Ode to the Card Catalog.
‘ve recently become connected with Our.City.Lights. both on Twitter and on Etsy. So, of course, I took full advantage of procrastination-from-grading and had way too much fun poring through her blog (which is awesome, by the way — please go forth and visit HERE). And that’s when I found the freakin’ holy grail of literary/library/typewritten/handwritten/nerdy awesomeness that is known as: THE CATALOG CARD GENERATOR.
Oh yeah, that’s right.
I plan to use it rather excessively. Consider yourselves warned.
For example…
#1: Sylvia Plath’s “Mad Girl’s Love Song” (featured in my last pog), the abbreviated catalog card version:
#2: Excerpts from one of my own works in progress, called “Four Rings”:
#3: In honor of the upcoming Oprah-SarahPalin interview, which I cannot freakin’ wait to see, strictly because of the new quotes that will be immortalized:
It takes a lot of ink to make sense of Sarah Palin.
nce again, Twitter (@littlebrownpen, in particular) bestowed a jewel upon me: the literary editors of Vanity Fair took Sarah Palin’s syntax and, yes, even her knowledge of the U.S. presidents, to task.
And I love every ink marking of it.
From VanityFair.com:
Palin’s Resignation: The Edited Version
If you watched Sarah Palin’s resignation speech, you know one thing: her high-priced speechwriters moved back to the Beltway long ago. Just how poorly constructed was the governor’s holiday-weekend address? We asked V.F.’s red-pencil-wielding executive literary editor,
, together with representatives from the
and
departments, to whip it into publishable shape. Here is the colorful result.
WEB EXCLUSIVE July 20, 2009
Click HERE to view the remaining pages. They’re TOTALLY worth it, I swear.
6 Colossal Dicktators
lease tell me that I’m not the only one who had not yet uncovered the glory that is Huffington Post Comedy’s Dickipedia, a wiki of dicks??? I just found out about it today, via Twitter, and at this point, I pretty much can’t comprehend how I existed in a pre-Dickipedian world.
So, to go along with abdpbt’s Listless Mondays (which I haven’t done in way too long), I thought I’d go ahead and list my 6 favorite dicks thus far, along with some of my favorite lines from their Dickipedia entries.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering: yes, women can be dicks, too. “Dick” is a gender-neutral epithet and equal opportunity.
6 MASTER DICKTATORS:
1. Dr. Phil:
Phillip Calvin McGraw, better known as Dr. Phil, is a psychologist, author, TV personality and a dick. He is also Oprah’s bitch.
Sanctioned by the Texas State Board in 1989 for an “ethical violation” involving an “inappropriate relationship” with a 19-year-old patient, “Dr.” Phil was stripped of his license to practice psychology. (To date, Dr. Phil has not completed the conditions required by the Board of Examiners of Psychologists to regain his license, and remains unlicensed to practice psychology. Anywhere.)
In 1990, he co-founded Courtroom Sciences, Inc., a firm that advised Fortune 500 companies on how to use psychology to manipulate the justice system. It is through this company that he met Oprah Winfrey, who rewarded him with a recurring segment on her show, even though he really just wanted a Pontiac G6 like she gives everyone else. Every Tuesday for the next several years, Dr. Phil appeared on Oprah as “Relationship and Life Strategy Expert,” qualified by a failed marriage he kept secret for 30 years, plus numerous moral lapses, some illegal.
On his show, Dr. Phil pontificates on a spate of topics with which he has little expertise and, in some cases, upon which he is legally prohibited from offering advice. Of course, anyone accepting weight-loss or financial planning tips from a disbarred psychologist who has also run afoul of the Federal Trade Commission gets what they pay for.
Like any psychologist worth his salt, Dr. Phil is also an advertising shill for an online dating service.
2. Jon & Kate:
Image: http://multiples.about.com/
Jon Gosselin currently makes his home in Wernersville, a town whose Asian population literally quadrupled when he and his family moved there.
Kate Gosselin’s hobbies include berating her husband in front of a national audience, getting divorced in the most public and painful way imaginable, and ovulating.
