Before Lost's two-hour season finale tonight, I want to touch on a few theories so that if by any slim chance they do come true, I can rub it in your face with a "Bam! I told you so! Ha! Who's the man?!?!?"
Those who like their Lost unspoiled, might want to look away.
1. John Locke is Jacob. In past episodes, Jacob has "appeared" to us as Christian Shepard (who's dead corpse landed on the island after the crash), possibly Ben's daughter Alex (died on the island), and now as John Locke (who's dead corpse landed on the island after the crash).
2. The Island is Killing Off It's Children. Remember how children could not be born on the island? To date, we have seen 6 exceptions. Ethan, Daniel, Charlotte, Myles, Alex, and Aaron. Of the 6, 4 are dead and Aaron is off the island (per Claire's from-beyond-the-grave request). Does this mean that Myles is the doomed season 5 casualty in tonight's finale? I hope not.
3. Desmond is the Constant, Not the Variable. Remember Daniel's cryptic message to Desmond about being his "constant?" Season five has focused on variables, will Desmond surprise the island's residents as some sort of time-space-continuum constant that will move the island and it's inhabitants back into present time?
I visit icanhascheezeburger.com nearly everyday, so I can't quite figure out how I missed the tab marked "Fail Blog" right above my daily dose of lolcats.
Anyhow, Fail Blog is the ultimate AYBABTU archive.
Last week I saw a poor little old lady drive out of a parking lot, forgetting her purse on the top of her car. As her handbag dumped onto the roadway, her hard candy, kleenex, and saltine crackers from Coco's flew across the street like a swarm of senior citizen locusts causing a minor traffic melee. As she (slowly) sped off into the horizon, I busted a u-turn and risked life and limb to run across the street and retrieve her 1980's Liz Claiborne knock-off.
While I was tempted to pocket the $12 and junior mints, I looked at her sweet decrepit picture on the ID and her chicken scratch signature, and felt a genuine pang of heartache for the old gal who would inevitably get home without even realizing what happened and have to spend the afternoon calling her grandchildren for rides to the DMV to get a new license.
So the good samaritan in me drove all the way to Kearny Mesa to drop the handbag in the mailbox and hope I'd earn some extra special karma points.
And I did!
Just today, I found news of this. The karma gods have rewarded me with Throwback Pepsi made with.....wait for it......real cane sugar!!!!
If it is as nearly as good as it's MexiCoke cousin, I fully intended to stockpile for the coming apocalypse.
Somewhere between cardiac arrest and fits of laughter, I seriously debated throwing a half-eaten burrito at the television screen every time dumb Kate opened her mouth.
While hatchets were buried between Miles and his poppa, and Sawyer and Juliet made a run for the "real world"....Kate stumbled across the screen in her usual moronic wide-eyed trance, hoping that her pouty lips and rock-hard guns would draw attention away from the fact that nearly everything she touches on the show turns into a steaming pile of s**t.
Anyhow, Kate Hate aside, last night's episode continued to answer questions that have plagued Lost followers for years. Remember Richard (aka eyeliner guy) way back in Season Two asking John Locke to identify a familiar objects from a line-up of crap? (It was the compass!) Why the hell did he do that? Well....now we know! And for those with only the energy to follow the series on television, geeks across the globe are leaking information that I will now pass on to those who actually have a life......
The numbers have finally been explained (no, you didn't accidentally blink and miss it) by co-creator Damon Lindelof after online gamers spilled the beans before they had a chance to air.
According to Lindelof, the Dharma Initiative hired a mathematician to figure out the likelihood of a Cuban missile crisis and blah blah blah blah blah blah...
I don't think his explanation really solves the mystery of those particular numbers or why they seem to have such an impact on Hurley, but I find that the home television viewers are at a real disadvantage if we aren't trolling forums daily to catch the truly relevant leaks....like the origins of what the hell Dharma was doing on the island in the first place. (Changing the variables! People are the variables! Ohh Lost...how I love thee)
Sunday was the silver lining that kept me going back to Coachella all weekend. A few years ago I saw a Cure cover band at The Casbah, and I was so excited you would have thought I was several feet away from Mr. Smeared Lipstick himself, Robert Smith. So when I found out that The Cure was playing Coachella 09, I knew exactly where I would be Sunday April 19th at 9:25...come rain, shine, traffic, Paul McCartney, or naked wizards!
But before I could sing every word to "Love Song" and squeal like a little girl at the first few chords of "Lullaby," I hit the Indio Polo Field early to catch the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and my idol Karen O on the mic.
I've yet to wax poetic on this blog about the YYY's brilliant new album "Its Blitz", but the synth-heavy tracks laden with O's golden vocals have converted even the stodgiest of critics... my dad! After a recent drop-off at the airport, my father stole my new YYYs album straight from my car stereo and didn't reveal his thievery for a good two weeks or so. My father, who is not one for words, only asked me one question when I returned home from Coachella, and it was "How were the Yeah Yeah Yeahs?"
Sadly dad, enh, they were ok.
With such a brilliant new album on the shelves I was disappointed to see them pull mostly from their old catalogue. Fan favs like "Gold Lion" and "Maps" (again I successfully called the encore), were cool to hear live but the highlight for me was the infectious foot-tapping "Zero" and the dance-beat heavy "Heads Will Roll." On their softer side, Miss O bared her soul on "Runaway" (featured on Gossip Girl this week!) and neglected to play what I think is the standout ballad on the disc, "Hysteric." They also opened with yawner "Skeletons" which happily appeased the granolas who had stuck around after the Peter, Bjorn and John set.
While not her standout performance, I post this "Maps" clip as a public-service-announcement to all who attempt it's recreation on Rock Band - Just Say No!
After a mediocre performance, I was thrilled to meet up with Mr. and Mrs. Bad Donkey who promptly snuck us in to the VIP tent, old school style with the classic "wristband switch" maneuver.
Aside from the shorter porta-potty lines, the gourmet cupcakes, and the hard liquor, VIP was......well.....whatever. It was really nothing special, but now of course since I have been in there once, I won't be able to go again next year with out securing a prime position among the "important people" again.
