The time has come. Blogger is becoming such a pain in my patoot I'm switching to Tumblr. Please to continue to follow my rambles at my new homestead, oh pilgrims and pioneers. Please to follow.
Also, keep your peepers peeled at my youtube channel. I just got a new shiny that makes videos even more good for watching and stuff. There will be more of that.
Look around you. Nature is all around you, unless you're inside, and then the nature is outside. Go to the window and look out at it. Nature is dangerous, and wild. Nature wants to kill you. Nature is one twisted ankle on a day hike away from killing you. Nature is a dick.
Sometimes people like to paint nature. This is called "art".
For those of you who love art, there is art that is awesome and you don't have to love stuff like nature that isn't cool to enjoy it. And that art is made by a woman named Kat Martin.
Recently my life was made complete by the creation of a new Kat Martin masterpiece (or MARTsterpiece) and much like this clever woman...
...Kat has captured my essence and imprisoned me in a painting! A fantastic zombtastic painting!
but there's so much more. Take a look at some of these beauties:
So shut up, boring nature! Now nature has stuff in it! From Kat! Kat Martin!
It's getting hot in Hollyweird, and to save money on air conditioning I've taken to wandering around Target where it's nice and cool. I've spent quite a bit of time (and money) lurking in the book section. Where I'm still yelling at the books. It's not their fault they have stupid covers (Unless we're talking about Glenn Beck, and then he deserves all the being left in the douche section he can get!) but still...
We're nowhere near Baen territory with these, they're not terrible in and of themselves, but someone needs to hatch a new idea once in awhile. It's your job to make books look different from other books. If every book is going to look like every other book, why bother to put them in aisles based on what's actually written in them? Here, I'll make things easier. Then publishers don't have to worry their little heads about whether the book in front of them is non-fiction or romance. They can just glance at the cover between cocktails and throw it into one of the following piles:
Walkin' Around Outside!
Who Cares About Nature and Shit? Let's Get the Fuck Outta Here!
Holdin' Hands!
Brides Without Heads!
EVERY PAIR OF FEET IN THE WORLD.
and finally...
Books That Were Apparently Written by Me!
I must have written this around 2003, when I was sure I'd picked the best stage name ever. Then I realized I'd have two first names, and that's just stupid. It seems, however, that in addition to auditioning for The Crow 4 and modelling wedding dresses on a Utah morning show, I wrote a book. So I'm 1 for 3.
Too bad about that Crow 4 thing, though. I thought I really nailed that audition.
So I've seen my share of weird/random ads on my Facebook page, over there in my sidebar. (I'm looking at you, Meet Other Black Singles In Your Area!)
This tops them all. Hawaii sounds lovely this time of year...
IF YOU WANT TO GO WITH AN EVIL AVATAR.
Seriously, why is this goblin man (woman?) supposed to make me want to go to ANYWHERE? I suspect it has something to do with my D&D proclivities but how...? Hawaii? I....
I took pictures because it seemed like a total fluke. Until it showed up again.
And again.
Go away Avatard. I still don't want to hang out with you on Goblin Island.
I'm no stranger to a good snarky rant about all things sugary, religious, heartwarming, and just below the lacy surface completely and totally sexist bullshit. It's no secret that my homeland of Salt Lake City is not the world's leading champion of gender equality. At best it's a modern Jane Austen novel, trying to make the best match with the most handsome return missionary before we're old maids.
Speaking of Jane Austen, do yourself a favor and NEVER WATCH THIS.
At worst, you're seeing the 2011 version of this:
Nowhere is this more palpably obvious than in the touching (nauseating) poem I first saw framed on a friend's wall many years ago. It wasn't the first time I've seen it, and unfortunately, many more little girls are going to be decorating their rooms with this (and those marvelous Mormonads!) for generations to come.
Meet My Three White Dresses! The rallying cry to be all that you can be! To know that you as a girl are unique, dynamic, able to do anything you want with your life!