The sextuplets were born on May 10, 2004, at the Milton S. Hershey Center, in Hershey Pennsylvania. As such, they came to be known as the “Hershey Kisses,” which, though embarrassing, is a hell of a lot better than the “Hershey Squirts,” as their nickname easily could have been.
Together, Jon and Kate Gosselin have the worst collective hairstyles of any couple since Kid N’ Play. Despite the plugs, Jon still somehow manages to sport a nasty meat yarmulke in back, while Kate’s can best be described as a forward-facing Flock of Seagulls.
3. Sarah Palin:
Image from RunnersWorld.com
The only thing Sarah Palin seems to enjoy more than having children is giving those children ridiculous names and inadequate sex education. Should she birth any further issue—and she very well might—it is entirely possible she will name it Trix Rabbit Palin.
Sarah Palin’s political views are totally cribbed from the “Focus on the Family” website. Pro-life, unless you’re talking about the life of a criminal; limited government involvement in people’s lives, unless those people have a uterus or are gay and want to get married; and guns for whoever wants them, as many as they like, unless they look Islamic, in which case they should be detained indefinitely, preferably naked and arranged in a human pyramid.
On August 29, 2008, Republican presidential candidate Senator John McCain performed perhaps the greatest political mindfuck in American history by announcing that he had chosen Sarah Palin as his running mate. Palin celebrated by ovulating.
4. Donald Rumsfeld:
Like many dicks, Donald Rumsfeld is a product of the Ivy League, attending Princeton University, which is pretty impressive, considering how Jewy his last name sounds. While at Princeton, Rumsfeld roomed with another future Secretary of Defense Frank Carlucci. You can imagine there wasn’t much partying in that room, but probably a fair amount of clandestine masturbation.
Nixon was recorded on tape calling Donald Rumsfeld a “ruthless little bastard.” This is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid him.
Donald Rumsfeld is also noted for taking a special interest in crafting Defense Department propaganda, personally weighing in on interrogation techniques, and tacitly approving of the destruction of priceless cultural artifacts. So while many people—knee-jerk liberals, for instance, the kind of people who shop at Whole Foods—liked to call President Bush a Nazi, they clearly had the wrong guy.
5. Elisabeth Hasselbeck:
Elisabeth Hasselbeck is a former reality show contestant—not even the winner, mind you, or even the runner-up—who somehow became co-host of one of the most popular daytime talk shows of all time, and a dick. Though not especially well informed, Hasselbeck is, nonetheless, an irritatingly vocal supporter of conservative viewpoints. Also, she bears a striking resemblance to one of those “It’s a Small World” animatronic robots they have at Disneyland, if those robots were programmed by Sean Hannity.
Elisabeth Hasselbeck is a panelist on The View, the program that pioneered the format of four women jabbering over each other for an hour and a half, interspersed with commercials for Boniva and a special kind of yogurt that promises to regulate your bowels. In this capacity, Hasselbeck’s main duties involve baiting the other panelists to drop the F-bomb on national TV and attaining a level of shrillness that would make most testicles re-ascend. Of course, anyone with external genitalia really has no business watching The View, so it would serve them right.
The morning after Barack Obama won the election, Elisabeth Hasselbeck appeared on The View in funereal black to deliver her “concession.” Despite predictions, she did not choke to death on her own tongue.
The Hasselbecks have two children, a girl and a boy, Grace Elizabeth and Jonathan Taylor, apparently named after the washed-up teenie-bopper heartthrob who played the wisecracking middle kid on Home Improvement.
It’s a safe bet that Elisabeth Hasselbeck has never taken a dump in a public restroom, and even at home hovers over the seat.
6. Warren Jeffs:
Jeffs proves the age-old adage that anyone can be famous, but to gain real notoriety you need to get caught getting it on with an eighth-grader. Just ask Roman Polanski. Or R. Kelly.
Jeffs is the son of Rulon T. Jeffs, the original unquestioned omnipotent leader of the FLDS. Known to his followers by the creeptacularly pervball nickname “Uncle Rulon,” the elder Jeffs proved hornier than Tommy Lee on an ecstasy binge, fathering about 60 children with several dozen wives. Upon his death in 2002, Warren Jeffs assumed his father’s place in the church, his father’s nickname, and, within one week, all but two of his father’s wives. This effectively made him “Uncle Brother Stepfather Warren.”
