is some small cursive writing above the word PINK, but I can't tell what it says because every time I am admiring my own ass, I am (naturally), looking in a mirror and (naturally) the writing is backwards. I'll post a photo on here soon so someone else can tell me what the writing says.

And I haven't even told about the rest of my outfit. That's right, you don't know the half of it, because even better than the sweatpants (some might argue) is my tank top, also from Victoria's Secret--though not part of the PINK line as far as I can tell--which has a built-in push-up bra that gives me some of the best cleavage SIMON REID's money could buy. I mean, I have really amazing cleavage in this thing. So amazing, that when I was out earlier today this Asian guy I passed on the street walked straight into a parking meter because he couldn't take his eyes off my décolletage. And every time someone gets to enjoy my appearance in something purchased with that asshole's money, another angel gets its wings.

True story.

So as you can now see, how can I not wear an ensemble like this out in public?

Also, how could I not be happy?

It's a wonderful life.

Can you spot the Anti-Christ in the above photo? Hint: it isn't the one with the nice threads and cool hair. It's the other one. Yeah, turns out there is an Anti-Christ and his name is SIMON REID. We were "together" (I use the term loosely) nearly two months to the day: from June 13, 2008 to August 10, 2008. This man declared his undying love for me on our second date. On our third date he said "you won't be my girlfriend for long, you know. I'm the marrying kind." After that he told me to start looking for a wedding gown suitable for a ceremony on the beach. I swallowed ALL of this because a.) I am a total moron and b.) SIMON REID is (sigh), well...he's British. I know. Blame the impish lads I drooled over at age 8 on The Adventures of Black Beauty and (later) Duran Duran and their ilk. I hold them responsible for corrupting my impressionable little psyche. But I digress.

The demise of our relationship happened thusly: SIMON REID disappeared on August 7. I was frantic for three days, wondering what the fuck was going on. Then on the afternoon of August 10 I got a call from (are you ready for this? Cause it's good) his WIFE. Yup. SIMON REID is not only an evil lying bastard, he is a MARRIED evil lying bastard. So basically the only thing he told me that turned out to be true is that he is indeed the marrying kind.

According to his wife, I ain't the first. During our phone call of August 10, she informed me (I was mostly too shocked to speak) that I am but one in a long parade of girlfriends he has had since they married seven years ago.

Among the many lies that SIMON REID told me, these are the biggest ones: he was buying a cottage outside Brighton for us to stay in when we visited his family in England, the house his construction company is fixing up in St. Paul was to be ours when it was finished, he was going to buy me a Mini-Cooper for a wedding present, and a lie that took the form of a suggestive query on the occasion of our third date: "One question for you--gold or platinum?"

There are a few good things that came out of this joke of a relationship. One, he took me to Victoria's Secret and bought me $500 worth of lingerie (see receipt below).


So while I feel like complete mug, at least I am wearing fantastic underwear. He also bought me a new TV, a bunch of meals, drinks, coffees, the dress I am wearing in the photo at the beginning of this post, and a little playhouse for my cats. Another positive thing SIMON REID did was pay my July rent. He also told me he would pay my August and September rent (we were going to move in together in October. Isn't that funny? I bet his wife would laugh really hard if she heard that one), but he took off before giving it to me. So basically he owes me two months rent. We had a verbal agreement--and I could probably get any lawyer off a billboard in the 'hood to concur.

The final positive SIMON REID did for me was to give me a chance to warn the citizens of the Twin Cities and--hell, the entire world--to watch out for this douche. If you see him, give him a good punch in the crotch for me, and, for the love of all things holy, DO NOT believe anything that comes out of his mouth. If he tells you 2 + 2 = 4, check his facts.

By the way, don't give me any of that sexist "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" nonsense. This has nothing to do with being a woman. I am a Leo, and Leos are all about loyalty. We are sort of like the Mob Bosses of the zodiac. Be good to us and we'll take a bullet for you. Screw us over and it's your ass. I am also a writer, and there's a great quote I once read (I have no idea who said it) that goes something like "When a writer is born into a family, that family is doomed." The same goes double for a writer's exes.

