Okay, I feel like I must weigh in on all this brou-ha-ha concerning Mel Gibson's new movie--of course, I'm talking about The Passion of the Christ. I don't really have anything against the film, I just don't feel a strong need to be subjected to Mel Gibson's "vision." From what I've read, he's not really bringing anything new to the table, aside from the violence shock factor. I attended Sunday school growing up, had four years of Catholic school, and I still go to church, so I think it's fair to say that I'm familiar with the story of the crucifixion. I don't need the star of Bird On a Wire to explain it to me.

Happy Fat Tuesday!

Here are some links:

KiKi makes and sells quirky, retro items ranging from jewelry to journals to toilet seats. I want the space girl toilet seat so bad I can taste it! It takes all of my willpower not to whip out my credit card and buy, buy, buy! I'm totally serious. When I have a little more money in the bank, that toilet seat is mine.

One-hit wonders! Ever 'wonder' what happened to 'em? This site has an extensive list of one-trick ponies and their songs, arranged by decade from the '50s to the '90s. While the lists are impressive, they need to do a little more research on the artists to provide more bio information (many of them have none available). Still, it's fun to look through and see how many you remember. One conspicuous omission, however, is Martika's Toy Soldiers. Okay, I admit it, I kinda like that one. The site more than makes up for it, though, by listing artists that are a lot more obscure, like Alison Moyet, Regina, and Hipsway. It scared me when I realized how many of these I remember.

Click here to go to the animal rescue site and make a free donation. Good site, good cause, and it's free.

The corporate trainer at work ordered pizza today for the sales class. After lunch, I ventured into the kitchen to scope out the leftovers, and was disgusted to find the remaining slices of pizza piled high with pepperoni, sausage and other assorted pigstuff. Which brings me to this wonderful site, which is chock full of information about becoming a vegetarian, the health benefits of going veggie, and even highlights the different types of vegetarian diets, (ovo-lacto, vegan, etc.) so that you may choose the lifestyle that's right for you.

Take this quiz and see if, (based on your vernacular), you are more Yankee, Dixie, or somewhere in between. I scored roughly 60% Dixie--pretty typical for someone from Indiana, I think. Of course, it could also be the influence of all the Dixie Chicks CD's that I listen to in my car. :-)

Edited to add....

Read someone else singing the praises of About Last Night.

It's link day, so here ya go. And I'm running out of ideas on this, so if my regular readers (and you know who you are) could send me some links to post, I'd be much obliged.

I'm not sure how accurate some of the stuff on this site is, but it's entertaining anyway. The section on weird laws is my favorite. Apparently, in my adopted home state of Minnesota, it's illegal to mock a skunk. This begs the obvious question--how would one go about mocking a skunk? By painting a white stripe down your back and farting a lot? I guess I could see why it would be a bad idea to piss off a skunk, so maybe that's the rationale behind it.

Here are some more bad movie sites that I've come across Oh, The Humanity! and The Stinkers. Neither are as good as Jabootu, but I was pleased to see that both sites mentioned The Forbidden Dance, which is fast becoming one of my favorite bad movies of all time (well, it's probably in my Top 5, anyway). Speaking of which, I might have to do another bad movie review, stat. I'll need to ask Marcus for his input, though (hint, hint).

Okay, this is apropo of nothing, but who the hell is this little Clay Aiken butt-dart, and why is he famous? I mean, I know he came in second place after the fat guy on American Idol, and ordinarily I'd take this opportunity to make a cheap joke about how he must've blown that snotty British judge, but...he didn't even win. So, again--why is he famous? Is he considered talented? Attractive? I mean, is this what the little girls are drooling over these days? If so, then the whole Justin Timberlake phenomenon is starting to make a little more sense. Not much, but a little. And speaking of Justin Timberlake, I heard one of his songs today on the crappy internet radio station at work. I don't know the title (and I'm not looking it up), but I know it features a "rap" with Nelly and a sample of AC/DC's Back In Black. This guy is trying really hard to convince everyone of his "street cred" now that he's supposedly finished with the pussy Boy Band scene, but I ain't buying it. He was on the Mickey freakin' Mouse Club. He does MacDonald's commercials. Okay, you could make the argument here that I'm old and I just don't "get it." But come on, already. The guy looks like Screech. Seriously.

I am happy to report that I've now seen several episodes of The Surreal Life, thanks to the marathon that the WB ran the other day. I knew I'd love that show. It's got to be one of the greatest programs ever created. I mean, it's not in the same league as Mystery Science Theater 3000 or anything, but it's a damn sight better than whatever passes for comedy on the networks these days. It's just so durn entertaining. I'm actually not ashamed to admit that I find Vanilla Ice sort of attractive, despite his frequent tantrums. (Well, okay--I'm a little ashamed). And is it wrong that I'm developing a strange affinity for Tammy Faye Bakker? I guess that's the whole point of the show--to brainwash you into caring about people that (on the surface) aren't all that likeable. It makes me wish I'd seen the first season, when Webster and Corey Feldman were on. I can't wait to see who they'll put on next season. You just know that Pauly Shore will wind up on it at some point. Unlike Vanilla Ice and Tammy Faye, who I couldn't have cared less about in their respective heydays, back in like, '90-'91 I really dug Pauly Shore. I thought he was hot. And I watched Totally Pauly on MTV every day during summer break. Of course, I also watched Beverly Hills, 90210 each week (without irony) and thought Married...With Children was hilarious, so that should give you some idea of my mental state at the time (or lack thereof). Ah, the nineties. Thank God they're over.

But seriously, watch The Surreal Life. It's brilliant.

Links for today....

I can't get enough of this crazy shit. It's a good thing the internet is so chock full of this sort of weirdness, otherwise, what the hell would I do all day? And I've only made it through the Halloween cards and the Valentines. While this is my favorite in the latter category, this one looks eerily familiar to me. I think I got it from one of my exes. Seems appropriate, anyway.

You know those stupid "Successories" posters usually found adorning the walls of soul-crushing, cubicle-filled hellholes? Someone else hates 'em, too.

I was going to post more about Lost In Translation, but I need to go home before the cleaning personnel kick me out of the building.

Okay people! Listen up! I have an announcement. Are you ready?

Here it is: Go see Lost In Translation. It's still at the dollar movies, and it might be out on DVD--uh, now, actually. It's brilliant. See it. Now.

I'm serious.

Go!

(More tomorrow on this, BTW)...