Jeffs spent the better parts of 2005 and 2006 facing, unlawfully fleeing, then ultimately hiding from, various statutory rape charges. Interestingly enough, he actually resurfaced in June 2006, for one day, to perform more child bride ceremonies. To many, this was the extralegal underage wedding officiant’s equivalent of the Beatles’ famous impromptu rooftop concert.
But, come on, a dick is a dick, so you might as well check out all of them in HuffPostComedy’s DICKIPEDIA DIRECTORY. But be careful: you’ll spend HOURS…
(*Initial “P” found HERE. All photos above from Dickipedia.org unless otherwise indicated)
Sarah Gump
he August 2009 Runner’s World interview and accompanying photos of Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin pretty much prove, literally, that she’s ditching her governorship to focus instead on her Forrest Gump-like passion for “run-ni-ing-g,” whether that may be “run-ni-ing-g” for the 2012 Presidential Election (which I’m almost hoping will happen strictly for the material she’ll provide all humorists), or “run-ni-ing-g” for a position as a rightist Oprah talk show host who will frequently feature segments on maximizing the BumpIt™ and how to partner the latest rimless eyewear fashions with hot pants and ASICS®.
And how to do yoga poses while still looking like a lipsticked hockey mom that could obliterate a moose at a moment’s notice.
Stay tuned.
In the meantime, please enjoy this excerpt from Sarah Gump’s Runners’ World interview, in which she uses hard-hitting descriptives like “crappy” and totally rips the McCain staff a new one for not letting her upstage him run everyday.
If you go a day or a week without running, what do you learn about yourself?
I feel so crappy if I go more than a few days without running. I have to run. No matter how rotten I feel before or during a run, it’s always worth it to me afterwards. Sweat is my sanity. A great frustration I had during the campaign was when the McCain staff wouldn’t carve out time for me to go for a run. The days never went as well if I couldn’t get out there and sweat.Did you raise that issue, and put the ultimatum down that you needed to run?
Absolutely, and they would say, “Yes, in a couple of days we’re going to start carving out that half-hour or hour to run,” and too often it never happened, and that was frustrating.
I’m sure there are some people who are gonna take the “Sarah Palin likes it hot and sweaty” thing and run with it. Pun intended.
(*Initial “T” found HERE)
On second thought, do something.
hether prompted by the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the mudslinging during last fall’s presidential election, or Sarah Palin’s cringe-inducing voice, the poster bearing the saying “Keep calm and carry on” has made a resurgence this past year.
Image: http://paulvieira.wordpress.com/2007/03/29/
The perfect Father's Day gift
The poster, which harkens back to the WWII era and invokes the crown and message of King George VI, seems to be cropping up everywhere lately. It even has its own freakin’ website, for crying out loud. And, I have to say, I kind of resent it. In fact, I just found the poster reproduced on beautiful porcelain tiles that I posted on my other blog today, and I couldn’t help but highlight my disdain for the message. I understand that King Georgie meant to reassure his people that “all capable measures to defend the Country were being taken” (SOURCE; see below), but I fail to see how “keeping calm” and “carrying on” with one’s daily routine equates to an engaging, active people. Europe was being taken over by Naziism and fascist dictators. Genocide was occurring. Millions of people were literally going up in smoke in concentration camps. AND YOU’RE COMMANDING PEOPLE TO KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON LIKE NOTHING’S THE MATTER?!?!?!?
I’m not a licensed physician or anything, but I *am* almost a doctor (PhD, MD, same diff), and I deem Georgie a wee bit delusional.
So, the fact that this message is finding its way onto cufflinks, deck chairs, rugs, and children’s clothing (?!? aren’t “children” and “calm” sort of oxymorons?!? I mean that in a good way. Children should not just “carry on”… children should react and do the whole pleasure principle thing, damn it)… it disturbs me. I don’t like it one bit.
(Images above found HERE)
Which is why, when I found the following images, I smiled, clapped my hands, and acted like a general non-calm lunatic out of sheer happiness and comfort:
That's more like it.
How perfect is that?!? Olly Moss created the print above, and there are now t-shirts and mugs, too. Not sure about the cufflinks. I’ll get back to you.