Just kidding. It's about getting married and having babies.
My mom bought me a white dress, Not red or pink or blue. She said it was a special dress Like very other few.
There has been just one before, A dress now put away. That I wore sometime ago upon my blessing day. As a little baby clothed in my first white dress, My dad held me in his arms, there to name and bless. So pure and clean was I just then, With time to grow and learn About the Father's plan for me. My glory I must earn.
Now I've reached the age to judge the wrong road from the right, And I am here to be baptized in this dress of white. So once again I'm free from sin, The path is clear to me. I'll grasp the road and hold on tight, I vow with certainty.
Just as mud would stain my dress, Sin would stain my soul. The key is to repent or bleach, For whiteness is my goal.
And if I try my very best, Then richly blessed I'll be, Wearing inside God's holy house White dress number three.
So today I make this pledge: I'll strive to choose the right, Through this sacred baptism ordinance In my second dress of white.
Am I opposed to marriage? No. Do I hate children? No. Well, only when they make that horrible screaming sound while I'm trying to concentrate on something important like buying things I don't need at Target or have the sheer bad luck of being dragged by their idiot parents to the movie theatre to see such family classics as Your Highness. or Jurassic Park. No, not joking. I witnessed both of these events, and I'm sure they took some interesting information to Kindergarten with them the next day.
Three important milestones in a woman's life? Sure. I can't help but notice there's no picture of a college graduation cap in this sort of artwork. I don't see a white lab coat, or doctor's scrubs, or a military dress uniform, or even a sports uniform. Feminine, sweet, dresses. All white. White symbolizes purity, but it's also blank. Every woman has three. White. Blank. Dresses. None of these "accomplishments" involve a brain, or a set of skills, or a personal goal or individual, all about you dream. Because if you don't have these three dresses in your metaphorical closet, you've missed something. None of these celebrate an obstacle you've overcome, an opponent you faced down, a mountain you climbed. They represent you doing exactly the same things as every other good little girl at the exact right moments. Born + baptized + married = your legacy.
What if one of those dresses isn't in the closet? Does that make you...less? Again, I am a huge fan of marriage when people are truly in love and when the time is right. Go marriage, as I always say! (I don't actually say that.) Marriage doesn't mean you can't do any other career-minded thing you as a woman want to do. And most men (hopefully) aren't going to steal your shoes the minute you cross the threshold and lock you in the kitchen. There are as many fantastic gents in this world as there are dames. I have the privilege of attending three weddings this summer and they're each and every one a fantastic, mad, marvelous idea. But what if, by Three White Dresses logic, what if you're not ready to get married, or if you've never met the right man...does that mean, as the song suggests, you didn't "try really hard" enough to get married?
But why address these issues? Here, whilst I take a few minutes to stretch my legs, burn some bras, and stomp around in mannish shoes bossing people around until they turn gay, take a look at some of the people on the other side of the issue. THREE WHITE DRESS FANS, ASSEMBLE!
Okay, back story: Two years ago I innocently brought my Mother to Disneyland on the day commonly known as Bats Day. I thought she'd be horrified. Instead, she spent the day delightedly pointing out the different types of strange people. Statements abounded such as
A) Hey, look at that grandma goth!
B) Hey, look at that baby goth!
C) That dog collar looks uncomfortable!
D) Aren't they hot in all that black?
E) Why is that man wearing a top hat?
Fast forward two years. My mother has planned a birthday/Mother's Day trip entirely based on bringing my Dad to witness this Goth-topia for himself. They're from a small town. They're used to making their own fun. So off we went! And I filmed it.
Extra bonus:
My Dad's legendary WORST BRITISH ACCENT EVER makes several appearances! It's like Steve Irwin meets Monty Python meets a Dickensian chimney sweep. It's pretty ear-gougingly awful. Naturally I encouraged it.