The "VIP" Area
As we waited for The Cure to take the stage, My Bloody Valentine was revving up for their set. I've listened to some of MBV's critically-acclaimed "Loveless" and I had heard that they were known for "melting the ears off the audience" so I was somewhat prepared for their performance. What I did not prepare for was a shrieking, distortion filled 15 minute solo (tangent?) comprised of minuscule chord changes, no vocals, and a pure wall of sound which seemed to go on for an eternity. After the set had ended, my ears were ringing so badly I feared I would never be able to hear Mr. Smith coo and moan on "The Caterpillar." Later, after my ears stopped bleeding, I noticed that Coachella had purposely left the nearby Outdoor Theatre empty during their performance.
That should have been a sign.
Not only did MBV cause permanent auditory damage, they also seemed to run well past their end time and delayed The Cure's stage set-up. As an hour passed, I glanced longingly across the grass from our perch in the VIP at the Outdoor Theatre where Public Enemy was going off. If I listened just closely enough, I could make out "Rebel Without a Pause" and for a moment debated leaving the comfort of the upper crust for the swarthy, sweat soaked, mosh pit pumping their fists in true 1990's rebellion fashion.
But I was there for Mr. Smith and crew, so I waited patiently in the VIP till the first verse of "Underneath the Stars" rang out across the field.
Now here's (sadly) what happened - The VIP was filled with so many wannabe douchebags that about an hour into The Cure I was sneezing, coughing, and having a serious allergy attack from the nasty cigarette smoke. Every one of those straw fedora, Rock-and-Republic jeans, vintage T-shirt wearing hipsters had a cigarette steadily dangling from their lips or fingers. I tried desperately to hang on, but before The Cure could even launch their first encore, I was ill and just wanted to go home. I had yet to hear any of my true favorites (Fire in Cairo, Jumping Someone Else's Train, Close to Me, A Forest, Hot Hot Hot), but I just couldn't hang......
So we left.
Later, I found out that The Cure not only gave the audience the gift of THREE encore sets, they also played 40 minutes past the curfew and literally had the plugged pulled on them at the end of "Jumping Someone Else's Train." The third and final encore just happened to contain 3 of my half dozen favorite Cure songs.
Don't adjust your sound! The audio on this clip is so low because Coachella technicians had actually turned off their main stage amps and screens for this third encore. In true "F**k the Man" style, Smith continues to play as the audience provides the vocals.
Brilliant.
As I exited Coachella for the last and final time, I was almost teary-eyed as I passed the dozens of E-rolling-light-stick-swirling ravers setting it off in The Dome.
So there it is.....Coachella 2009. It won't be back till 2010, so enjoy this picture parade till then. Next year, come find me in the Sahara tent. I'll be the girl in the front row throwing her panties at Aaron Behrens.
Tuyen, OGBFF, and Maggie strike a pose.
I would like to tell you who the tops and bottoms are in this picture, but it got confusing as the night progressed.
Neno and Kirsten, shortly before he passed out from "exhaustion".
OGBFF shows April how it's done on the West Side. WeHo loves the shocker!
PBD was the consummate host. Cleaning, recycling, cooking..... he's getting the invite back next year!
Just surf on over to FMyLife and bask in the evil goodness of enjoying the misery of others.
Sure I just sent out an e-mail to 25 potential employees with a personal e-mail accidentally attached.... but at least I didn't find out my parent's have been celebrating my wrong birthday for the last 16 years.
Someone's life has gotta be worse than yours, so vent about it or get a good laugh at FMyLife today! The sex ones are particularly hilarious.....
While us Yanks have been busy circulated dumb videos of a walrus playing a saxophone and lolcats, our more sophisticated European counterparts have been RickRollin all over the place....
As most people who frequent online forums and message boards know, the golden rule is to never ever click on a posted link unless you are 100% sure that the user who posted it can be trusted. I myself continually fall into this trap out of pure curiosity. It is so frequent in the online community, it has even acquired it's own term, known as a "meme" - This bad habit has led me to the likes of tubgirl, lemon party, one guy one cup, and something to do with women and fish that I never want to speak of again.
I was the victim of another p0wnage when I recently clicked a link and was brought to this:
Yes folks, that's 80's wunderkind Rick Astley singing "Never Gonna Give You Up." And I was officially Rick Roll'D!
But not merely just an internet phenomenon, RickRolling spread like wildfire across the internet and pop culture well through 2008 and the horse was finally beaten to death when it received it's very own Wiki page and made an appearance on the MTV EMA's (the Euro equivalent to our own Video Music Awards). Rick Astley himself even made a live RickRoll appearance at Macy's 2008 Thanksgiving Day parade.
It's newest incarnation has become a bit of a battle cry, much like the metal played at screeching decibels in Guantanamo Bay, protesters are now using "Never Gonna Give You Up" at political and social rallies across the globe. Scientoligists were pummeled with the ditty by a Project Chanology protest in February 2008, and even a group of hard core neo-Nazis got their own Rick Rolling.
And why am I telling you all this?
Because I care. No one deserves to click a link expecting hot sweaty pr0n....only to be subjected to bad 80's dancing by someone who was hit with the ugly stick!
So after my last Coachella post, I was over the whole weekend all together. But since Dancer and NHF reminded me of my promise to blog about it, I've caved to 50% of my readership and will do a super-condensed Saturday Coachella blog in 5 paragraphs or less. (This doesn't count as one!)
After the excruciatingly tedious Friday evening at Coachella, I was less than thrilled to be returning Saturday and delayed it just about as long as possible. Although I really wanted to see Theivery Corporation and TV on the Radio, I lounged by our serene pool and tried to get "too drunk" to go by playing drinking games with a somewhat fuzzy set of rules. My plan was quickly usurped when Stef and Jon arrived ready to hit the road and catch The Killers 10:25 pm set time. We left a good two hours early to get there this time, but luckily we rolled right up into the parking lot and found an even shorter path to the main gate getting us there well-ahead of schedule (F**K Paul McCartney). This was actually a pleasant experience because it allowed us time to hit up the beer garden (overrated!) and check out some of the trippy Coachella art installations targeted primarily for fans of the Grateful Dead and 4:20.
This robotic arm was situated close to the main stage and called the "Hand of Man". I have no idea what it actually does, and honestly can;t even recall seeing it. It was right near the porta-pottys, so my attention may have been diverted as I gagged from the repugnant smell of 180,000 hipsters dropping a deuce.
The "Do Lab" was part DJ dance room and part hippie hide out. The contact high was overwhelming.
In the background you can see the "Bamboo Starscraper" and if you look just closely enough you might catch PBD resting outside of the "China Hut".... or what normal non-culturally insensitive people might call the "La Familia Divina-Shrine: a holy relic of beauties and beyond, dedicated to self expression".