I’ve seen this version around, too:
Found here: http://www.monster-munch.com/2008/08/
But I don’t get it. Cool guitar, but… keeping calm seems a bit counter-intuitive to “rocking on” as far as I’m concerned. How does one calmly rock? Headbanging while smoking weed? I don’t get it.
Oh, and then I found this version:
From here: http://www.notcot.com/archives/2009/03/make_things.php
That saying’s pretty cool, but it sort of ignores the politicality (is that a word? again, I’m almost a doctor, so please just accept it as real) of the “Freak out” poster. I think I’d like it better if the crown were still upside down and then the message said something like “BE PROACTIVE” or “ENGAGE” or “DON’T BE A COMPLACENT @SSHOLE” or something like that.
I’m not too picky.
I have a stalker. Her name is Dr. Gina.
he other week, I pogged about a creepy, ill-capitalized postcard that I had received in the mail from one Gina Hiatt, PhD. In just a 3″ X 5″ space, Doc Gina had the audacity not only to suggest that I may be an impostor who doesn’t “deserve” my degree, but she also declared herself the Almighty Creator and Possessor of a highly mysterious Dissertation Toolkit. One can only assume that the contents of said toolkit work to hammer out a Dissertation Toolshed that houses little Dissertation Worker Elves that massage dissertating hands on command in order to allay the inevitable carpal tunnel symptoms. Oh, but the hand massages can occur only after the Dissertation Elves whistle while they work to insulate the Dissertation Toolshed’s walls from any potential research-shattering wind gusts. That Doc Gina thinks of everything. I’m tempted to deem her the Ultimate Tool, but I kind of don’t want VH1 to sue me. Also… Sarah Palin.
Potential hand masseuse. (Image: http://thedigitalfortress.blogspot.com)
So, in my “P.S.” from the Doc Gina postcard pog, I mentioned that curiosity got the better of me and I ended up registering with www.TheDissertationToolkit.com so I could snoop around, research the Elves, size up the tools’ dullness, etc.. I was too appalled to follow through and take the Impostor test, though, because, I mean, WTF? Also, even if I were to place even minimal, microscopic stock in the psychology behind such a “test” and its scoring rubric, I would maybe want to know who has taken it upon him/herself to deem me an undeserving impostor. Who forms Doc Gina’s Impostor Police Department (DGIPD)? I mean, the DGIPD must be a highly deserving squad of PhD holders, right? Must.
But, as it turns out, I didn’t even need to surrender myself to the DGIPD, for Police Chief Hiatt decided to hunt me down personally — TWICE! — within only 60 seconds of my registration with her police state! She’s tracking my every move. I have, thus far, received eight emails from her — that’s about one email every other day. One such email, suggestively titled “Now is a great time to get writing momentum!”, focused on Spring Break as the perfect time to hike up my shirt and get busy with my dissertation. Dissertator Gone Wild. Guess when I received the email? Answer: the day before my Spring Break began! Coincidence? I think not. I am being watched, tracked, and yes, stalked. I may need to get a restraining order. Can you get a restraining order against the Chief of the Impostor Police? Sh*t. Not only is she tracking my academic calendar, but she’s also becoming increasingly aggressive with her sales tactics. If you’ll recall, my trip to her website yielded Doc Gina’s capitalistic endeavor, The Academic Writing Club. There are three options for Writing Club members: one 4-week session for $70, four 4-week sessions for $230 (holy crap! you save $50!), or “The Long Haul,” which is twelve 4-week sessions for just a measly $610 (clearly the best deal). It’s free to find out if you’re an impostor or not, but if you want the Elves, you gotta pay up. And they’ll hunt you down and totally f*ck with you — consciously and subconsciously, via totally tweaked out dreams — to beat you into submission.
The most recent email I received from Doc Gina was entitled “A story about procrastination…”. Thank you, but I can do without your threatening ellipsis, Chief. But, apparently you and the Elves already have me somewhat by the girl-balls, so I still clicked on the d@mn message, which duplicated a message that an Academic Writing Club member wrote to Doc Gina so as to extol the brilliance of the Club and the altruism of the Almighty Creator:
Image: http://www.bredekorsmo.com
I used to sit at my desk most of the day, getting nothing done and feeling horrible about myself. What I’ve noticed is that since joining the Club, I feel motivated to get my check mark and sign in and see how you all are doing. It’s been tremendously helpful to share this experience with others who are in the same situation, in getting me to be motivated and work in discrete chunks of time. I write more easily now, but even better is the fact that I feel better about myself, and have more time to actually have a life!