Okay. I can't sleep, so I'm having a bowl of Rice Krispies and drinking Chamomile tea and trying to make myself drowsy without resorting to stronger chemical substances. I'm browsing through The Onion and some of my other usual haunts, and I suddenly get a wild hair up my ass and decide to look for solid proof that I did not hallucinate a '70s Saturday morning cartoon that I've been trying to convince people for years really existed. (awkward sentence, I know, but I'm getting tired--I think the tea is finally kicking in). Seriously though, I've had this come up in conversation so many times, usually when engaging in intellectual discussions with fellow Gen-Xers regarding Scooby-Doo, Josie and the Pussycats, Land of the Lost, and other compelling evidence that the people behind children's programming in the '70s were high, high, HIGH. And I'll be like, "You guys remember Goober and the Ghost Chasers?" And everyone invariably just responds with blank stares and a lot of "huh?"s. And I go, "Yeah, it was like a Scooby-Doo rip-off with a big ugly green dog and these kids that went around solving mysteries and, y'know, chasing ghosts." And everyone's like, "Nope, never heard of it." And the conversation usually turns back to the old "Shaggy and Scooby toking up in the Mystery Machine" and the sexual orientation of Velma. (or is it Thelma? I can never remember). So, the point of this post is this: There really was a cheap Scooby-Doo knock-off called Goober and the Ghost Chasers.

See? Told ya!

Now maybe I can get some sleep.

Nice, juicy, delicious tasting links.

A cool one I just found in the last week is Bitter Waitress. It's a fun site overall, but if you click on the gossip button at the top left, you can read stories submitted by restaurant workers who dish the dirt on celebrities they've served, and whether or not they were assholes and/or lousy tippers.

T-shirt hell rocks! And I know first-hand, because I'm the proud owner of one of their sarcastic tees. Can you guess which one?

The Book of Ratings is brought to you by half of the duo that created brunching.com, which was one of my favorite sites ever. (I say "was" because, sadly, they are no longer updating it, although you can browse the archives here).

Whenever you come across any odd or interesting links, forward them to me. If I end up posting them, you'll receive....um, a gracious and heartfelt "thank you." I promise.

This weather sucks.

I've spent most of the morning reading the recaps of The Surreal Life over at TWOP. I really need to start tuning in to that show. For those of you who are unfamiliar with The Surreal Life, it's basically a reality show where they throw together a bunch of C-List has-beens (the previous season featured Vince Neil, the kid from Webster, Corey Feldman, a third-rate Pamela Anderson knock-off and some other losers I can't remember; this season it's Tammy Faye Bakker, Vanilla Ice, some Baywatch bimbo, Ponch from CHiPs, Ron Jeremy and other assorted "celebrities"), set them up in a house for two weeks, and give them assignments where they have to work together, like baking brownies for their neighbors, putting on plays for children, working at a diner for a day, and other odd jobs. It sounds just bad enough to warrant regular viewing--I'll have to check the local listings to see when it's on.

The Surreal Life recaps got me thinking--who would be in my version of The Surreal Life? If I followed the show's format, it'd be a half-dozen or so people who once had significance in my life, but have since vanished in the mists of time. This is who I came up with:

Trent--my sophomore year boyfriend and the first guy I was ever "in love" with (I use the term loosely in his case). He was a total pothead drunk who cheated on me, lied his ass off and stole money from me to buy weed. A real winner, that one. He's probably in jail now or dead in a pool of his own vomit, but for the sake of the show, let's say he's alive and on parole.

Rachel--my best friend in 8th grade who I never saw again after the last day of school. She was really into running and was on the cross-country team. I have no idea of her whereabouts now, but I'm sure she's not in jail or dead. Although, I haven't seen her in 16 years, so anything's possible.

Paula--obnoxious, scary behemoth of a girl from my bus stop in junior high. She was obsessed with Kirk Cameron and used to tell me that I was going to hell because I wasn't "saved" and--more importantly--because I didn't attend her podunk church. She would then invite me to go to Sunday services with her (which I declined). She'd be a good one to have on the show. Come to think of it, she and Rachel totally hated each other, so that would create some inevitable conflict that would be good for ratings. I'm starting to think like a reality show producer!

Melody--a girl from high school that I loathed. She was an evil, angry, bitter shell of a human being, and this was at age 15. I shudder to think of what she's like now. Thankfully, I only had to deal with her my freshman year. The first day of sophomore year, when I found out that she wouldn't be returning to my high school, I practically got down on my knees and belted out "Amazing Grace." Lordy, I despised her.

Dick--(yep, that was really his name)--my former micro-managing, denture-wearing, sexist, fascist boss from the insurance company. Melody would totally eat him for breakfast! (He should be so lucky).

My neighbor from Sherman Drive--a nice older lady who lived next door with her preacher husband. She'd be like the Tammy Faye of the group, except she'd have better fashion sense and a lot less makeup.

My elementary school principal--just for good measure, and because I can't think of anyone else to round out the cast.

I think Andie's Surreal Life would go something like this:

The setting is a remote farmhouse in rural Indiana. The group is to live together in the house with no phone, no television, no internet--nothing to entertain themselves except each other--and a massive stockpile of booze. I will be monitoring their actions from my control room in an undisclosed location several miles away. From there I will occasionally assign them random tasks like cleaning roadkill from the highway and shoveling cow dung. Mostly, though, I'll just sit back and watch them all slowly go insane.

Day 1: Melody immediately throws herself at Trent, who shrinks away in horror--having correctly assessed that there is not enough alcohol in the house to get him drunk enough to even kiss her. He then locks himself in the bathroom with the bong he smuggled in his pants and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Meanwhile, Preacher's Wife drinks tea and reads her Bible. Paula asks her if she's been "saved." Rachel tells Paula to shut the fuck up, then goes out for a jog. Paula whines that she's missing her Growing Pains re-runs and then heads off to her room to cry. Dick cracks open a Schlitz, shaking his head and muttering something about "sending these uppity womenfolk back to the kitchen." He tries to bond with the other elderly white male, The Principal, but he's hard of hearing and just smiles and remarks "Is that so?" after everything Dick says.

Holy shit, I'm pretty good at this.