My personal favorite, the "Quad Cubatron" made it's third Coachella appearance this year primarily to captivate the chemically enhanced audience and ensnare them in 40 cubic feet of color changing LED lights.
After our trippy Willy Wonka-like excursion around the grounds, we settled in to catch the beginning of The Killers as they opened with new album hit "Human" (not one of my faves), and old classic "Somebody Told Me." Just as Brandon Flowers was getting all Brandon Flowers on us, I was un-apologetically dragged to watch Mastodon close out the day in the Mohave tent. I carefully surveyed the area for an escape route should the crowd spontaneously start a mosh pit, and was pleasantly surprised when the fans maintained their composure through the entire performance of their newest album "Crack the Skye." Fortunately for me, their new disc was the only material I was familiar with so I welcomed their diligent re-hashing of the album from track one to track seven. More importantly, by playing the album in order, I knew exactly when the whole thing would be over! It's like looking at a calender and counting the days till Christmas.
As you watch this video, remember that this song is about a paraplegic who can travel out of his body and is sucked into a wormhole where ghosts send him to Tsarist Russia, putting his soul inside Rasputin's body. Seriously.
For all my bitching and moaning, the boys from Mastodon were actually quite entertaining and even their indulgent 10 minute and 54 second "The Czar: I. Ursurper II. Escape III. Martyr IV. Spiral" (yes, that is actually the name of the song) was enjoyable to hear played live with all it's progressive tempo and key changes.
As we left Mastodon to meet Stef and Jon, I successfully called The Killers last encore ("When You Were Young") which we caught on our way out the door. Traffic was a breeze and thanks to the miracle of the iPhone, we were able to "pin" the exact location of our car and find it in mere minutes, as opposed to the hours long hide-and-seek we played Friday night.
Brandon Flowers loves Brandon Flowers
So there is Coachella Saturday in a nutshell. Now that I've made it this far, I suppose a Sunday blog is in order, if not only to appease one half of my readership, but also warn any innocent bystanders that may accidentally stumble into a My Bloody Valentine concert without earplugs.
By now you may have heard of lawyer Madlyn Primoff who is facing a criminal charge of child endangerment for forcing her two bickering daughters out of the car and leaving them on the roadside. While headlines jest "Mother Chucker", I am fully entrenched in Team Primoff since the poor worn-out woman only did what 99.9% of us other mothers have threatened to do a million times over. Not only were her kids ages 10 and 12 (I've seen far younger children wandering the streets alone), she also circled the block once and came back to retrieve the squabbling siblings only to find that they had disappeared - no thanks to a nosy busybody who bought them ice cream and offered the younger sis a ride in his "van".
After school yesterday I brought up the subject to both my kids (we enjoy lively debates, don't get me started on the Miss America pageant debacle) and asked them how they would of felt if I had ever done that to them. Miss J sternly replied, "You did! Remember when you took us to school on Saturday?!?" I immediately tried to access my now-fleeting memory and couldn't come up with any likely scenario where I would have left my kids at an empty school alone. Was I confused? Did I think it was Friday? Was I hopped up on lattes and Ativan? "What?? I never did that! You're crazy." I replied. My son jumped up from the backseat and cried, "Yes you did! I remember. I was so scared I hid in a bush!" At this point I knew they had to be teasing me because my son has had several "bush" incidents all recalled with slight revisionist history and a bit of drama. "No, really, you did mom. You left us there and came back a few minutes later. " Miss J declared.
Suddenly, it hit me...I did! I did leave them there! Miss J and I were having one of our usual jovial disputes when I told them that I would leave them at school on a Saturday if they didn't shape up. Miss J laughed and mocked me "No you wouldn't!" (something I find akin to the double dog dare), so I drove right up to their school and made them get out. Teenage Miss J leaped right out with a sassy hair flip (still trying to test my will), but my son sorta blinked at me in wide-eyed confusion as he slowly crawled out of the vehicle.
I circled around the block once, and came right back to see them still standing in the same spot. While I giggled and declared "You just don't know who you're messing with!" Miss J sulked back into her seat in defeat while my son sat quietly in the back.
These are the trivial moments in a parent's life that go in one ear and right out the other side, never even taking a moment to rest in our memory, yet the children hang on to them for nearly a lifetime. I can still remember the first time my grandfather spanked me (and showed up with a shiny new guilt present the next day) and the time I went to Burger King with my father and we accidentally left my newborn baby brother in the car (I can still see his beet-red face streaming with tears). Why do these random memories stay with us for so long and why did they make such an impact?
So yes, I am still on Team Primoff - knowing what potentially life long emotional damage she may have caused - precisely because I understand that no matter how hard you try, how many books you read, how many seminars you attend, or how many days you volunteer for the PTA, your children are still going to have volumes of memories of some the most inconsequential moments that you just can't control. We have absolutely no way to understand why they can't remember that time you chaperoned their entire Kindergarten class at Sea World, but still cling to the memory of the one time you fed them cereal for dinner out of exhaustion. There is no magic formula for being a parent (I've seen children bloom from the most damaged homes, and others falter after a "perfect" upbringing) so all you can do is tuck them in at the end of the day with a kiss, a hug, and hope that you haven't scarred them for life.
Imagine my surprise walking into the office this morning and finding a brand spankin' new copy of Flight of the Conchords: Season One sitting on my desk.
Whoever left it must be a man of distinguished taste, culture, and generosity. Or he just knows how much I love to see a shirtless hairy Jermaine sing "It's Business Time". Either way.....thanks mystery man!
About a month or so ago I realized that a steady diet of cheese, red wine, and Cadbury mini-eggs was not exactly the best diet for a metabolically-challenged woman, so like the dozens of OC Housewives before me, I hired a personal trainer to whip my middle-aged a** into shape.
For a good 4 weeks, I sweated, I groaned, I cried, I complained, and I survived on little more than Kombucha, jicama, and protein bars to get me through the grueling thrice weekly work-out sessions. Unlike my previously estrogen deficient trainers, my new no-nonsense drill instructor refused to let me whine my way out of pull-ups or mysteriously "pull a muscle" before dead lifts. She took pride when I vomited after our first session, and declared it a success.
So now that our 4-week training regimen is over, I've quickly slipped back into my calorically heavy boozy ways and topped it all off with a good dose of grease, fat, lard, and cheesy goodness.