(You’ll notice that I talk about the Writing Club quite a
bit – I can’t help it! This is the heart of how we support
graduate students in completing their dissertations, and I
just love it. You can find more information at:
http://www.academicwritingclub.com/)
Curious. I’ve never seen a letter that advertises a club and includes links to the website of the person to whom the letter was written. I mean, Anonymous Letter Writer Person employs the second-person “you” in the fourth line — “to see how you all are doing” — so s/he is addressing Doc Gina and her/his fellow Club Members. So… where’d the parenthesis come from? I have an idea. But, then again, maybe this is a new letter-writing style of which I am not aware. Maybe I just don’t receive enough letters. But really, how can I when my mailbox is overrun with postcards from the DGIPD?
Police Chief Hiatt, PhD (image found here: http://www.academicladder.com/)
Well, in case Anonymous Letter Writer Person didn’t convince you to fork over $600 you don’t have (because you’re a freakin’ grad student), Doc Gina and her minions will shove extremely convincing testimonials in your face on their website, like the following from Assistant Professor ___ at ___ University. Maybe Assistant Professor has entered the DG Witness Protection Program or something and that’s why s/he refused to identify her/himself. But check out the compelling testimonial and tell me it doesn’t hook you:
“This Academic Writing Club ROCKS!
The discipline PLUS the support is the best thing that has happened to me in a long time (career–wise).”
- Assistant Professor
WHOA. I am BLOWN. A. WAY. By the way, the bolding is all Assistant Professor’s — not mine — so s/he must really mean it. Not just anyone can get away with using a monosyllabic in such a passionate manner. Also, I love that Assistant Professor stipulates that the AWC is the best thing to happen to his career, but not to his total life. Because then that might imply that Assistant Professor doesn’t really have a life outside of his career. Let alone sex. And, while I’m a bit perplexed that a virtual police state has proven to be the highlight of Assistant Professor’s career… who am I to judge? Clearly Assistant Professor knows something I do not. Clearly Assistant Professor’s elves are working double-time on Assistant Professor’s toolshed and hand massages. And anti-wind gust toolshed insulation. And forming a community of deserving dissertators. And… AH! You can’t get me, Gina!
RESTRAINING ORDER!
By the way, it’s come to my attention that Doc Gina also maintains a blog, appropriately called The Academic Police State. Just kidding. It’s called the Acidemiblog, and you can find it here. Careful, though: you know the blog is just another control tactic.
hee hee
(*Initial T found here)
Wacky Wednesday.
etween Cello Scrotum and 3-D porn, I am left befuddled yet highly entertained by the news snippets I’ve received today. And extremely grateful that there’s no 3-D Cello Scrotum.
Anyway, here are some prime excerpts from the story at The Times online regarding the Big Cello Scrotum Scandal (BCSS) of 2009:
What about female cellists, huh?! (Image: easyart.co.uk)
Until this week, cellists worldwide had reason to fear a terrible malady. Worse than fiddler’s neck, flautist’s chin or even the dreaded guitarist’s nipple was the condition known as “cello scrotum.” The condition was named in the British Medical Journal, and thereafter in an array of reviews of musician’s aches and pains.
Nearly all such reviews referred to a letter to the journal in 1974 from John Murphy, husband of Dr. Elaine Murphy, who noted that he had once come across a case of cello scrotum. But Dr. Elaine Murphy, now Baroness Murphy, has now admitted that the letter she drafted with her husband was a hoax, a practical joke that the couple have been “dining out on” ever since.
So, first of all, I’d never heard of “guitarist’s nipple,” either (am I alone with this?), which sounds incredibly unpleasant. I instantly picture a sort of nipple “tuner”… that must be tightened… ouch. Anyway, apparently musician-ing (?) proves detrimental to one’s health. And to one’s erogenous zones. Even the British Medical Journal said so!