Day 5: Melody is huddled on the front porch, chain-smoking Winstons and hugging herself as she rocks herself back and forth like Rain Man. She is despondant over her unrequited lust for Trent. She's in luck, though, because Trent suddenly wanders out on the porch, plunks himself down next to her and, with tears in his eyes, announces that he's smoked the last of his stash. Seeing her chance, Melody springs to life and eagerly tells him that she'll find a way to scare up some more weed for him, if he'll agree to do her a little favor....Inside the house, The Principal naps on the couch as Preacher's Wife and Rachel sit at the kitchen table, pounding shots of Jaeger and laughing at Paula, who's in the corner reading through back issues of Tiger Beat. Paula tells them that they're both going to hell. Preacher's Wife sweetly calls Paula over and asks her if she's familiar with the "judge not lest ye be judged" passage in the Bible, then sucker-punches her. Paula runs away crying and Preacher's Wife and Rachel just laugh and laugh.

Day 7: Dick is upstairs in his room, plotting. He's dissatisfied with Trent's performance at the dung shoveling project that he oversaw yesterday, and is planning to petition the rest of the cast to have Trent's slacker ass "voted off," like on Survivor. Melody soon catches wind of this and leaves her new loverboy Trent to go stomping up to Dick's room to give him the what-for. (The what-for? Did I just type that?) "Listen you ugly toothless bastard," she spits, grabbing him by the tie, "leave my man alone!" She turns on her heel and Dick, still reeling from the stench of her breath, removes a small flask from his suit pocket. His hands shake as he unscrews the lid and takes a swig. (Okay, that's overly dramatic, but this is a reality show. We want uncomfortable, unnecessary drama).

Day 10: Trent is unsure how to get rid of Melody, who has blackmailed him into being her sex slave and still hasn't come through with the ganja. He goes to The Principal for advice, and ends up spilling his guts about his childhood, his self-esteem issues, and his small penis. The Principal looks up from his newspaper. "Is that so?" he says. Trent is so moved, he bursts into tears. "You're the only one who understands me man," he tells The Principal, who just smiles and nods.

Day 14: The footage is in the can, and the cast packs up and prepares to leave. Paula goes back to handing out religious pamphlets on the street and stalking Kirk Cameron; Dick and The Principal look for a place together (having finally forged an alliance during the last few days); Preacher's Wife goes home to her husband; Rachel goes back to, uh, whatever she was doing before; Melody tricks Trent into accompanying her back to the trailer park.

One year later...Andie's Surreal Life is a hit, and Preacher's Wife now has her own afternoon talk show, a la Sharon Osbourne. One of her frequent guests is Rachel, who has just released her own line of running shoes. Dick and The Principal are still living together--a Felix and Oscar for the 21st Century; Kirk Cameron issues a restraining order against Paula; Trent's back in the slammer (his probation officer watched the show and saw him blazing up, right on TV). He has finally found love with his new cellmate, Juan. As for Melody, nine months after the show, she gives birth to a baby girl she names Butch, the product of her unholy union with Trent. The kid runs away from home before the age of 5.

Wow. I can't believe I just spent two hours coming up with all that.

I just heard the greatest news on the radio...

...Rod Stewart is coming to Minneapolis on April 16th!!! Tix on sale Saturday!!! I know he is considered grossly uncool, but I don't give a rat's. I'll never apologize for my Rod love. He was, is and will always be The Man. This will be my seventh time seeing him. Yep, seventh.

1st--1989, at Deer Creek (in Noblesville, IN)
2nd--1993, Deer Creek
3rd--1996 at Market Square Arena (R.I.P) in Indy
4th--1998, Deer Creek (10th row!)
5th--1999 at a crappy free concert (bad seats and it rained) at Military Park in Indy.
6th--2001, Deer Creek--3rd row!! During the song "Angel" (a little-known Jimi Hendrix tune Rod covered in the early '70s) Rod was scanning the crowd, looking (I guess) to see if anyone recognized the song he was singing. His eyes landed on me and he saw that I was singing along, and he gave me a nod and sort of bowed. I nearly fainted. That was a rather eventful show, come to think of it. At one point, someone chucked a pair of weird-looking undies at his feet, and Rod and his backup singers had fun surreptitiously kicking it around the stage until Rod--in the middle of a song--snatched it up and tossed it offstage without skipping a beat. And during the encore, these two Evil Yuppie Bitches in the row in front of me got into a fight and one of them threw a beer at the other one, missed by a country mile, and splattered it all over me. I was like, thanks, Evil Yuppie Bitches. But it was still an amazing night.

Link day!

First up is bookcrossing. It's a sort of serendipitous book club that you can join for free. The idea is to read, tag, and then "release" books "into the wild" (i.e. in a coffee shop or someplace else where a random book lover is likely to find it). You can print out "tags" on the website that you use to mark the book with a registration number and information about the bookcrossing website. The lucky person who finds the book can then go to the website and enter the book registration number (so that the person who released it knows where it went), and then read the book and (hopefully) release it into the wild again! I'm a member (my id is kittencat), and since joining last year I've registered 8 books and released 2 into the wild (still waiting to see who "caught" them). It's a fun way to pass along books that you don't want anymore, and there's even a section on places that books were recently released--you can look up your town and see if there are any current releases out in the wild, so you can go "hunting" for them. Can you tell I am way into this? :-)

The Institute of Official Cheer is awesome! Check out the fascinating Story of Bread, peruse the Big Little Books, and marvel at my favorite--a pictorial on a failed clothing line for men called the Dorcus Collection. And if you're brave enough, take a look at The Grooviest Motel in Wisconsin. I confess--I tried to look, but the hideous decor made my eyes all hurty.

I am hopelessly addicted to rathergood.com, because nothing's more fun than rock star kittens! Josh and I nearly pissed ourselves one time laughing at this site. Well, I nearly pissed myself laughing at it. Josh was laughing at me laughing at it. There may have been drugs involved.

Finally, did you know that Corey "Sunglasses At Night" Hart has an official website? Well, he does. It appears not to have been updated since 2002, but it does have a detailed bio, disc- and videography. Cool!

Oops, a friend just emailed me to say that Michael Douglas thanked Catherine Zeta-Jones at the very end of his speech--he said something like "This award means nothing if you can't share it with anyone; Catherine--I share this with you." Whatever, though. He still didn't kiss her when he went up to the stage, and she still looked pissed during the pre-show festivities.

I'm sticking by my story.

Okay, this week has been too hectic and stressful. This is why my posts have consisted of crap pulled off other sites on the internet. Maybe next week I will feel up to discussing everything that went on, but for now I don't, so here comes some more crap out of a dream journal that I've been keeping sporadically for the past year or so.