Down the street from my work is an Albertos. Well, it used to be an Albertos. Way back in the early 90's, Albertos was the spot to hang out after Friday night football games and the parking lot was packed with GHS Foothillers even though we were technically in rival Helix Country. As the years went by, Albertos changed to Alibertos, then some other variation on "bertos", but the food remained the same standard greasy red-and-yellow taco shop fare. A few years ago, new ownership renamed it "Beunos Dias" and late night drive-throughs were affectionately called "Good Morning Burrito" time. (No pico April!)
Today, my co-worker started gushing about the taco shop's latest incarnation as "Sun City Tacos" and that the new ownership had really cleaned up the joint and that the food was far less greasy than usual. I figured that it was Friday so I owed myself a treat (as if any excuse was necessary) and I quickly ordered up a carne asada taco and three potato tacos.
Had someone from work tried to interrupt my orgasmic moment with those tacos I probably would have cut them.
For the love of god....why have I not tried a potato taco before now?? It was like stuffing my favorite food with my other favorite food (props to Homer Simpson). The potato taco is little more than a beef taco, but replace the meat with perfectly seasoned mashed potatoes and slather it in sour cream and cheese. It was akin to that miraculous moment where I stuffed a cheeseburger full of french fries and a layered it with a Jack in the Box mystery meat taco.
Yes. It's true.
I'm telling you this without a hint of shame because I'm just not one of those girls who gets grilled salmon with a salad on the side. I like to eat, and every once in awhile...I lose my s**t.
Like today. I ate every one of those three greasy starch filled tacos, then proceeded to devour the tender spicy carne asada as if I was a crack whore blowing a John for my next hit. It was that good.
So while my trainer will be very disappointed in my regression back to the frat boy diet, at least I have cut back on the Jager shots and sake bombs.
After weeks of planning, my 4-day concert weekend at Coachella finally arrived and was off to the perfect start from the moment we stepped through the doors of the ridculously plush rental home in Rancho Mirage.
The lake (and it's annoying water fowl) provided a perfect backdrop to the salt water pool, jacuzzi and fire pit.
We arrived to a fully stocked bar, clearly indicating that the owners are either naive, or have never dealt with drinkers on the level of our group.
Wanting nothing more than to throw on my bikini and spend the rest of the afternoon drinking and lounging - the two things I do best - I reminded myself that I had come to the middle of nowhere for a reason, and that was to catch one of my all time favorites The Cure on Sunday and check out the plethora of ingenues that were inching their way up my radar since the announced line-up. In particular, mash-up DJs N.A.S.A (who I swooned over here) and Austin boy band Ghostland Observatory, described as a mixture of early-Prince, and Daft Punk with just a dash of the Spice Girls.
As I left the comfort of our desert abode, we gave ourselves a good hour or two to catch N.A.S.A on the Mohave stage at 7:15. Alas, this was not meant to be and what should have been the perfect start to the perfect weekend soon became what I now call "F**K PAUL McCARTNEY FRIDAY".
Obviously, Coachella event planners could take lessons from a more-efficiently organized operation in San Diego, California that effectively gets in and out over 160,000 people and their cars each year (not that I would know anything about that sort of thing). As we waited in traffic for a good hour or so, my watch was ticking down slowly to the N.A.S.A. set time and I was getting antsy. Soon the clock inched past 7:30 pm and the parking lot was nowhere in site. Trapped in a never ending line of hippy-packed VWs and Escalades (the aging Paul McCartney fans), I received the following text from April who had already parked and entered the grounds hours ago.
"I hate to tell you but N.A.S.A. is going off!!"
Aw thanks April. I feel soo much better now.
Post show, April shared this picture with me of her exact spot in the Mohave tent. I almost decked her.
*Warning* This video best viewed under the influence of shrooms, moonshie, E, or heat exhaustion.
The possibility of catching N.A.S.A was quickly fading, and the hope of a live Kanye West appearance on their track "Gifted" was about as plausible as the Michael Jackson/Sir Paul reunion rumor, so I turned my attention to Ghostland Observatory at 7:50 in the Sahara Tent. There was NO WAY I was going to miss that one!
Another hour later, there we still sat. As scalpers swarmed the cars around us, I was half tempted to ditch my ticket to the highest bidder and just call the whole night off. Thankfully, some "Xanax" was produced, saving me from an inevitable diva melt-down in the middle of nowhere.
What seemed like hours later we were parked and making the 100 yard dash to the entrance. My cell phone clock was ticking dangerously close to 8:20, but I figured I could still catch the last of Ghostland before heading to Silversun Pickups. Yeah, maybe if the f**cking entrance wasn't 15 miles away and lined in mud and hipsters! As we tore through the last of the dirt pathway rushing frantically to the main entrance, I could have swore I heard Ghostland's bassline on their epic show-closer "Midnight Voyage."
By the time we hit the Sahara, the self-described "like a robot making love to a tree" Ghostland was blazing through their last single as the sweat-stained crowd bobbed their heads furiously to the frenetic techno beats. The laser light show was in full trippy effect, and those enjoying herbal enhancements stood completely melted into the ground mesmerized by the display. A youtube commenter said it best, declaring "I was forcefully raped by the lightshow."
Following the trip down the light fantastic, Silversun Pickups were merely a downer as lead singer Brian Aubert croaked his way through a poor Billy Corrigan impression, leaving only a handful of fans after they shot their load early on "Lazy Eye." Nearly half the frats in attendance spilled out of the crowd once their most recognized anthem had ended.
Silversun Pickups scored some points with their new single "Panic Switch", but Aubert's waif-ish chops quickly faded and returned them to the one-hit wonder status of which I initially relegated them.
Completely over the whole Coachella experience, I vowed that I would not return on Saturday and gave Paul McCartney the finger as I left the grounds fuming.
Fortunately...many drinks and many good times Friday night softened my constitution. I would give details, but what happens in Palm Springs stays in Palm Springs. Even for bottoms.
I gave up drinking non-diet soda almost a decade ago, and just this year completely ditched the splenda loaded Coke Zero in favor of it's flavorless bastard step-cousin....water. On a recent hungover Sunday morning, nothing sounded better than an ice cold full sugar Coca-Cola, and I'm here to tell ya, Damn! that hit the spot!