I definitely wasn’t made aware of this information when I played percussion in fifth through ninth grades. Shouldn’t there at least have been a permission slip for my parents to sign or something? But no, unsuspecting, innocent band members were left to fend for themselves against the infliction of, oh I don’t know, Timpani Crotch or something.
On that (very discordant) note, let’s continue with the article:
In a letter to the BMJ, prompted by yet another reference to the ailment in the journal last month, the couple wrote: “Perhaps after 34 years it’s time for us to confess that we invented cello scrotum.”
Their letter of 1974 was in response to a missive from a Dr. Curtis regarding a skin irritation that he had seen among classical guitarists. After many hours with the instrument pressed against their chests, the musicians had developed guitarist’s nipple.
“We thought it highly likely to be a spoof and decided to go one further by submitting a letter pretending to have noted a similar phenomenon in cellists, signed by the non-doctor one of us,” the couple wrote. “Somewhat to our astonishment, the letter was published.”
I guess the British Medical Journal doesn’t follow up on physicians’ claims? I wonder if any (doctored) photo documentation of guitarist’s nipple or cello scrotum was sent along with the letters? For my part, I just did a Google Image search of “guitar nipple,” and the results revealed scary images that I’m pretty sure had nothing to do with guitars.
Oh, but here’s the best part of the Times article. In 1991, an American dermatologist and cellist by the name of Dr. Philip Shapiro questioned the legitimacy of cello scrotum in the Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology. Check out Shapiro’s words of wisdom:
“I wrote a letter to the editor saying the condition didn’t make sense. Being a cellist myself I knew that the cello comes nowhere near one’s scrotum. You would have to be doing something fairly extreme to get that by playing the cello,” he said.
He suggested that any such performance would not be tolerated in polite society. “Otherwise, given the angle of the cello, you would have to have pretty enormous bollocks,” he said.
But… wait a second. Does that mean there could be a condition called Cello Bollocks? Hmm. In any event, in closing, Shapiro offered a picture of himself playing the cello along with the following explanation:
“Just as people sometimes scratch their heads repetitively, some also scratch their genitals,” [Shapiro] said, “some of those people might also play the cello.”
So true. Hoaxes are so fun, though. Like that time when John McCain named Sarah Palin as his VP candidate! That was so hilarious! Good one, McCain — you totally got us!
Wait, what? Oh. Oops. Moving on…
And as if fake genital conditions weren’t enough, now we have to worry about fake genital “conditions” in 3-D, flailing sweatily at our heads! AHHHH!
Yeah, because porn stars aren’t scary enough in hi-def. Clearly. Pff. Umm, nice work 3-D techies, but I don’t really care to see mullet-man or chick-with-bruised-thighs three-dimensionally corkscrewing themselves together two millimeters from my line of vision. Or even two-dimensionally corkscrewing themselves together. Or even together AT ALL. But, in case you do, here’s what Wired online has to tell you:
Shooting will begin in April on what’s being billed as the world’s first 3-D erotic film, according to its producer.
Stephen Shiu Jr., chairman of One Dollar Production, says 3D Sex and Zen will push the envelope content-wise while helping thwart piracy.
“Just imagine that you’ll be watching it as if you were sitting beside the bed,” he told the South China Morning Post. “There will be many close-ups. It will look as if the actresses are only a few centimeters from the audience.”
The porn move is only natural as filmmakers like DreamWorks Animation’s Jeffrey Katzenberg hail new 3-D technology as Hollywood’s savior. DreamWorks is producing all its upcoming animated movies in 3-D, starting with Monsters vs. Aliens, which is set for a March 27 release.
3D Sex and Zen, with a reported budget of $3.9 million, is a sequel to 1991’s Sex and Zen, which was based loosely on 17th-century Chinese book The Carnal Prayer Mat by Li Yu.
It’s always the 17th-century Chinese mysticists that are so unfailingly hardcore. F*ck.