The funny thing about this is, once I write down these dreams, I completely forget about them. It makes reading past entries more interesting, I guess.

Entry dated 1-23-03

This was another multi-faceted dream, but the part I remember involved George Clooney. I was back working at Travelers (ugh). I recognized a few Travelers people, like (name of past co-worker). Anyway, all of us grunts were working in this big main area, on this long table, doing some grunt paperwork. Periodically, one of the bigwigs would come into the room and there would be a lot of commotion; people talking, looking busy, etc. Turns out that George Clooney was one of the bigwigs. And he was HOT in person. Every time he came in, I made a point to make some suggestive comment to him (I wish I could remember them--they were good!) I don't remember if he ever acknowledged me or even heard me, but I really wanted him to notice me. (At the same time, I didn't want to be too obvious). Some fat guy heard something I said to George, and was acting all shocked about it. I just kind of blew him off, thinking to myself: "Dude, it's George fucking Clooney! Of course I'm going to come onto him!" But alas, George and I never did end up making a connection that time. Now that I think about it, he probably would have made a good insurance salesman. The only sexy insurance salesman in the world.

Entry dated 1-24-03 (a year ago today! woah).

I remember sketches of this one--most of all I just remember the feelings I was having.

(Name of former boss) was there and I was hanging out with her and her family. There was a lot going on, and she seemed distracted. Anyway, a ghost kept appearing to me. It was a really hideous, disturbing sight (some fucked-up looking lady, her face covered in blood. Someone referred to her as "Bloody Mary"). Anyway, I was the only one that could see her, and the more I told everyone about these "visions," the more I freaked them out. Towards the end, I was thinking that maybe I was crazy. The ghost was definitely targeting me and tormenting me, and following me from room to room in this house. I was terrified, and woke up all sweaty.

Entry dated 2-20-03

I was either a.) a 17-year old girl, or b.) playing one in a movie. I was a brunette and looked like a young Jennifer Connelly. Harrison Ford was either my dad or my stepdad, and I had a younger sister (just a few years younger). I suddenly realized that I was in love with my dad/stepdad (ewwww! But it was Harrison Ford). Anyway, he and I had one or two trysts, and it was VERY exciting, very dirty, and I was totally lusting after him--my dad/stepdad, whatever he was--and he was trying to put the brakes on it and we were both trying to hide what was going on from my mom (who I think was Jessica Lange) and the rest of the family. Then, it was weird because I was suddenly at a mall in Tulsa, shopping with Eileen (my real life oldest sister), and looking for things that she and I bought when I was 15 and staying with her. We went to Claire's (or a store like it) where I bought that black hat, and I was gushing over everything and telling Eileen how I still wore/used all the earrings, accessories that I had back then. (!) I remember the whole time wanting to return back to my step-father/lover Harrison Ford, but I couldn't tell anyone--I had to be sly about it. I never got to go back to him, though.

Entry dated 4-16-03

I was working at a strip club. Like in the other dreams, (?) it was daylight out, but very dim and musty in the club. It was my turn to get on one of the little stages (more like just some small wooden platforms) and dance. I decided at the last minute to dress up, though--and started going through all the teddys, negligees, and feather boas that were in this little closet. There were also a bunch of silk scarves hanging up, and I was trying to figure out what to do with them. I was also going through these stockings, trying to find some that fit (most of them were way too big). When I finally got ready to go dance, the music on the jukebox had already stopped, and most of the crowd had already gone to another section of the club (on the other side of the wall that was behind me). Someone said that Robin Williams had shown up there, and everyone was all excited and they went over to see him. There was only this table of two people, a woman and (I think) a man. I was going to try to dance for them and get money from them, but the prospect seemed pretty grim--they didn't act very interested.

I am always full of appetite. Then, it is fine.

Holy shit. I think I've just stumbled upon something brilliant. Check this out. The simplicity is profound. This may have changed my life forever.

I'll post more later--my brain needs to recover.

I'm back to report that my inner 14-year-old is alive and well and...horny. I've just been over at trust the process. Click on the photo of the red shirt. Holy shit. I mean, I don't even have to have hot nasty sex with him. I'd sell the gold out of my mother's mouth if I could just get close enough to, like, bite him on the elbow or something.

They don't make 'em like that anymore.

It's Link Day! Here are some good ones to entertain and enlighten:

The official website of my first love.

Courtesey of Marcus...sing along!

I've posted these links before, but since my earlier entries were obliterated: here's disgruntled housewife (fabulous) and not without my handbag . When you're done perusing her handbags and coasters, check out the bad baby names.

And finally....in Mr. Cranky's world, every movie sucks.

Enjoy! I may be back later.

Okay, I screwed that one up pretty bad. But the link still works! If you click on that thing below, it will take you to blog girls, a website for girls who blog. (duh) I think the idea is that my blog listing will be on the site at one point, if the people at the site are okay with me screwing up the link that badly. Go check it out, anyway. There's cool stuff there. http://blog.gerl.org

I'm still pissed about those archives biting the dust. My posts on Sweater Guy, sex bracelets, etc.? Gone. All gone.

Oh well, fuck it.

I am wearing a dangerously see-through black lace blouse today. It's not because I'm trying to hook up with anyone at work; it's because I got dressed in the dark this morning and didn't realize how sheer this top is. Thank God I'm wearing a fairly modest bra underneath, 'cause you can see from here to Nebraska. Good thing the boss man's in Milwaukee this week. He's missing out on my breasts, poor guy.

We just got a whole buttload of Sharpies delivered from Office Depot today. I got a whole pack of rainbow Sharpies, one in every color! Yay! Sharpies make me happy. I'll have to think of some creative uses for them--I can't let all these pretty colors go to waste.

Good God, it's a slow day.

Oops! Here all this time I thought that my archives were being saved and neatly filed in the links to the right, when all along I had it set for No Archive. So all the posts that aren't on this page went bye-bye. Off into the internet stratosphere somewhere, never to be seen again.

I changed the settings, so from now on my posts should be archived. If not, I will have to hurt someone.

Okay, I'll stop ragging on Britney for a while.

I've decided that Tuesday will be link day. Email me your favorite weird or interesting links and I'll post them here if I like them. Here are some that I've recently come across:

Sea Monkeys! I had those. Then they died and started smelling, so my mom flushed 'em.