Wondering why I ever gave it up in the first place led me to fantasize about the lazy days of my youth, drinking "Mexicola". For those of you who didn't grow up 20 minutes from the Tijuana border, back in the late 80's and early 90's it wasn't uncommon for wayward youths to hop the East County orange line trolley with a couple of friends and head on down to Mexico for a day of drinking and fun. Besides the requisite tacky silver jewelry and fireworks, I almost never came back across the border without my 2 liter bottles of Coca-Cola. While blissfully unaware in my youth, I later learned that the "magic" Mexicola I soo craved tasted especially sweet because it was made with pure sugar cane sweeteners and not that crappy high-fructose corn syrup we are force fed here almost from the time of birth.
When I traveled even deeper South, playing along the playas of Cozumel, the Mexicola there was served in the classic hourglass bottles and tasted even sweeter than I had remembered from my TJ days. On the way home, I loaded my suitcase with nearly a dozen cans of Mexicola, shifting me perilously close to the dreaded airline overweight surcharge. Five years later I still have ONE can left of that sweet sticky cola gold, and I fantasize about the day when the TJ border will once again be safe enough to cross and get my coke. um, Coke.
However, it has come to my attention that fulfilling this dream may only be a short drive away to my local Jewish grocery, avoiding any unintentional mishaps with the Border Patrol or Arrellano Felix Cartel. Apparently, Coca-Cola produces a seasonal Passover Coke that is made with real... pure... praise Jehovah..... sugar!!!!
To snatch up the Kosher Coke! Just look for the one with the yellow cap!
A quick online search has led me to Aaron's Kosher Deli in Clairemont where I plan to purchase a case or two of the kosher liquid crack. And while I don't know my gefilte fish from my hamantashan, I can only hope that the kind and gentile Jewish people will generously share their sugar-laden soda with one of God's non-chosen people. Or at least for the right price.....
I refuse to say the "R" word. You heard me. I absolutely will not allow myself to repeat the catch phrase of 2009, as I fully believe it's only purpose is to whip us all into a frenzy of fear of financial apocalypse.....much ado about nothing if you will. In fact, I will tempt fate and say that the "R" word has barely made any effect at all to my day-to-day operations, and I only toss that loathsome word around at the appropriate social intervals when friends are required to bond over stories of lost jobs, lost 401ks, and foreclosures.
So as I sit here and knock on wood, I will say that in the grips of impending financial doom I did something today that I never ever thought I would do.
I used a coupon.
Not just one coupon bitches..... I double couponed that mother f**ker!
You see, in the past I have had a weakness for overpriced bottled water. I know it's the total cliche, but I like my Evian. I swear, no matter how many cups of grimy tap or plastic tasting Dasani water you put in front of me, I will always, always, be able to identify Evian right out of the gate. Previously, I could catch a 6 pack on sale for $6 at Vons every now and then. At a dollar a bottle, I would stock up with 5 or 6 cases. No harm, no foul.
Pretentious Alert!
Then the damn "R" word showed up and ruined everything. Slowly over the last few months, Evian prices have climbed (and peaked!) at an alarming $9.99 per six pack. At my local CVS, I scoffed at the nearly $11 price tag!
So I challenged my dignity (and taste buds) to find a more economical alternative, and after extensive sampling I've decided to invest in a Brita water filter and ditch the bottles all together. I felt so green.....so granola. Cost efficient and eco-conscious, this surely secures my picture on the Whole Foods wall of fame, right?
Anyway, I found an online coupon for $5 off, then added it to an existing CVS coupon of $5 of any $25 purchase. That's $10 off baby! Boo-Yah!
The joy of my minuscule victory has carried well into this evening and makes that damn flat tasting Brita water all the more sweet.
I will not, however, give up my $4 bottles of Kombucha under any circumstances.
As seen on Gossip Girl!
I'm absolutely sure that's what Patrick Henry was talking about when he said "give me my indulgent overpriced raw probiotic cancer-curing tea, or give me death!"
At one time or another we've all participated in the debate "Where is my hover car?" aka "Where are all the cool gadgets and gizmos promised to us in early sci-fi movies, but have yet to be delivered?"
I'd like to throw one more into the ring.
Waaaay back in 2006, LG gave alcoholics and frat boys around the world a get out of jail free card with their new part cell phone/part breathalyzer the LP4100. Supposedly over 200,000 units were sold in it's initial production run, but I have yet to see one stateside.
Now that g-mail has mail goggles to prevent the undignified drunken e-mail, it seems that cell phone companies need to catch up with the times and deliver an alternative to late night booty calls and drunk texting your ex.
Can you imagine all the embarrassment that could be avoided?
After a late night of drinking, blow into your phone and BAM! you pass the .08 limit and all numbers of past relationships, ex-lovers, one night stands, and emotionally unavailable boyfriends suddenly lock up like an iron-clad prenup. It's the technical equivalent of a chastity belt and AA sponsor. For those extra-special ex-guys who you can't seem to delete from your contacts, the phone should have an adjustable alcohol limit that can be modified to lock up at .01 and below. You girls know what I'm talking about....
Kim perfects the art of the nonchalant drunken text.
And finally, if they were really really smart, the phone would have an optional feature to immediately power down and self-destruct at the occurrence of certain words and/or phrases in text messages once you pass the legal limit.
May I suggest:
Anal, Swallow, Relationship, Married, Rim Job, Quickie, Sweetie, Issues, Baby, Love, Commitment, Pregnant, Dirty Sanchez, and the dreaded "We need to talk"
So get back in the tech lab LG and deliver me my Breathalone! Until then, I'll keep hoping for the car that folds up into a briefcase and the oven that pops out whole meals with a single push of a button.
Here's a hint fellas, if her phone is UPSIDE DOWN while you're giving her you number, she's probably just not that into you.
A few years ago I found a funny post about unfortunate URL names.
A website for computer programmers to exchange knowledge and advice, "Experts Exchange", could be found at www.expertsexchange.com. And if gender reassignment didn't work out for you, how about finding a therapist at www.therapistfinder.com? Or maybe you just need a nice relaxing vacation in Lake Tahoe? Book your rooms now at www.gotahoe.com!
I have to admit I had my own domain name brain malfunction this morning when I saw an ad banner flash across the screen exclaiming "Hundreds of singles online now! We delete members unfit to date! Meet your mate at plentyoffish.com!"