Random Tuesday Thoughts (not to be confused with my random EVERYDAY thoughts)
ecause Anna’s Listless Mondays have proven to be so utterly spanktastic, I thought I’d go ahead and tap into the Un-Mom’s wellspring of weekly Random Tuesday Thoughts. I mean, the case could certainly be made that randomness-of-thought does not discriminate by day of the week. I’m pretty sure my thoughts will be just as random tomorrow as they are today — perhaps even more random. It’s like a fun little surprise, really. However, because the Un-Mom has officially designated Tuesday as Grand Central Station for my random, directionless trains of thought, well… it’s kinda like an extra heaping spoonful of peanut butter sauce on my Friendly’s Reese’s Pieces Sundae of perfection.
A.K.A., it freakin’ rocks. Hardcore.
So, here goes… my inaugural:
Wait a second. Can I list my random thoughts? Or does the very essence of “listing” de-randomize the randomness? Sh*t. Does the very fact that I’m even thinking about listing random thoughts (oxymoron?) prove my analness? anality? analiciousness? Whoa. OK, the “-licious” suffix should never find itself adjacent to an “anal.” My bad. I totally just grossed myself out. But anyway, hey, this is my inaugural go at this RTT stuff, so… I can make it up as I go along, right? Right.
1) I just got done watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, and all that sticks with me is: WHAT THE F*CK DID THEY DO TO THE VOICES?!? The only one that sounded authentic was the voice-over-the-phone going “WAWA-WA-WA-WAWA.” All the others sounded like the b@stard step-children of the originals. Not that there’s anything wrong with b@stard step-children, but… just don’t go stickin’ your voice in my Peanuts characters, got it?
B) It’s amazing how soap opera world only progresses about one day in two months’ time, yet tabloid world seems to progress two months in one day’s time. Case in point: just yesterday I pogged about Heidi & Spencer eloping in Cabo. Then, this morning I wake up to Perez spouting sh*t about Speidi setting the whole thing up with US Weekly in typical fame whore fashion, and that they’re not technically married at all. Dude, whatever. I give you 6 months, regardless.
III) My scalp’s ridiculously dry. Like, way past Head-’n-Shoulders dry. Maybe approaching Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club dry. OK, I just grossed myself out again.
D) Who are these nutjobs that go to Kohl’s at 4am the day after Thanksgiving?!? (A.K.A., Black Friday) Well, OK, in the past, my sister has been one of those nutjobs. But then she came to her senses.
5) I just got done watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta, the Reunion Special” on Bravo, and I have to say that it totally met all cracked-out expectations. But don’t worry, I switched between Atlanta pseudo-reality and CNN in a (vain?) attempt to reach some sort of mixed medium utopia world — half fake, half “real”…. I don’t know. But it’s pretty d@mn funny to hear “Oh, HELLLLL no!” juxtaposed with Wolf Blitzer’s mind-numbing “uhh”s. John King and his Magic Wall sort of clinch that psychedelic otherworld deal. ps) Nene’s cropped haircut looks annoyingly good. I wish I could pull that sh*t off.
VI) My students and I are now discussing The Bell Jar. It’s either my fourth or fifth time reading it. But, amazingly, the increasing number of reads doesn’t make it any less potent for my psyche. We’ll see how this goes. I don’t think I’ve ever read it around Christmas before. Maybe egg nog will help to sideline the SP-induced crazies (*note: I’m referring to Sylvia Plath, though Sarah Palin does still drive me crazy in an entirely other capacity).
G) What’s the deal with the vampire bullsh*t?
8 ) I really miss Paris. I really miss WALKING in Paris. I miss the smell of the metro, which wasn’t even pleasant. But it was the metro. And it was mine for a time. And I miss the aroma of freshly baked baguettes at 6am, wafting out of the boulangerie below my studio. And I’m not even a morning person. But baguettes can wake me up any day.
IX) OK, I guess I’m done for now. Except I really wish I could find some part-time employment. It’s driving me bonkers. I’ve done freelance writing, I’ve done translations, I’ve done tutoring, I can calligraphy, I can type super freakin’ fast… it would be really lovely if somebody hired me and offered me more than $6/hour to do something. But, you know, not the whole Ashley Dupré “something.” OK, shameless plug over.
Say goodbye to the random thoughts for now.
Goodbye, random thoughts.
592.5-and-a-third bajillion ways to ensure blog traffic jams at intersections of boob flashing and Oprah appearances. Also: make money!