Bad movie links: check out Bad Movie Night or, for more in-depth reviews, go to Jabootu's Bad Movie Dimension

Bob Dylan lyrics (some of them are in Japanese! Cool!) If you're unfamiliar with his work, read some of his lyrics and see why he was dubbed "the poet of a generation." One of the best songs ever written has to be "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go."

Vegetarian recipes and info

You know, I've been thinking about the differences between Generation X (mine) and the new one, which the media has apparently dubbed Generation Y. I believe that everything about the aforementioned age groups can be summed up in the background and songs of two of the biggest pop culture icons of their respective generations: Madonna and Britney Spears. Now, aside from swapping spit at an awards show and Madonna becoming a disappointing musical whore who hasn't recorded anything worthwhile since "Justify My Love" in 1990, the two have less in common than the casual observer may realize. Let's take a look at the evidence, shall we?

Madonna--pays her dues as a dancer and starving artist in New York; fucks and claws her way to the top.
Britney--lands a recording deal through a stint on The Mickey Mouse Club.

Madonna--recorded "Like A Virgin," tongue firmly in cheek, knowing she's not fooling anyone.
Britney--records "Oops! I Did It Again" without an ounce of irony, swears she's a virgin, fools no one but herself.

Madonna--her contemporaries included Deborah Harry and Annie Lennox.
Britney--her contemporaries include Christina Aguilera and Jessica Simpson.

Madonna--implant-free.
Britney--"But guys, these aren't implants! I don't know where they came from, but they're real. See?"

Madonna--accused of sending the Women's Movement back to the '50s.
Britney--really does send the Women's Movement back to the '50s.

Madonna--married Sean Penn, star of The Falcon and the Snowman, Dead Man Walking; director of The Crossing Guard and The Pledge.
Britney--married, uh, some dude.

Madonna--fucked Warren Beatty, star of Splendor in the Grass and Reds.
Britney--fucked Colin Farrell, star of, um--S.W.A.T., is it?

Madonna--probably fucked Prince.
Britney--definitely fucked Justin Timberlake of The Mickey Mouse Club and N'Sync.

Madonna--"I'm tough, I'm ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, fine."
Britney--"But they're really not implants. See? Look!"

I rest my case.

Why do some people talking on cell phones feel the need to yell in my ear? I just got a call from some jackoff, and it was like a scene from that show on Comedy Central (shit, the name escapes me now) where that British guy is walking around in the park, screaming into an oversized cell phone. I literally had to hold the phone two feet away from my ear, or suffer acute hearing loss.

I was reading Wing Chun's journal on hissyfit. Her topic was Dumb Ass Things I Did As A Kid. It inspired me to write something similar (or, let's be honest--totally rip off her idea). So, without further ado, here are some dumb things I did as a wee one.

Age 5, circa 1978: Let's break stuff!

We had just moved to Indianapolis, and the old people who had the house before us had all this shit laying around the yard that they didn't take with them. One of the things they left was an assortment of empty terra cotta flower pots, which lay in a pile against the side of the detached garage. I was outside playing with Ridley (my next door neighbor and frequent partner-in-crime), one day and decided it would be fun to smash the flower pots against the side of the garage. Ridley was skeptical, so I had to convince him by picking up one of the pots and hurling it against the side of the garage, where it shattered into several pieces. Ridley thought this was hilarious, so we spent the next hour or so smashing each pot against the side of the garage, giggling hysterically all the while. When I went inside for the day, my mother asked me what I had been doing. I answered "breaking jars" (she thought I said "breaking Jaws"--I had a little trouble with my r's back then), and since I was a weird kid anyway, she just sort of laughed and forgot about it. When she discovered what I had actually done, she was plenty pissed, but didn't punish me, I guess because she didn't feel strongly enough about the pots one way or another. I think in parenting, this is called "picking your battles."

Age 5, circa 1978: Little Digger

One day I got the bright idea, all on my own, of building a see-saw in the backyard. I grabbed some of the discarded two-by-fours that were behind the garage (again, junk left over from the previous owners). I then used one of the boards to begin digging up the backyard, right underneath one of the apple trees. (I don't know how digging a hole would have helped me to build a see-saw, then again--I wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer). I think it had recently rained, so the ground was all soft and mushy, making my task a bit easier (and messier, as it turned out). I'd been at it for a while when my mom spied me from the back window and came running outside to see what the hell was going on. She was a tad upset, and she put a halt to my excavation project by hauling my ass inside and locking me in my bedroom for the rest of the day. She must've calmed down, because she let me off the hook later by telling me that if I cleaned up all the wood from the yard, she wouldn't tell my father when he got home from work. Shortly after that incident I got a brand new swing set in the backyard. I guess my mom got smart and realized that I needed a distraction to curb my destructive tendencies.

Age 11, 1985: Crank Yankin'

Ridley and I were watching TV one day and came across a live telethon for the public television station. We decided to call in a few contributions. I actually have the calls on an old audiotape somewhere (I had the foresight to record our antics for posterity--they'll probably be unearthed years from now, and cited as another telling example of my early deliquency). Here are a few calls that I remember (from playing the tape repeatedly):

Volunteer: WTIU, may I take your pledge?
Me: I pledge allegiance, to the flag--
Volunteer: click!
Me: (astonished) She hung up on me!


Volunteer: WTIU, may I take your pledge?
Ridley: I wanna talk to Big Bird!
Volunteer: (under the impression that she has a very young child on the line) Big Bird isn't here, honey--is your mom or dad there that I could talk to?
Ridley: My mommy's on the tinkle and my da--my daddy's at work.
Volunteer: click!
Ridley: (astonished) She hung up on me!


Volunteer: WTIU, may I take your pledge?
Ridley: I wanna talk to Big--
Me: (whispering furiously) No! Say Ernie this time!
Ridley: --I wanna talk to Ernie.
Volunteer: click!
Me: I told you to say Ernie!

And it went on and on. Unfortunately, as we were too dim to realize, we were making long distance calls to Bloomington (where WTIU was headquartered--I guess we didn't think anything of having to dial 10 numbers instead of 7), so when the phone bill came, my parents freaked. I was grounded from using the phone and had to pay the phone bill with my allowance, and I got a big talk about how wrong it was for Ridley and me to crank call a public television station, which relies on funds from the public (duh), and waste their time just because we were bored. I wasn't that sorry for having done it, I was just sorry for getting caught.

I could probably recall more of these little anecdotes if I hadn't killed so many brain cells in the years that followed.