Plenty offish? Plenty offish? What the heck did that mean? I honestly couldn't figure it out. To me it sounded like a dating website for procuring offish men and women. You know the type - cool, smug, dripping with sarcasm - an offish women will stare you down with her icy eyes and deliver a backhanded compliment with a wry smile, but was there really such a large demand for these personality types that they created an entire website devoted to it? Or were they on to something that I had missed? Maybe I've been perpetually single because I was looking for a charming, kind, and romantic man when really I should have been chasing down the men who showed me the least attention? And how did they find all of these offish men and women? Did they have to take a disinterested survey?
And then it clicked.
OOOOOOHHHHH.........Plenty of fish.com
I guess we all have our Jessica Simpson moments. Thankfully I can make up for these goofball moments with significant instances of brilliance, like saving my company hundreds of dollars on office supplies and ballpoint pens at penisland.net!
Making a decided u-turn from my standard hipster/emo fare, mash-up DJ's N.A.S.A (North America South America), The Spirit of Apollo has gone a record breaking 8 days straight in my car stereo without a single track skip.
As part of the Coachella 2009 line-up, I thought I would give them a try since they were widely acclaimed, and from the very first David Byrne (of Talking Heads fame) and rap-legend Chuck D collaboration, I knew I was hooked. A bit old school, a bit trip-hop, a bit indie, a bit world beat, N.A.S.A hits the mark by using artists in the way a chef might use ingredients in a recipe, throwing them all in a bowl together and hoping they compliment well. Insane combinations like Karen O (from The Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and an Old Dirty Bastard verse from beyond the grave make for the standout track on the album, "Strange Enough", and John Frusciante's (RHCP) appearance on the Thievery Corporation-esque "Way Down" fits right in with Barbie Hatch's eerie lead vocals and RZA's angry lyrical prowess.
Part dance album, part lounge disc, The Spirit of Apollo makes for easy up tempo background beat. It's sorta like a super-genius party shuffle on your iPod.
Eating This Week:
Honey Nut Cheerios
At what point did we decide as adults that eating cereal for dinner was uncool? Cereal is quite possibly the perfect meal. Think about it.......milk (protein), grains, fiber, low-sugar, low-fat....it's everything my Lean Cuisine macaroni and cheese fails to be.
Anyhow, Honey Nut Cheerios has made it into permanent rotation since early February, where it debuted as a cheap breakfast option (in my short month-long coffee boycott) and quickly moved up to lunch (and dinner!) status. It's easy, it's cheap, it's good....and my cholesterol levels have never been better! (I have absolutely no idea where my cholesterol levels are at, but that's what the box keeps telling me)
Obsessing About This Week:
Louis Vuitton Stephen Sporuse Collection
First off, let me make this clear, I HATE Louis Vuitton. While I obsessed over their Takashi Murakami collection in 2003, I still harbor a deep resentment for all brands that have made a cult following out of knock-off bags from Canal Street, (Are you listening Coach?) Ok, so maybe that was a little harsh, I don't necessarily hate Louis Vuitton, I simply hate the 14 year-old girls carrying them at the mall or the women in their Old Navy sweats and scrunchies with their Monogrammed PM bags in line at Starbucks. HELLLLLLLLLLOOOOO Ladies! We know those are fake.
But I digress.
The Sprouse bag, much like the Murakami, is a piece of art. A collector's item. For those in the know, Stephen Sprouse was a significant pop artist in the 80's whose day-glo colors and graffiti-esque style brought punk sensibility to the mainstream and influenced a generation of young fashionistas. He collaborated with both Keith Haring and Andy Warhol (posthumously) and his first Vuitton line was released in the Spring of 2001 under the watchful creative direction of Marc Jacobs. Sprouse passed away in 2004, and Jacobs has once again revamped the stogy Vuitton line with Sprouse's streetwise flair and iconic pop imagery, (he also got naked for the ad above, Mreow!)
Sadly, $200 knock-offs of the Sprouse line are already popping up on the internet and in the alleys of Chinatown. Will this keep me from buying the $1,180 Speedy 30?
Remains to be seen. I've yet to fall down the Vuitton rabbit hole, but in this particular case the art snob in me can call it an investment.
There are a few things in life I just don't get....NASCAR, Foie Gras, Pete Wentz.....to name a few. But nothing confounds me more than the idea of cooking, baking to be exact. I understand the appeal of a nice home cooked meal, it's hard to replicate granny's lasagna or aunt Emma's pot roast at your local Applebee's, but it seems to me that you can get just about any delicious baked item at your local retailer without the effort required of cracking eggs and sifting flour.
And then I found Sprinkles.
While I extolled the virtues of a rich Magnolia cupcake not too long ago, Sprinkles butter bombs blew those dense overachieving cornbread biscuits right out of the water. Sprinkles cupcakes were moist, creamy, and too damn good to be true when I found out they had been transported down all the way from Newport Beach for a special birthday dinner.
Thus began my search for the perfect Sprinkles cupcake recipe while I waited patiently for the San Diego location to open it's doors and feed my addiction. First I found a strawberry recipe, but in this economy who can afford two pounds of fresh produce, so I settled for a vanilla butter cream version that promised to be a cavity inducing experience of pure bliss (3 and 3/4 cups of sugar in the frosting alone!)
And then I found it..."Sprinkle's Coconut Cupcakes"
Since I was born without the cooking gene, I turned to the one maternal person in my family to assist me, my dear sweet granny. Granny has been the pillar of all things domestic in my family since I can remember. She cooks, cleans, sews and is pretty much the antithesis of my mom and I's "why do it if you can pay someone else to do it" approach to life. Granny has lived in the same house in La Mesa for over 50 years, and for as long as I can remember, she has been plagued with the curse of the crackhead neighbors.
On this particular Saturday, the afternoon went down a little like this....
There we were, Granny and I, the epitome of a Norman Rockewell painting. Her in her orthopedic sneakers and apron, me in my 4 inch wedges and silk blouse, mixing batter and cracking eggs like a couple of old hens, when....
"You f**king b**tch!! Get the hell back here I'm gonna f**K you up!! I'll f**king kill you!"
