The change kind of makes me a little forlorn. I'll miss it here at blogger. It's been good to me. But the new e-digs are pretty sweet, and there are a lot more features. So, chin up! It'll be fun. See you there at:
My uncle Clint works in Afghanistan, a fact which both impresses and frightens me. I don't know why I haven't posted photographs of his experiences before, because he sends me some really terrific stuff.
Some of it is sad: Some of it makes you think about how good you have it:
Some of it is pictures of these guys:
Whatever it is, it's always interesting. Sometimes, Clint takes field trips. Like the time he went to the arcade and saw this lady:
Another time, he went to the US Embassy in Baghdad and saw these cards made by children:
I'm 99% sure they were to show support for the American troops. But here is why I'm 1% unsure:
The best part, is that sometimes Clint and his coworkers go to local grade schools and give away clothes and shoes. I think it's so important for them give to kids who are less fortunate than American children. It makes me happy to think of the smiles on their faces:
But the extra best special treat is when someone like this guy shows up:
So, I've decided that as long as Clint keeps sending me these fine photos, I will keep posting them for you to see.
There are few things I would call myself a connoisseur of: Certainly not wine, food, cigars, or even chocolate. But I WILL call myself a connoisseur of Bad Movies. They are my passion. I believe that God created Mystery Science Theater 3000 with me in mind. That said, if you were to peruse my video collection, you would find an impressive array of horrible films on VHS. Most still have to $1.99 sticker on them.
A particularly fine $1.99 purchase was the film Johnny Handsome, starring a young Mickey Rourke. The movie isn't one of the worst I've seen, but check out the premise: Mickey plays a criminal who was born severely deformed. During his time in a prison, a "sympathetic surgeon" gives him a new face, using the wonders of plastic surgery! Once out on parole, he uses his new looks to seek revenge.
It's a pretty simple plot, really. You might even sum it up as simply as this: He hit his low point, got plastic surgery, and then made a comeback.
This morning on my drive in to work, my attempts to educate myself on the nation's economic situation were once again thwarted by a seemingly endless commercial for bath fixtures so, I switched off the news station and turned on my iPod. I put the thing on shuffle when I drive so that I don't crash into anyone while I'm looking for a song. But, I still have to skip through handfuls of songs at a time, because I am realizing two things about the music I own:
1) I am getting bored with most of it 2) I only like specific parts in a lot of songs
Problem #1 is pretty common, and easily solved: Cough up a few bucks for some new music and revisit the old stuff in a few months. But problem #2 indicates that I may be ill. I have dozens of songs that I will never fully play from start to finish. I'll listen to a desired section, and then skip forward. Not only does this drive passengers in my car crazy, but it makes me feel guilty for being so disrespectful of the musicians. I'm clearly not well. I think I have...
Schizomusiphrenia.
I can't help it! Maybe I just want to listen to the melody, and not a long saxaphone solo (sorry Chris Potter). Or maybe it's that some songs go on for far too long. In fact, I've set my iPod to start Tony Williams' Allah Be Praised at 3:51 so that I can skip right to the cool organ part that I like. Often, part of a song might make me uncomfortable- for instance any time there is sing-talking, or that weird circus part of Spinning Wheel by Blood, Sweat & Tears. If you ever ride in my car, I'm warning you- do not get attached to anything coming out of the stereo because it could be over at any second.
I'd like to celebrate Valentine's Day one day early with a small piece of advice:
Nobody wants to hear about how amazing your boyfriend is.
Least of all his guy friends. Do you think Spud and Tyler are anxious to hear about the chrysanthemums Kenny got you for the two-year anniversary of the first time he got you chrysanthemums? If you're nodding your head yes, please ask a close friend to slap you in the mouth- you are incorrect. Rule of thumb: If a story about your boyfriend makes you feel all gushy, shut up.
But Kenny's not one of those tough guys, you're probably thinking. He's a sensitive man, and his friends don't care.
