I can't tell you about the new job, because that's not appropriate and I might get fired. I can't tell you about life stuff, in case you steal my identity. 


This is an lolcats perfect storm.

Consider The Ice Skating Bear

If you find yourself in the vicinity of an angry Russian bear who is being forced to ice-skate, be aware that he may not be in the best of moods. Proceed with caution. If you find yourself on the ice with a bear who has ice skates strapped to his feet and is being prodded to perform for the amusement of an assembled throng, we cannot advise you strongly enough to get off the ice.

1978

I can't remember who took the photo, but I remember the backyard and my favorite plaid shirt, and I recall thinking my Dorothy Hammill haircut made me look like a mushroom. I enjoyed the way my bell bottoms made a swoosh swoosh noise at my ankles when I walked.

Behind me, about to get nailed by my bony elbow, was Martha. She had cleverly matched, you will note, her shoes to her belt. She was my best friend for two glorious middle school years, and then I moved all the way to Boston. After a couple of years of letter writing and a few visits, we lost touch, forever. Only not, because more than twenty years after I moved away, I moved back to California. And guess who is one of my best friends again? Although she's still that short.

I was 5'7" at this point, I think, and still growing. I was fairly certain I was about to be discovered by some famous director to sing and dance my way into the movies. To prepare, Martha and I practiced a sad little mime routine, and I also worked on some scarf juggling and clever patter, which may have included one or more puns. I blame The Gong Show. 

Just saving the children . . .

Oh, Judge Keith Bardwell. People just don't get you.

 


Is there any way we can convince Halle Berry, Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter, Greg Louganis, Dwayne The Rock Johnson, Keanu Reeves, Meg Tilly, Maya Rudolph, Nina Cherry and Nancy Kwan to show up to use his bathroom? Actually, Rosario Dawson could just go kick his ass.

For a list of the many, many people whose multiracial existence upsets the judge, click here.  

What fresh hell is this?

Je ne sais quoi, Etsy.

Marketing soap specifically to the buyer who admits he has a small, dirty penis, is truly a niche angle.

Words to trail behind

I stumbled across a great site, Letters of Note. To wit:

"Getting hideously drunk at a dinner party and embarrassing yourself is certainly nothing new. As far back as the 9th Century, the beautifully named 'Dunhuang Bureau of Etiquette' insisted that local officials use the following letter template (dated 856) when sending apologies to offended dinner hosts. The guilty party would copy the template text, enter the dinner host's name, sign the letter and then deliver with head bowed."

Check out this form letter  --

And then for more deliciousness, Hunter S. goes off on a producer:

"We are not even spinning our wheels aggresivly. It's like the whole Project got turned over to Zombies who live in cardboard boxes under the Hollywood Freeway."

I miss letter writing, but even if I send them, no one sends them back. I do have some packets of letters from lifetimes ago -- old boyfriends, dead boyfriends (well, one), best friends who are friends no longer -- saved in a crumbling box in the closet. I don't even understand most of the references in them any longer, about this or that weekend or the in-jokes, because it's been a long, long time since I was twenty, and I have sadly forgotten most of Blue Oyster Cult's oevre. And printing out a particularly witty email and folding the paper into thirds and tucking it away in one's Sprint guidebook has not quite the same emotional response.

How To Kill A Man - the blog where I contribute to the world's knowledge base

Part two, for those of you still with a dead body on your hands, is here.

words fail

So, Now You Have A Body On Your Hands . . .

Please don't actually kill anyone.

But are they low carb?

Selling crotch mints by implying they help swarthy foreign men get past the fact that your lady parts have bad breath?

Marketing fail.

Ah. No. Just - no.

I really dig Etsy. I had a ring made, and I have purchased art prints and Valentine's Day cards and oh, my, lots of things, but never have I seen any of the faaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous items listed.

Some are NSFW, but all rock my world: Regretsy

It's time to tell you something

I have a thing for Shatner. I really, really do.

Objectum-sexuals, platonically speaking

"Objectum sexuality or Objektsexualität in German, is a pronounced sexual and/or emotional desire towards particular inanimate objects."

I get a clear sense of the gender of many inanimate objects. The toaster is male, the teaspoons are boys, the coffee pot is matronly. It's always been this way in my head, and I assume it's just a weirdo form of synesthesia. But not all inanimate objects are clearly gendered (I think my laptop is a neutered male but I could be wrong, and where would I look to check?). Like other forms of synesthesia, I know they are not really gendered, like I know the number 7 isn't really the number equivalent of The Muppet's Sam the Eagle, nor is the number 3 shy, nor are the letters M, N and P standoffish, but there is a thin thread linking one object of concept with attributes in the far back of my mind.

I assume this odd cross-referencing of things and moods and people and colors are all why I am a writer. Most words are like holograms to me - they contain with them whole stories, but in a way I understand is an internal language of only mine own that is fanciful and mostly ignored.

I also use several different coffee mugs, and feel guilty if I ignore one for too long, because I am low-grade nagged with guilt that I may have hurt its feelings. Some mugs, however, I cannot be bothered to use, because the shiny blue one is a show-offy asshole and he knows it. It may not be true in any way I can prove, but I feel it all the same.

You?

Feed them, but not cake

Hungry?