I love me some period dramas, people. That's when my inner drama queen and my fashion whore get together and make sweet sweet lavish imagination babies. My recent fix has been Downton Abbey on PBS.
And because there's one more part of me that I would be happy to add to that baby's genetic makeup, it's that delightful British comedy I love so damn hard.
Hooray for Red Nose Day! Bringing you...
Uptown Downstairs Abbey!
I just imagine myself back in one of these little fashion and fainting couch ensembles and ignore the fact that, seriously, if I had lived in those times, I would be the poor bastard getting slapped in the face by the cook for not cleaning the fireplace right. It could be worse, though. Even the chambermaids are brilliant because the actresses are brilliant. And, hey, look at Kim Catrall, getting her period on!
Okay, that just sounded gross. Plus we all know she's about eighty, so that's scientifically impossible anyway.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go feed my imagination baby some Upstairs, Downstairs.
Money is trying to keep the black man down. I have proof:
THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN! Just ask the fine (fine = delusional and racist) ol' boys over at Dixienet! They took a few hours off from making those silly little ghost costumes to learn how to cobble together a website! Then they decided to make a little rubber stamp of a confederate flag and get all creative with their wrinkled twenty dollar bills. Before spending them on a carton of discount smokes. Because that's just good marketing.
I'm sure when they got done with their little craft project, stamping happily away on whatever change they had in their pockets--I bet doing the pennies was tricky!-- they all sat back, cracked open some beers, sighed happily, and pretended that little flag was fluttering proudly above the real White House. Then they went home to their double-wide trailers just in time to watch their favorite shows. Oops. Guess President Obama has a televised speech tonight. Sorry, buddies.
I take great delight in using this racist money to support the business of a nice Mexican man.
To recap: Meet Crazy Shower. It is made of bits of what I assume is PVC pipe and wood glue. It wants to bathe your nether regions, and it isn't ashamed to shout it loud and proud. In traffic.
I love Crazy Shower Car. Crazy Shower Car is the Sasquatch of North Hollywood. These frantic, traffic-dodging camera phone pictures are my version of the Patterson-Gimlin film. Minus the whole "actually a hoax with a gorilla costume" thing*.
Enough jibber-jabber. On to the Shower!
Shh. I'm sneaking up on it. I have to be cautious. I'm waiting for the time I pounce upon my elusive prey only to find Mr and Mrs Shower surrounded by all their belongings, having lost their home. Not because the Crazy Showers weren't selling, because that would be nuts. No, no, I'm referring to their compulsive need to re-wrap their truck with completely different advertisements every few months. Pimping their ride is what will bankrupt these crazy, showery dreamers, reducing them to a life spent sleeping in the back of their truck on a bed of bidet-parts and burlap sacks. Crying.
This season's theme seems to be Spanish. To lure in the bilingual clients. Yep, the problem with the last banner was too much English.
So remember, kids: Toilet paper leaves you dirty. If by "dirty" you mean "not having lukewarm toilet water blasted at your anus".
In related awesome cars I've seen today news, check out this awesome car what I saw today! If a giant had roller skates, this would be one of them! Hooray!
*Dear baby Zeus and Athena, let Crazy Shower Car have a fake gorilla next time.
It's no secret I'm pretty much your best friend. You can pretend it isn't true, but you're lying. I'm the Lila Fowler to your Jessica Wakefield. Or if I'm mad at you, Enid Rollins. And we both know that shirt is awful, and you should stop wearing it. What you possibly don't know is true is that my friends are even more awesome than I am. They do things like these things. THESE!
THOSE!
...right here would have been the end of this blog session, but I just have to add a moment of confusion as to what the hell is going on with the Youtube "suggestions" side-bar. You know the one that uses similiar keywords to list things you might be interested in? Based on shit you just looked at?
They suggested like five episodes or whatever of this.
In what universe is anything I typed in related to the fucking Rajneeshees?
They walked around looking a little like that singing cult from Rescue Rangers that baptized dancing mice with soda.