More odd stuff from Barnes and Noble...

I was there last night and noticed that they had one of my favorite books on display: The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon. I was surprised, because it's not as well known as some of his other works (he also wrote the excellent Wonder Boys, which was later made into a movie starring Michael Douglas, and The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which won the 2000 Pulitzer Prize for fiction). On closer inspection, however, I saw that they had The Mysteries of Pittsburgh out as part of a display of mystery novels. Now, despite the title, TMOP is not a mystery novel. In fact, it is SO not a mystery novel that I'm actually embarassed for the genius at Barnes and Noble who decided to include it in the display. How hard is it to read the blurb on the back of the book (or the synopsis at amazon) or...shit, they're a bookstore---how could they not know this? It's pretty damn pathetic.

I'm in a complaining kind of mood, so excuse me while I rant.

I hate TV. It sucks. I can't believe how low it's sunk. And I'm not even talking about the obvious examples of suckocity, like reality TV shows a la American Idol, Survivor, ad nauseum. I'm thinking in particular of the one channel that I used to enjoy--VH-1. I mean, okay, in the old days it sucked. They played shite like Michael Bolton and stand-up 'comedy' from Rosie O'Donnell. But sometime in the mid-90's it got cool. I loved Pop-Up Video and even the back-to-back eps of Behind the Music. I even liked the one about K.C. & the Sunshine Band. And shows like Storytellers were often watchable; sort of an Unplugged for people who don't listen to hip-hop. They still didn't play too many music videos, but it didn't matter a whole lot, since popular music blows. But turn on VH-1 lately and it's like the E! Channel for people who occasionally read books. It's all stupid shows about how rich Sharon Osbourne is, or Driven: Kelly Clarkson (puh-leeze!) or an exclusive peek into the private life of P. Diddy. If you don't believe me, check out the website. And if you're so inclined, drop them an email and ask them why they suck now.

And here's an idea, email me too at beadchick73@yahoo.com
It would be interesting to see how many people are reading this. Someday I'll put up one of those counter thingies, but only when I have more than like, five readers. I don't want to depress myself.

I noticed something interesting about the banner at the top of my blog. Whatever I write about in my entries, a link will appear to advertise one of my subjects--even stuff that I've just mentioned in passing (I'm guessing that they scan the blog for keywords, and link to whatever they find). I've seen stuff so far advertising links to Russell Crowe and Yoga Teacher training, which is funny. I've decided to do a little experiment with some random subjects....

See if they link to these: ostriches, cable-knit sweaters, Pauly Shore.

It is unbelievably ball-shrinking cold in the Twin Cities, and it's supposedly the third warmest winter in history (!) The temperature is currently something insane like 5 below zero with windchill at 29 below. I always thought I'd do fine in a cold climate, but temperatures this extreme are making me seriously consider moving someplace really tropical with no seasons, like Hawaii or the Virgin Islands.

So I'm thinking about becoming a yoga instructor. I've been looking up info on the web about it--apparently, to be eligible to enroll in an instructor certification program, you need to have some serious yoga classes already under your belt (picky bastards!) I took once-a-week hatha yoga classes off and on from 1996-1998, and have since practiced it sporadically at home. I'm guessing that this doesn't make me a serious yoga student, so I've decided to enroll in some classes at a yoga school in Minneapolis. I'm going to a free class this Sunday to learn about the institute, and to get some general information. I'm thinking that if I were to embark on an exciting and rewarding career as a yoga instructor, it would a.) be good for me healthwise, since I'd be practicing yoga daily; b.) promote good mental health and keep my mind centered, which in turn would benefit my writing; c.) provide me with a marketable skill and flexible work hours that in turn would enable me to support myself and my writing career.

It's brilliant! I can't believe I didn't think of this before!

I didn't have computer access during the holidays, so I'm a little behind on my updates here. My parents don't own a computer, or a DVD player, or one of those new-fangled CD players. The VCR that they purchased in 1987 conked out during my visit, so they are considering trading up and switching to DVD. I have little faith that they will actually be able to operate it, but I'm happy that they are contemplating joining the 21st Century. My parents were (and are) huge hippies, and distrustful of technology in general. At least they don't own any 8-tracks.

It was great to be home, even if it was just five days. My 2-year-old nephew was getting over a bout of pneumonia (he's had respiratory problems since he was an infant). He was fine by Christmas Day, but he ended up infecting everyone with his baby germs (baby germs are lethal, man!) so my entire family spent the rest of the holiday with hacking coughs and stuffed up heads (even though my mom and sister were continually bleaching and Lysoling everything Ryan touched). I'm still feeling pretty crappy, but I'll live. Baby germs are a small price to pay for quality time with the fam.

Today is my first day back at work, but with 90% of the office taking holiday time this week, there is little to do but update my blog and snack on the huge box of Whoppers (The Original Malted Milk Balls! tm) that mysteriously appeared on my desk while I was away. I was contemplating sneaking out of work to go home and snuggle under the covers with a cup of tea and All My Children, but I need the money too badly to miss any more work.

I read David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day over the holidays. It was hilarious, although I liked the first half better than the second (the first dealt with his childhood, the second with his adventures in France). I'm about to start And My Shoes Keep Walking Back To You by Kathi Kamen Goldmark, which looks promising. Michael and I went to Half Price Books while I was in Indy, where I also scored a hardback edition of Anne Sexton's Collected Works and The Police's Zenyatta Mondatta. (woo hoo!)

I have plans to review Crocodile Dundee in my next update-- it's not one of the bad movies that Marcus and I have watched together, but I happened to notice that it was on TV incessantly throughout the Christmas holiday, for some strange reason, so it's been on my mind. Marcus and I are next planning to watch The Forbidden Dance (which I cheated and watched without him already, but it's so hysterically godawful that I am forcing him to see it) and the sci-fi classic Barbarella, which Marcus says I must see because of my abiding love for Duran Duran (who, as every '80s child knows, took their name from the film's villain).

The boss man's here; I have to do some actual work now.

I was checking out wayesworld and read the movie review for The Human Stain. It reminded me how little I've seen this year, especially lately. I've been to the movies exactly twice since moving up to Minnesota. I saw Runaway Jury (mediocre and a bit far-fetched, but then again, it's Grisham) and The Cat in the Hat (not as bad as everyone is saying).