Um, have you seen Rocky? He makes his living letting burly, undereducated Philidelphians punch him in the eye. But he still goes by that pet shop every day, and tells ridiculously silly jokes just to try and get Adrian to like him. However- and this is key- he doesn't buy flowers for the guys who punchhim the eye. Mr. Balboa knows to keep the macho and sensitive parts of his life separate. My point is twofold. One: It's not about upholding a reputation. It's that you are special to Kenny. If he wrote poems to Spud and Tyler, it may not mean as much to you when he busts out the iambic pentameter on Valentine's Day. Two, and perhaps more importantly: Unless your life is a movie and available on Netflix, your cute stories about Kenny entertain no one. So, no matter what he does for you tomorrow, please, keep it to yourself.
During a conversation online this morning, my good friend Feldman told me about one of this dreams last night:
"I did have an interesting dream. It involved your family. I was back at [Occidental College], living in Haines [residence hall] and you and your parents were visiting me. For some reason Haines was on upper campus near one of the fields and I was trying to guide you to the dorm and telling you where to park. And for an Oxy grad, you really sucked at following my directions.
But I eventually got you into the parking space that I had my eyes set on so you and your parents got out and we said hi, but you looked weird.
I am sorry for how much hell I put you through during the 1997/1998 school year. I must have been working through some new Eighth Grade hormones or something because, I remember you being a sweet guy. Yet, somewhere between your enthusiasm for dodge ball and Thursday mile-runs, we got off on the wrong foot.
I'd get to the gym on time, and I'd put my uniform on like everyone else. But as soon as you jogged out with your clipboard and wraparound sunglasses, I turned crappy. I distinctly remember once telling you that I was allergic to the rubber used in basketballs. I stood with my hands on my adolescent hips, looking you right in the eye, waiting for you to respond. (If you guessed there was another reason I didn't want to play basketball, you are right. During fifth grade, I was on a girl's basketball team. The only basket I scored the entire season was FOR THE OTHER TEAM. I didn't need any of that again.)
In case it isn't evident from my defiant crossing out of the letters E, A, B, T, and H in my name in the photo above, I was kind of a weasel in eighth grade. You were a new teacher, and I could sense your insecurity. I think I really was genuinely interested in whether or not you had a crush on my English teacher, Ms. Geis, but because it made you blush when I brought it up during calisthenics, I did so about six times a week. It makes me cringe to think of it now.
It also makes me cringe to think of all times I tried to get out of running using made-up ailments. The more mild fibs included menstrual cramps that lasted for weeks at a time, migraines, and the foolproof "I don't want to get into it." However, when I really wanted to get avoid something, I'd pull out all the stops. I'm sure you remember Lauren Preston and I falling to the ground at your feet during a Thursday run, shaking violently, tongues wagging, eyes rolling back in our heads. "We must be having seizures!" I cried between gurgling sounds. "Running makes them worse!" Our research wasn't very thorough.
So, Mr Undlin, for these things, and the snotty comments about your basketball shorts, I apologize. I hope you and Ms. Geis are happily married.
David Malloy and I went outside to get some fresh air and enjoy the rain. I guess we are both feeling insecure, because this was the bulk of our conversation:
Me: Do I look okay? It's a new shirt. David: (Pulls out his camera phone). Yes, I said that already. Didn't I? (Snaps a photo, shows me) Me: Do I look terrible? David: Do I look like a wolfman? Me: In a good way, though. (Looking at the photo again.) Oh! My shoulder pads- are they too much? I think- David: Am I balding!?
...but I got distracted with a logic puzzle. It's called the Einstein Quiz.
To play, go here. Of course, if you have like, a life, or anything, feel free to continue on with that. But, alas, I'm a dork and I like stuff like this.
I've solved it, but I can't seem to get the submission button to work- I think it has something to with the fact that the main page hasn't been updated since 2001. Anyway, if you do play, leave your answer in the comments section. (Note: I am expecting 3 comments at the most.)