They also bought their dear leader something like 85 Rolls Royces, took over a town in Oregon, and tried to poison 750 locals. But the clothes! So sunny!
I look forward to my next Youtube search. Maybe I'll look up my favorite clips from The IT Crowd and my old friend the side-bar will offer me some information on vacations to Jonestown.
Unless you're that new (again?!) Dean Koontz book he cranked out in three days (again?!) all about yet another guy who is lovingly described as wearing a ballcap, tapered jeans, white sneakers and a windbreaker. And Windbreaker Man's got a dog. And Windbreaker Man and Golden Retriever are chasing/being chased by some guy/woman/baby with NO FACE. In that case, feel free to take a picture of the back of someone's head and paste it on a book jacket! Have fun, Deany-K!
In conclusion, learn the lesson that Bonnie Tyler tried to teach you years ago. Right about the time Windbreaker Man's outfit was anywhere near socially relevant. Plus, think about it; If you're hiding from No-Face, isn't the world's noisiest jacket the worst possible choice? Why not just hang windchimes from your ears and wave trashbags in the air while shouting your exact location? Good thing he's got that psychic dog that can fly or whatever is happening in this one. I don't remember.
So here you go, Dean. Any time you want to--OH HOLY ZEUS BALLS--
I have a confession. I am publicly proclaiming my love for a certain film about John Cusack outrunning the end of the world in everything from an RV to an airplane to a landlocked boat full of wolves in New York City. Actually, that one was actually Day After Tomorrow, but I digress...what is important here is the Roland Emmerich formula. The END OF THE WORLD is on it's way. Be it killer frost, killer aliens, or killer earthquakes/tornados/whatever the hell happens in 2012, there are always signs. Mankind is ignoring the omens popping up all around them. It's the job of a few eccentrics, generally played by actors who go crazy later in life, to point out what all the little problems are and help us connect the dots.
I think I might have take up the mantle of a Randy Quaid, if you will. Or a Woody Harrelson. I have to bring you the news that something is very very wrong..
STUPID FASHION IS HAPPENING!
You want to say to me "Oh, yeah, Snuggies." or "Oh, yeah, Booty Pop."
I need your help! If you don't I'm going to have to look at some of this crap in Rite Aid for years to come. Aren't Bump-Its and Snuggies stupid enough for you? The more "fashion" crap they sell, the less shelf-space there are for seasonal chocolate snacks I eat alone in my car!
You want proof of what's going on? Here. Here's your proof, PROFESSOR DORKFACE.
1. Pajama Jeans. You're not tricking anyone. We all know you're still too lazy to put on pants. You spent extra money online to buy pajamas that look like you have the amazing time management and muscular ability to pull on a pair of fucking jeans. I wonder what Cameltoe Camouflage Panel technology the second generation of these little nightmares will feature. Because you know deep in your terrified heart the first generation won't. Am I bashing the skinny jeans? The Jeggings, if you will? No. I am a Hipster, and I love them as I would love my ironically-named children if I had any.* Because pajamas and pants are different things. Wear pants all the time, and you're a never-nude. Wear pajamas all the time, and you're either a college freshman or someone featured on Cops or Hoarders.
"Hey, honey! I love this Snuggie you got me for Christmas, but I need something with a hoodie so I can go to the game with my bros! Oh, and put a zipper in it! We both know I'm not going to wear actually clothing under this, and I don't want to have to get totally naked in order to use the can. Put a side and butt zipper in. I don't want to accidentally use any butt muscles leaning in any particular direction either. Wait, honey! You accidentally handed me divorce papers instead of that Lazy thing I asked for! Where are you going?"
And now, I save for last the most creatively stupid thing I've ever seen that amused me, and then immediately pissed me right the fuck off. It's creative, but it's also a slap in the face to all women who have serious fears and experiences with the dangers and risk of attack. It belittles us with a chuckle and wink in the way only the Southern Baptists or Japanese can do.