1) Spotted: doggies taking dumps on lawns that are not theirs. Owners looking at their cellphones, pretending not to notice.
Discuss.
17.4) Why, when we want to stand up for something, do we stage sit-ins?
Discuss.
648 ÷ 3) If “Joe the Plumber” had plumber’s butt (which, let’s face it, he does. ALL plumbers do. It’s like a pre-requisite), then would McPalin call him “Joe the Plumber’s Butt”? Because that would create grammatical confusion, causing the listening public to think that McPalin were talking specifically about “Joe the Plumber”’s posterior… rather than generally about “Joe the Plumber,” who just so happens to suffer from plumber’s butt. See what I’m sayin’? And I know that Palin isn’t exactly a fan of grammar (not ENGLISH grammar anyway, as far as I can tell), but I still can’t help but wonder if maybe they’d change the reference to “Joe Plumber-Butt.”
Discuss.
578 + ∏) Chew on this: In his Intimate Journals, the nineteenth-century French poet Charles Baudelaire (arguably the first “modern poet” of our time) questioned: “What is Love?” Clearly not a fan of rhetorical questions, Baudelaire then supplied the answer, which he then amended with a thoughtful syllogism:
What is Love?
The need to emerge from oneself.
Man is an animal which adores.
To adore is to sacrifice and prostitute oneself.
Thus all Love is prostitution.
That’s right: we are all prostitutes. Which leads me to ask: WHERE THE HELL’S MY MONEY, B*TCH?!? But… I *am* a fan of rhetorical questions. So, let’s move on, shall we? (don’t answer that — it’s rhetorical)
Just in case you weren’t sufficiently shocked-and-awed by that little Love=Prostitution equation, my dear Baudie chose to go one step further by stating:
The most prostitute of all beings is the Supreme Being, God Himself, since for each man he is the friend above all others; since he is the common, inexhaustible found of Love.
Discuss.
Wait, before you discuss, please allow me to share that I freakin’ LOVE Baudelaire, and throwing a few uncontextualized lines at you essentially equates to a crime of poetics, but… hey, I’m already a prostitute and on the road to eternal hell-fire, so… I don’t give a sh*t.
OK. Now discuss.
∜177,410,282,401) If McPalin wins tomorrow, and if I decide to find a job in Canada and/or Europe (as a direct result of the McPalin win), would that make me a quitter/ex-patriot, or just really freakin’ smart?
(*Note: if you are questioning my smarts re: becoming an émigrée, I’d like to point very strongly — as strongly as a finger can point — to the movie Sicko, which basically proves that the American healthcare system blows chunks and rapes us any chance it gets. Meanwhile, Frenchies are getting free nannies and a bajillion months off from work and free laundry service and free classes for sophisticatedly tying scarves and free pastry-making workshops and… the list goes on. I mean, seriously, Michael Moore might as well have called the movie Why Americans Are F*cking R*tarded For Still Living in America. I say this with the utmost amount of love and respect for my country. Which George W. has f*cked.)
Discuss.
592.5-and-a-third bajillion) I know a guy whose favorite flavor Starburst Fruit Chew is pink. OK, wait, that’s a color, not a flavor. What flavor is pink in the original Starburst pack? Strawberry, right? And then the red Starburst is cherry? Which I don’t really get, because, I mean, if you compare strawberries and cherries, couldn’t you make the argument that sometimes strawberries are a darker shade of red than cherries? I mean, strawberries aren’t PINK, right? So why’d they get the shaft and have to have the sucky pink wrapper, huh? Though, I guess strawberry yogurt and strawberry ice cream are pink rather than red. Whatever. I just don’t like pink. It’s, like, my LEAST-favorite Starburst, actually. Also, I’ve never heard of ANYONE who privileged the pink Starburst. I’d say the most common preference is for Red/Cherry. And this general Red/Cherry predilection has suited me very well — particularly when snacking on the ‘Bursts at a movie theatre — because my personal favorites are Orange and Yellow, preferably together (oh yeah, I am WILD with the fruit chews, baby. STEP. OFF.).
Discuss.
And, oh yeah, this is another listless Monday. Anna, represent. Word.