If you feel like cheating, click here for a picture of the answer.
The first is from my mom:"How about Pirates of the Carob Bean? (in health food stores now.)"
From my father: "How 'bout: 'I stepped in DogChip' ??"
And finally, a message I received on facebook from my very funny friend Shawn Carlow:"As to the important matter of Chips Ahoy! knockoffs from your blog, I'd go for Chips Annoy! And they would be cookies that defy conventional logic by being at a significantly higher rate of chips to cookie dough than has ever been done before. So much so that eaters would eventually start spitting the cookies out, saying "This is just too much." But I would only do that because I'm running the company, and I got it from my rich ex-wife as part of the divorce settlement, and I'll show her. Probably Treasure Chips would do that just as well."
In addition to coming up with elaborate stories about heartbreak and baked goods, Shawn also does Stand Up around Los Angeles. To see where he'll be performing next, check out his MySpace page here. While you're there, read his blog and watch a few of his short films. I love the Godzilla one.
I recently came across an article in a popular publication whose headline boasted "secret" health tips from foreign countries. Imagining all kinds of obscure yogic and food-based remedies for common maladies, I proceeded. Unfortunately, the article listed only four, and they were less than earth-shattering.
One suggestion was to drink wine with your pals ala the French. Reasonable, I suppose. Wine's supposed to be rich in some kind of...thing that's good for your ...whatever. Plus, boozin' it up with your buddies endorses mental health. Makes sense, in an "I already knew that" kind of way.
Another pointer was to go out for more sushi. Duh, people- fish is healthy for you and it's instant portion control. It's also rather pricey. As is the next suggestion- Going on vacation! Bombshell: People who go on vacations live longer than those folks who work 51 weeks a year, leaving their desks only to pee and pilfer cheetos from the break room.
And the final foreign health secret? Have health insurance! Wait wait wait. Do you mean to tell me that people who are able go to a doctor for regular nutsack check ups are likely to be healthier than people who just let their nutsacks go unchecked?!
Sure, health insurance is something my employer fortunately provides, and I do think it's a great idea. But the rest of it? A more accurate title for this article would have been "Four Ways That People With Money to Burn Can Have More Radiant Skin." I'd love to discuss my latest proctology appointment while I booze it up over wine and sushi with my friends on a long vacation. But, as is the case with most people, I'll be in my office, talking about a rash I can't get diagnosed while I guzzle diet coke and microwave kettle corn.
I spent Saturday night at my parents' house, watching the 2009 Miss America Pageant. It's a tradition my mom and I try to keep alive each year. It's not that we're obsessed with pageants. Tiaras and ballgowns don't make us all googly-eyed. We don't particularly enjoy the parade of bronzed bodies in bikinis and heels. No, the reason my mom and I watch is for the talent portion of the evening. If you've never seen a shellacked, glistening twenty-two-year-old pound out a Chopin nocturne on a Yamaha, well, you just aren't whole.
But this year, the assortment of talent was rather disappointing. When the most interesting act is a tap dance to Fever, things are pretty bleak. (No offense, Miss Iowa- I respect your moxie.) Can't someone pick up a banjo? What about bird calls? Or the lost art of the Geisha? These are all respectable talents, and yet they've been pushed aside in favor of robotic ballet and singing that could easily be confused with yelling.
BUT- the talent competition was redeemed by the addition of "pop up" factoids about each of the performers. As we watched each woman writhe or belt, we were treated to interesting tidbits displayed briefly on the screen. Somehow, though, the information we received seemed out of place. Luckily, my dad had his camera. (Yes! Father Cole watched Miss America- and enjoyed himself, dammit.) Each time a piece of out of place data came up, we paused the show and took a photo.
Here is the first. It's Miss Indiana (Spoiler Alert: She won the crown) singing what I believe was called Via De La Rosa.
Surprise! She shows dairy cattle at her county fair! Which is amusing. But not as amusing as the next contestant, Miss California. And guess what?