Do I give her massive points for creativity? Yes. This would be the best damn Halloween Costume at any party. I'd enjoy watching it happen in a Bond film, as soon as they solve the problem of the feet peeking out from underneath the "vending machine."
You've heard of hiding in plain sight. Well, a fashion designer has come up with a more colourful way for worried women to blend into a busy street to elude a pursuer. We've had mini-skirts, skorts, pencils and midis. Now there's the vending machine skirt. It's definitely not the real thing, but Aya Tsukioka's skirt doubles as a disguise to make the wearer look like a Coca Cola machine.
Aya Tsukioka's skirt aims to make the wearer look like a Coca Cola vending machine... Ms Tsukioka, 29, unveiled her design in Tokyo by claiming she hopes it will help ease women's fear of crime. She lifted a flap on the skirt to expose a large sheet of cloth printed with the familiar bright red Coca Cola logo. By unfolding the sheet and stepping to the side of the street, she showed how a woman walking alone could hide behind it to outfox a potential attacker. Aya Tsukioka unveils her design in Tokyo. She hopes it will help ease women's fear of crime Her deluxe model even boasts four sides for a more complete cover. The experimental clothes designer has already sold 20 of the £400 hand-sewn vending machine skirts and it hoping to market the design worldwide. She says the idea was inspired by a trick used by Japanese ninja assassins, who cloaked themselves in black blankets so they couldn't be seen at night.
Again, all well and good and clever in theory. Until you start thinking about the plausibility of this actually working. I doubt anyone is stupid enough actually try this little trick while being pursued by a menacing rapist or mugger. I can't think of a villain stupid enough to fall for this one who didn't exist purely as a Hanna Barbera cartoon character. However, the point remains that marketing this as a safety device is akin to handing people designer fanny packs aboard an ocean liner and being told the bags "could be used" as flotation devices.
It seemed trivial but unintentional, until I reached this little dose of pure disturb:
While British women might prefer to take self-defence classes, Ms Tsukioka said: It is just easier for Japanese to hide.Making a scene would be too embarrassing. She admits that making the switch from skirt to vending machine might prove a little tricky "especially when your hands are shaking".
You're right, Ms Tsukioka. I'll be sure to let all the women who fended off their rapists, who screamed and fought so hard they saved their own lives know that they needn't have EMBARASSED THEMSELVES. If they stood in a corner hiding in a glorified sleeping bag and trembling, things would have been so much more comfortable for everyone.
Fuck this lady.
If you want some real information about the unique and traumatic history of violence and threats women face day after day, generation after generation, statistically undefended, unprotected, or held responsible, please read The Gift of Fear by Gavin De Becker. Then find this woman, make her put on this little security device, and elbow her directly in the Cokes. Now that's embarrassing.
All for now! I'm off to stand on a street corner with a sign and megaphone, shouting gibberish at random buildings.
Spent a week in Manhattan, which was...well, it was thrills on toast is what it was. We spent New Years in Times Square!
We also stayed in an apartment with less space than mine (albeit a far superior view) that cost more than I'll make in three lifetimes...and a fucking masterpiece in the lobby.
Oh, hey, look, it's a bunch of cool flowers sculpted onto a canvas! Pretty great. I'll ignore it for two days. Day three I'll get all up close and realize...
It's made of toys. The flowers are made of colored plastic toys and disposable items. There's an Alien. There's a McNugget. LOOK. AT. THEM.
I'm in love with it. I want to pry something off and keep it as a souvenir. I want to make my own that will look like a Happy Meal traffic jam with fatalities. I love Tom Deininger a lot.Look at more of his cool shit. You owe it to yourself.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy three pounds of glue sticks.
I live in Hollywood. I act. I love all things Jane Austen. I live in the most beautiful and profound gutter in the world. It teaches me things about myself every day.
And I am mistaken for or compared to Winona Ryder at least once a week. I am not. I am the Unwinona.