There were only a handful of movies released this year that piqued my interest, and I never made it to the two that I really wanted to see (Lost In Translation and American Splendor). Of the few that I did see, the only ones that made a lasting impression were A Mighty Wind, (hilarious), Whale Rider (excellent), and Swimming Pool (of course I liked this one--it's about a writer!)

The prize for the worst movie that I saw this year, hands down, goes to House of 1,000 Corpses. It's just as revolting as the title suggests. Josh dragged me to this one, and the only positive thing I have to say about the whole experience is thank God I was high, so what I recall about this crapfest is sketchy at best. Still, it's enough.

Movies that I had no desire to see whatsoever, (and never will, if I have any say in it) are: The Hulk, Kill Bill, American Wedding, (and I liked the first American Pie, they should have left it at that), Daddy Day Care, Elf (I'm just not feeling the Will Farrell love), Just Married (I have an intense, irrational hatred of Ashton Kutcher), Uptown Girls (ditto Brittany Murphy), Master and Commander (ditto Russell Crowe), Legally Blond 2, Beyond Borders (why is Angelina Jolie still making movies? She sucks!), Terminator 3, and anything that stars Julia Roberts.

There is a guy who comes in the office periodically. I call him Sweater Guy (he is always wearing a sweater--no coat, in 0 degree Minnesota weather). He is polite and slightly gay. He'll wander in a few times a day, smile and nod as he passes my desk, and disappear somewhere in the back. He leaves a few minutes later without saying a word. Who is the mysterious Sweater Guy? What is does he do? Why is he here? Where is he going? He doesn't work here, as far as I can tell. It's a bit uncomfortable, because I sit at the front of the office. Should I be questioning him? Keeping track of his comings and goings? Hell no, I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm a narc. Maybe he works nearby and just sneaks in here to raid the office fridge. Our kitchenette is pretty sweet. They keep free soft drinks for us in the fridge, Caribou Coffee in the coffee maker, and a wide selection of quality teas in the cabinet. Also, there is a water cooler. Maybe Sweater Guy's office kitchenette is not so well stocked.

I should cut him a break.

Not much to say today...too bummed about world events (Sadaam's capture=good, watching Shrub Boy milk it for all the political points it's worth=bad).

Here is a link I found today that lifted my spirits a bit. Seems like a decent and worthwhile organization.

http://www.peace-action.org/abt/abtpa.html

What fresh hell is this?

Now they're calling them "sex bracelets"? Back in my day (1985ish) we called them jelly bracelets, and wore them for one reason and one reason only: Because Madonna wore them. I had probably fifty of the thin black flimsy bracelets that I wore at all times, with everything, when I was 12 years old. I also had some I bought at Osco pharmacy for about $1 per pack, which were thicker and stiffer (okay, that sounds vaguely sexual). You couldn't do much with those, except loop them together and make sort of a figure 8 type thing to go around your wrist (I've seen Gwen Stefani wear them like this in a video, as late as 1996). I was so cool (or not) that I even had jelly rings (purchased at It's A Small World at Castleton Square Mall in Indianapolis; they ran about 25 cents each--for a tiny piece of plastic. They must have been making a killing on these!) I wore three in a row on my right ring finger...one for each of my favorite colors: red, pink, and black. I had a bad habit of chewing on them--I was a nervous, shy, fidgety kid--and actually ended up swallowing the pink one. I was terrified that it would get stuck somewhere in my intestines and either "come out" very painfully, or have to be surgically removed. Thankfully, it appears to have passed without incident.

As for the connotation to sexual favors that the msn story implies, I'm not buying it. In fact, I smell a weak media-created urban legend brewing here.

But maybe I'm just naive about such things.

Marcus has contributed his review for Streets Of Fire! Scroll down to read.

And check out his spankin' new blog at:
http://wayesworld.blogspot.com

All I Want For Christmas....

Okay, I realize we're getting down to the wire here, but here is my list for friends, family, and anyone else wanting some last-minute suggestions (hint, hint).

Neil Finn: Sessions at West 54th (DVD)
Former lead singer of Crowded House and one of the greatest singer/songwriters of our time.

Dave Matthews: Some Devil (CD)
I like him. Shut up.

Beth Orton: Daybreaker (CD)

Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott (book)

Writer's Market 2004 (book)

Sabrina (DVD)
The Humphrey Bogart/Audrey Hepburn version.

Manhattan (DVD)

Of course, a gift certificate also works in a pinch. ;-)

Bad Movie Review!

Our first subject is the film Streets of Fire (1984), featuring Diane Lane at her finest! She plays a rock star who does big, theatrical renditions of Meat Loaf-style numbers (her songs in the movie were penned by Jim Steinman--Meat Loaf's writing partner. Wait--why the hell do I know this?)

So Diane--sorry--Ellen Aim (the best rock star name they could come up with, apparently) gets kidnapped in the middle of a performance by an Evil Gang led by Raven (Willem Dafoe, doing his usual creepy psycho routine). This worries Reva, owner of the local coffee shop--(a shitty one, evidently, because she never has any customers--or maybe Starbucks just moved in down the block). Anyhoo, Reva decides there's only one man who can deliver Ellen from Raven and his Evil Gang--her brother, Tom Cody (Michael Pare). So Tom blows back into town (he left years ago, cause he had things to do, dammit), and agrees to help rescue Ellen. He sort of balks at first--not because he's a wuss, but because he and Ellen (surprise!) used to have a thang back in the day and he doesn't want to get involved with her again, cause he's tough like that. But, luckily for Ellen, he's also sensitive. And so Our Hero sets out on his mission to save the Fair Maiden and restore order to the Universe.

Okay, unless you're five, you can probably guess where this is going, so I'll cut to the chase and just talk about the best parts. Where to begin? Well, aside from Diane Lane's fabulous gowns, I loved the weird sexual tension between Reva and a very butch Amy Madigan (she plays a drifter who joins Tom on his quest). I have a theory that a lesbian sub-plot was cut from the film, probably deemed too racy for audiences in 1984. And speaking of, there's also a hot scene for pree-verts like me where Diane Lane is lashed to a bed, squirming, waiting for her Knight in Shining Armour (or maybe his sister? Come to think of it, why would Reva give a rat's ass about a kidnapped rock star, or her brother's ex-girlfriend, for that matter, unless she had a vested interest in--you know what? Never mind. I'm probably reading too much into this. But still...