I stopped for a moment and ran to the window. Granny, with her hearing aid on the fritz, continued to stir while I watched the following go down:
Crackhead lady #1 was standing on her lawn in short white Roccawear shorts, belly protruding, cigarette dangling from her lip, holding a large red brick in her hand, cocked back and ready to throw. Crackhead lady #2 was fleeing to her car, clutching her purse between her arms and dragging her half-soled house shoes across the pavement. As crackhead #1 hurled expletives at crackhead #2, crackhead man #3 came running out of the house in his boxer shorts, tattoos blazing, and lunged at the fleeing woman just missing her by a few inches and landing face first on the sidewalk. This triggered crackhead #1 to launch the brick at crackhead #2's car, shattering the side passenger window revealing an occupied baby seat. Crackhead #2, already in the car and revving her engine, screamed like a hyena "UN UH!!!! NO YOU DIDN'T!!! I'LL KILL YOU" and threw her car into reverse screeching up the sidewalk and onto the grass, slamming into the porch stoop and missing crackhead #1 by a few feet. At this point, crackhead man #3 pulled a Terminator move and leaped onto the trunk of the now careening car and attempted to punch the car (???) before being thrown from the vehicle as it sped down the street.
As I stood there, staring in disbelief, sweet little granny walked up behind me and said "Oh those neighbors," shook her head, and walked away. Still processing what I had just witnessed, I returned to the cupcake batter and stirred dishearteningly.
"They're just never going to believe this" my granny exasperated.
"Oh I know! Mom is going to freak out when I tell her what just happened. It's crazy! I don't think it's safe to live here!" I replied.
"No sweetie, I mean this" she said as I turned around and caught her taking a picture of me stirring.
And that's when I realized that the sight of me baking homemade cupcakes was more momentous than a white trash attempted murder scuffle in my granny's front lawn. What a sad - and accutely accurate - commentary on my domestic prowess.
Over a decade ago, a young blogger with a newborn daughter and an idiot boyfriend got a job at First Interstate Bank downtown. After returning from her maternity leave, bloated blogger was less than thrilled to find a gorgeous young Asian woman sitting at her desk and rifling through her files. "Now, who is this bitch all up in my s**t?" she thought.
Despite an awkward first meeting, NYC Grace gradually became my best friend and most relied upon mentor during a time in my life where I needed her the most. She was soo hip, soo cool, soo urban. And I was soo....well......soo......me. We bonded over happy hour Midori sours and fashion, and before long Grace was the one friend I could share anything with and was always getting me to break out of my shell.
In 2003, Superbowl rolled into San Diego and to this day Grace and pals still call it the "weekend we ruined M.M." Believe it or not, I was quite demure back in the day, and it took a good dose of Vodka and a stint as an "Apple Bottoms" promo model to pull that stick outta my a**.
Not long after that, Grace moved to New York without the comfort of family and friends to pursue a life she had always dreamed of. While there were a few debaucherous, booze filled visits to the NYC (New Year's Eve 04 comes to mind, well it would if I could remember what happened), Grace pretty much settled down and became the Carrie Bradshaw of SATC seasons 5 and 6. No more long nights at the Tunnel, just stockbrokers and Louboutins.
Today, Grace is marrying the man of her dreams, Charles, and I can say with all sincerity that I have never ever been happier for someone to marry the man they love. Grace was always the consummate classy single gal, and her stories of bad dates and failed relationships can still fuel hours of giggles from women around a cocktail table. But here's the twist...Grace has found her happy ending.
And so it goes. The end of an era. Grace has found her Mr. Big, and the rest of us Samanthas will just have to keep doing what we do best ;)
Unlike Lennon and Timberlake before her, Gwen Stefani has made good on her promise to fellow No Doubt bandmates to reunite for a new tour and studio album in 2009. After getting married, popping out two kids, and engaging in a wildly successful solo career, one really couldn't blame Gwen if she decided to retire and spend her millions on hair bleach and Harajuku girls, but the always enviable Gwen has taken the high road by literally hitting the road with Tony and the boys for one last party.
While I had hoped for No Doubt to make a surprise last-minute add to the Coachella line-up, I'll still fork over the 80 bucks to see them live and in color at Cricket Ampitheatre May 22nd. To hear Sunday Morning live (as opposed to the Rock Band edition) is worth at least 60 alone.
It's nice to see an artist get back to the roots of where it all started.
Noting that this dumb blog has made it to the one year mark, and that there was a grand total of four posts last month, I've realized that it is time for a serious overhaul.
So instead of going the glossy route with pumped up graphics, live video footage, and a never ending photo parade of social events, I've decided to take the decidedly less hi-tech road and go straight for the nitty gritty. The problem is, I spend far too much time worrying about wit and grammar, to the point where I just don't even bother to post. If I don't have at least three or four good pictures to go with a story, I shelve it.
But no more! From here on out I'm just going to post about whatever, whenever I feel like. What does that mean to you the reader? Well, considering there are only about 5 of you, you'll have to pardon my spelling errors, poor punctuation, contraction miss-use (is it it's or its?) and the inevitable lack of source material and visual accompaniment. I'm also going to blog about more girly stuff, which will probably alienate my 2 male readers, but I've got to go with what I know, and gosh darn it...as the epitome of all thing feminine, I know girl s**t.
And if you still can't catch when I'm being sarcastic, god help us all.
Ever since R Kelly stopped peeing on people, beefing with Jay-Z, and making dramatic pop operas involving midgets, his career has taken a big ole' leap backwards into obscurity. His last semi-mainstream hit was "Same Girl", a duet with chubby chaser Usher that barely made the video rounds outside of BET.
While "Same Girl" failed to live up to R&B dynamic duo hype, it has provided us with the most hilariously true-to-form parody I have seen from Flight of the Conchords since Jermaine let us know why he keeps his sugar lumps in the front.
The best moment of a jaw-dropping Lost last night wasn't necessarily the return of 1/2 the Oceanic 6 to the island, but rather the 10 second cameo of Brian K. Vaughn's Y: The Last Man.
Foreshadowing or shameless plug? I'll go with the former.
While stuck alone in San Francisco on a Saturday night, I took the opportunity to check out the star-studded chick flick He's Just Not That Into You. To be brutally honest, I didn't expect much from this movie-based on a book- based on a single episode of Sex and the City, but I figured it was my only chance to see the film without fear of seeing someone in the theatre I might know.
Ginnifer Goodwin (of my beloved Big Love) narrates the movie as Gigi, the totally neurotic, desperate and disillusioned single gal looking for Mr. Right. Jennifer Aniston and Jennifer Connelly have already found their own prince charmings, in the form of Ben Affleck and Bradly Cooper.....or have they? *cue dramatic love song by some nondescript band like Snow Patrol or Oasis*
ScarJo plays the vixen Anna, the one and only reason for straight men to see this movie.