She has performed at a Raiders halftime show! In her tutu? Do you think she got hit with any flying beer cans? Discuss.
And finally, nothing is more disconcerting than this:
Uh huh. Miss New York has sung at a PRISON before. A moment of silence for her mental innocence, please.
What were they thinking with these? My mom calls them "Miss America Trading Cards." I'm glad she came up with something to call them, because I couldn't.
The only thing more exciting than getting your new issue of Gourmet magazine in the mail is opening it up to the page about 30-minute pork loin recipes and finding your W-2 inside!
That's right, kids! It's tax time! Now, back in ought-seven, Turbo Tax held a contest on YouTube: Make a rap about their product! If the YouTube-crazed public liked you, you could win prizes! I can't remember what the prizes were, because I think they were tax software and maybe like... a stuffed monkey or something. Anyway, it wasn't important.
David Malloy and I decided to enter the contest, so we wrote a rap starring MY PARENTS- who are incredibly good sports for participating.
So, in honor of W-2s arriving everywhere, I present to you, The TurboTax Rap:
And remember: Always check your food magazines for important legal paperwork.
FunBox Comedy's back with another delightful video...
It's WASH MY RIDE!!!
I love these guys.
FUN FACT! Rachel Noll, who plays the car owner, and I went to college together- we didn't meet until the day of the shoot! (I was on set for moral support, and also to hold the boom mic)
A few months ago, after the kitchen at work had been recently re-stocked, my coworker Gina and I were delighted to find a package of chocolate chip cookies on the shelves! "Chips Ahoy!" we shouted! But, upon further inspection, we found that they were the generic Safeway brand of cookies, called Treasure Chips. The cookies, while delicious, bore a somewhat unappealing name. So Gina and I decided to come up with a list of new names for a generic version of Chips Ahoy. Today, when I was sorting through a pile of dusty post-it notes under my monitor, I found that list: - Chips Aweigh! - Chips, Ho! - 20,000 Chips Under the Sea - Chip Shape! - Chipwrecked! - Chip n' Whales (Whoa. That one was a stretch.) - The SS Chips - Shiver Me Chippers! And my personal, ridiculous favorite: - There Arrrrrrrr So Many Chips!
I think I'd be inclined to eat these products over Treasure Chips. What does that even mean?
So, Monday was my first day back to work after a two-week hiatus, and Tuesday was my first day of working out after a two-and-a-half-week hiatus. Now, there are a lot of reasons that I find it difficult to drag myself over to the Rose Bowl to swim. These include (but are not limited to):
* Being tired * Lady troubles * Feeling bloated from tacos and/or cupcakes * It's cold * It's Tuesday * Mothra attack
But Tuesday marked the dawn of an entirely new excuse. As I was preparing to leave, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my hair looked tremendous! I had it back in a bun, but the ends were poking out as if lovingly arranged by six or seven European stylists. Little tendrils were falling around my neck, and my bangs had somehow miraculously retained an impressive level of volume after 12 hours in the office. I admired my hair from all possible angles, an exercise which lasted a good two or three minutes.
Let's see, I thought. Who will I be gracing with my presence tonight? Who will be fortunate enough to gaze upon my fantastic updo?
No one, that's who. In a half hour, I was going to be jamming my entire head, hairs and all, into an off-white silicone swim cap. Let me tell you- this is nowhere near an acceptable look for a person. Since I spend all day at a desk, in a room without any windows, my skin is untouched by the sun. I'm not kidding. I probably have rickets. Under the fluorescent lights of the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center locker room, the swim cap is almost the same color as my skin, which, when I don my bathing suit, makes me look like an old Greco-Roman Wrestler.
Hey- my New Year's Resolution was to look good. I'm sure you can see my dilemma.
Eventually, my better judgment returned, and I ended up in the pool, but not before taking a picture of my hair. Which I will not post here, because it did not turn out well.