I have not heard from SIMON REID since he disappeared on August 7, and I am confident that I never will again. The man is a coward, plain and simple. He also knows I am now aware of his marital status and what a sad, sad liar he is and is too afraid to show his face. He has not called, texted, emailed, anything.

Fine, whatever. There is nothing I can do to change what he did to me or how I am feeling about it right now. I just have to feel this way until I don't feel this way anymore (as Teri Garr said in Tootsie).

I can also take comfort in these words of wisdom from the esteemed poet Bono: Instant karma's gonna get him, if I don't get him first.

I know this much is true.

Introducing my new book:

Thanks, That Was Fun

A kinda sorta semi-autobiographical novel

Rather funny, a little sad, definitely sordid
Available now on Kindle

Not a Kindle user? Buy it here.

Summer Rants n' Raves

I was at the gym the other day and I saw the dumbest-ass commercial ever. It was a JC Penney back-to-school ad, (which, on a separate note, really pisses me off that stores start hawking school supplies and fall-weather clothes in the middle of July. It's still summer people! We have a whole month left! Incidentally, I never considered summer officially over until the week following my birthday, which is in late August. So suck it, department stores; summer ain't over until I say so!) But I digress....

So the commercial is a tribute/send-up/rip-off of The Breakfast Club, featuring an assortment of wholesome-looking teens being dropped off one by one at Shermer High School (the advertisers get a little credit for getting the name right) and assembling in the library where (in a series of rapid-fire montages) they sulk, fidget, eat their lunches, run through the halls, bond with one another, and dance. Of course, the advertisers opted not to include the part where the Judd Nelson "rebel" stand-in (a rebel who shops at JC Penney? Um, okay...) buries his face in the Molly Ringwald chick's crotch. Also missing was the loogie swallowing, the weirdo Ally Sheedy girl shaking dandruff from her hair, and (naturally) the pot smoking scene. It sort of looks like a High School Musical version of The Breakfast Club, which is a scary, scary thought.

Judge for yourself.



Other observations: interestingly enough, they made both the Anthony Michael Hall/nerd and the Molly Ringwald/princess characters African-American, and--in a gay-ass nod to Paris Hilton--the princess girl is clutching a Chihuahua. In the school library. Yeah. Also, after the princess girl "pretties up" the Ally Sheedy weirdo girl, she looks exactly the same (she should have made her change out of that fugly purple outfit)--the only thing different about the weird girl post-"makeover" is that she is sporting a thin plastic headband, the likes of which I have not seen since I was twelve. Dear God, don't tell me those things are back.

Wow, I have given way too much thought to this crappy JC Penney commercial. That's sort of sad.

Anyway, on to some recommendations.

READ:

What is the What by Dave Eggers

Hairstyles of the Damned by Joe Meno

SEE:

The Wackness (Mary-Kate Olsen notwithstanding, it's a great movie)

HEAR:

The Black Kids, Partie Traumatic (They're not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you!)

RENT:

The Filth and the Fury

TRY:

The mashed potato bar at Joe's Garage (I had mine with mock duck and broccoli smothered in Wisconsin cheese. Awesome!)

First things first...

Happy Birthday to Marcus and Mike W., two of my favorite people! Actually, their birthdays were 7/7 (yesterday), but my brain is a bit soft so my regards are a day late. In honor of their birthdays (and also because summertime makes me lazy and apt to fall back on my favorite old standby for lazy blog posting, YouTube), here is some awesomeness for all to enjoy.

Fun with treadmills! This video rocks my world. Check out the guy in the red pants. He is all kinds of cool.



If only our American Idol counterparts were this smart and charismatic...



...or this talented:



Happy Birthday M&M! Hope these made you laugh.