Lesbian undertones aside, Streets of Fire has a lot to recommend it. There are motorcycle chases, big musical numbers, dramatic kissing-in-the-rain sequences, Diane Lane being hot, Michael Pare being tough-yet-sensitive, Willem Dafoe being psycho and a hilarious chain fight between Raven and Our Hero (in the rain, natch). It must also be noted that Willem Dafoe's villain has a very odd fashion sense--it's sort of a gay vampire look. Throughout much of the movie he's parading around in tight black leather pants, leather suspenders (!), no shirt, and that hair. He's got a disturbing widow's peak going on, which I assume is supposed to make him look menacing but it's really just sort of distracting. Marcus (my bad movie buddy!) and I had a good time making fun of him. Every time Willem got himself worked up into a big Mad Scene, Marcus would yell out "Bob Crane's a loser!" (a reference to Dafoe's character in the Bob Crane biopic Auto Focus, which is a quite good film, actually).

So even if you're not a bad movie fanatic, you could do a lot worse on a slow Saturday night. And if you are a bad movie fanatic, by all means, run right out and add this one to your collection.

Especially if you're into lesbians.

And here's Marcus's side of things (thanks dude! You rock!)

My memories, such as they are, of Streets of Fire pale in comparison to
Andie's. She's already laid out the plot, so let me elaborate on some
aspects of the film that actually did stay with me, long after the film
had finished.

For one, the movie was very, very dark and all the streets were very,
very wet. There was no fire to be found on the streets, but "Streets of
Rain" doesn't really make a compelling film title, does it? Filmmakers
seem to think that dark, wet streets infer that the tale you're
watching takes place on the wrong side of the tracks. But how wrong of a side
could it be if Rick Moranis is one of the toughest characters in town?

That's right, Rick Moranis. He plays Diane Lane's manager, and
suposedly he's a dick. But it's Rick Moranis, people! From Honey, I Shrunk
the Kids! His build alone screams "nebbish". And he doesn't get to
sing, which for you Little Shop of Horrors fans is a big let-down.

But even Rick Moranis, bad ass that he is, is scared of Willem Dafoe.
Like Andie, I didn't understand his wardrobe. Obviously, with it being
nighttime and having just rained, it must be pretty cold outside. So
why is he running around with no shirt on? Doesn't he know he'll catch
cold? And it's pretty obvious that he's just been sick, since his
pants are so big that he needs suspenders. Either that or he's recently
lost a lot of weight. Maybe he was on the Atkins Diet and hadn't made it
to Kohl's yet to buy some new clothes.

So DaFoe kidnaps Diane Lane and blah blah blah. The main reason I
wanted to watch this film was because of my love for Diane Lane. Sigh.
Diane Lane. I can't believe she married a Goonie. I'd watch anything
with her in it. (Like Six Pack, which is another film Andie will
probably write about soon.) I'd even see that movie where she buys a run-down
house in Italy and lears all about life and love while remodeling her
kitchen. Needless to say, once I discovered the part my dear sweet
Diane played in Streets of Fire, I was disappointed. She was on screen for
about ten seconds at the beginning before she's immediately kidnapped
by Dafoe. Then the film concentrates on Moranis and his friends trying
to get her back. She reappears in a dream sequence near the middle of
the film, if I'm not mistaken, then disappears again until the end,
when she's saved and all that was wrong is right again. What the hell? I
thought she was the star!

The true lead of the movie belongs to Michael Pare, he of Eddie and the
Cruisers - and Eddie and the Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! - fame. What
the hell happened to Michael Pare? Did Hollywood executives realize that
there really was no need to have a Tom Berringer knock-off when the
real Tom Berringer was ready and willing to work in anything they sent his
way? Pare's acting in Streets of Fire could best be described as
"there".

This movie's true claim to fame is that it introduced the song "I Can
Dream About You" to the world. Of all the songs by overachiever Jim
Steinman that were in the film, the one that turns out to be remembered is
a little throwaway pop song by some guy named Dan Hartman. I bet
Steinman was pretty pissed off about that. Maybe he should have gotten Meat
Loaf to act in the film. (But they would have had to call it "Bat out
of Streets of Fire of Hell". At least then the "Fire" part of the
title would have made sense.)

Overall, it wasn't a great movie. It lacked two main aspects I thought
it would have: coherence and Diane Lane. Still, any film that posits
that Rick Moranis is an asskicker is one that's worth finding.

The state of Minnesota is really making sure that I pay my debt to society. I just got a $40 parking ticket for being parked on a snow route (apparently a felony in Minnesota). After my next door neighbor called to let me know I was getting a ticket, I rushed outside to plead with the meter maid (or whoever the hell she was). I stood on the doorstep, freezing my ass off in a T-shirt and sweatpants, and yelled "I'm moving my car!" At first she pretended not to hear me, and when I called out again she gave me the sweetest smile, shrugged and said "Sorry!" then jumped in her little minivan and cruised.

Bitch.

Tonight I'm going to see Brian Setzer with some people from work. I'm looking forward to it, even though it's been a while since I've broken out the swing CD's. I'm hoping he does some Stray Cats material. If I were so inclined, I'd totally get into the retro '50s-as-told-to-the-80'sness of it all. I could feather my hair, (as much as you can feather long, straight hair), get decked out in a hot little dress with a fitted bodice and flared skirt and some of those cute high heeled Mary Janes, and maybe a black leather jacket thrown over my shoulders, just to show that while I may look nice 'n girly, I'm still tough.

I stopped over to browse at Barnes & Noble during lunch, and saw the most peculiar thing on the restroom wall..."Eric Idle" scrawled inside a drawing of a heart with an arrow through it. Yeah. Eric Idle. The guy from Monty Python. Okay, I've had some weird celebrity crushes, too--but Jeez, you don't see me writing "Jeremy Davies" in flowery junior high school girl script in the john at Barnes & Noble. That's a bit obsessive.

And the question of the day...why do people insist on calling business on Friday afternoons? Most people take off work early to get a jump start on the weekend, or to "work from home" (whatever), and the ones that are left to answer the phones in their wake just don't give a shit because, well, it's Friday afternoon. So stop calling me, you pricks.

While you are waiting for my next update, check out this, or this, or, if you're feeling a bit daring...

Woo hoo! Up and running! This is my blog, y'all. I'll have more to report when I figure out what the hell I'm doing with it.

Oh, and BTW--the name is my way of paying homage to Daniel Clowes and his comic "Candypants and Squirrel Girl." Thank you, Mike W. for introducing me to his work so that I was able to use it for my own navel gazing purposes.