Enter Scarlett Johansson, who throws the obligatory monkey wrench into the Cooper/Connelly marriage with her big heaving bosom, platinum locks, and porn-star lips. While she toys with Cooper and a whiny Kevin Connolly on the side, in walks Justin Long to provide the antithesis to Goodwin's optimistic Gigi by giving her the verbal smackdown of Man Law, ie: if he doesn't call, he's just not that into you.
The biggest problem with this movie was there are just too many story lines, and too any distractions. Personally, it would have worked fine without the Anniston/Affleck "he never wants to get married" storyline, and it was clear that both actors phoned in their performances. Affleck has little over 15 minutes screen time.
Producers obviously bribed Affleck to appear by promising to film all his scenes on a yacht.
Even less committed, Drew Barrymore pops up as the "single girl with gay friends who turns to online dating" with even less face time than Affleck. Sad too, because her few scenes were truly the only laugh--inducing moments of the film. A twist at the end brings her to relationship nirvana, but it seems a bit contrived.
Barrymore explores single life on MySpace (Ut oh! Dated movie alert!)
The moral of this chick flick is somewhere along the lines of: THERE ARE NO HIDDEN MEANINGS. Men are men. Men do what they think. Men do what they say. Not once, not ever, has a man not called you back because he "was looking for emotional space" or was "intimidated by your success". If a man wants to call you, he will call you. The end.
Sorry ladies, they've never "lost" your number.
Sadly, the film strays from this mantra and focuses on the exceptions. The Johansson/Cooper storyline was the most meaty, and I think it deserved a far better film than this one. A bit Unfaithful mixed with the Zach Braff ode to mid-life crisis The Last Kiss.
It deserves mention that the entire theatre was sold-out, wall-to-wall gays and women. When Cooper and Connelly (Spoiler alert!) get down to business in his office as a half-dressed Johansson watches helplessly trapped in his closet, the theatre yelped a collective "Un Unh, No he diiidn't!!"
Her tan scares me. She looks just like Tuyen's maple and bacon roasted turkey on Thanksgiving.
Overall, I give it 3 stars out of 5. There are some laughs and insight, but the distractions are one too many. Between Justin Long's horrible acting (he is clearly set only to two modes: a sneer or a leer) and Jennifer Annistons perma-bronze (seriously, she is soo tan in this movie it deserves a screen credit of it's own. I couldn't even focus on what was happening), I would probably bump this flick down to 2.5 stars if it wasn't for the one brilliant quip "I'm hard" by My So Called Life's Wilson Cruz.
I'd like to say that I watched the Grammys last night in eager anticipation of Radiohead's performance, but truth be told, I was asleep at nearly 8:30 pm. Even I'm getting to old for this geriatric awards show!
Anyhow, I was thankfully alerted to their performance of "15 Steps" last night and pleasantly surprised to hear they took home the "Best Alternative Album" award, beating out an exemplary Death Cab for Cutie disc, and two decent efforts by Beck and Gnarls Barkley. But lets get real here, "In Rainbows" had no real competition in that category, and their brilliant seventh recording should have been recognized as "Album of the Year", instead of the octogenarian Robert Plant's duet with Alison Krauss. *YAWN*
Fortunately, the granny Grammys did score some cool points by awarding indie rockers Kings of Leon and prog-rock darlings The Mars Volta hardware of their very own to toss off a hotel balcony.
As for me, I was able to catch Radiohead's Grammy appearance (complete with USC marching band) on youtube this morning at work. This was not a wise decision. Halfway through Thom Yorke's frenetic pacing and Johnny Greenwood's "just stand here and look sexy" performance my hipster senses (not to be confused with Spidey Senses) started tingling and I had to rush to the bathroom for some "me" time.
I guess the Grammys is good for something after all.
Over the past few years there has been a resurgence in 80's fashion that would make Corey Haim roll over in his grave (What?! He's still alive?) Cool kids from coast to coast have been caught donning leg warmers, day-glo colors, and white RayBans. Hipster haven American Apparel even dared to lure in a new generation of Hypercolor addicts, the not-so-brilliantly thought out line of T-shirts that would change color with heat. Legions of kids wearing yellow t-shirts with purple-hued sweat stain around their pits flooded the malls with big bangs and jelly bracelets. And while the 80's kitsch seems to continue well into the new millennium, I would like to make an impassioned plea that the over sized hip-hop, and modestly dressed grunge looks of the 1990's stay right where they belong, in the past.
Let's review some of the worst crimes against fashion in the 1990's, with yours truly as the main perpetrator.
Ahhhhh.....90's formal attire. Where do I begin? I really can't decide which is worse, Kim's navy blue tulle and taffeta ode to Joan Collins or the silver dress in the center which looks like it was pasted together with discarded Hershey's Kisses wrappers. While I was unfortunately rocking the Sarah Palinbouffant, I thought for sure I scored a home run with the velvet elbow length gloves until that b**ch in the blue stole my thunder with her classy white version. In the end, I have to give it up to Cathy (blue brocade dress/white lace) for making the most unfortunate 90's fashion misstep and dressing for prom as if she was a character in a Joseph Smith Book of Mormon coloring book.
The best part of this whole scene is the look on the men's faces. Besides the goofy guy in the white tux, you can practically see the joy draining from their faces as they prepare for what was about to be a chaste evening of apple cider and bowling.
I kid you not.
In 1993 nearly every girl in her early twenties wanted to be That's The Way Love Goes - era Janet Jackson. Myself included.
Cropped shirt? Check. Hoop earrings? Check. Spiral perm? Check. Faux Native American bead choker? Check. Lo-rise pants exposing my taut and toned 6-pack? Uh....not so much.
In this moment of "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" I tried my best to channel my inner Janet for a Real Word casting photo shoot. Yup, back in 1993 I was thisclose to being cast on Real World San Francisco with the illustrious David "Puck" Rainey and AIDS victim Pedro Zamora. While the photo above got me past the first three rounds of casting, I can't help but think that the producers finally came to their senses when I forced to complete a 10-page psychological evaluation.
One year later I was knocked up and unwed.
I still blame MTV for that.
This sweet little group is my Soccer Mom Book Club. Oh wait...no...it's New Year's eve circa 1992! Seriously, this crew of young 18 and 19 year-olds somehow got it in their heads that pleated pants and long sleeved turtle necks were the cutting edge of 90's fashion. In this picture alone, there is a scrunchie count of at least two, one "christmas sweater", one three-sizes-too-big white tee, polka dots, floral prints, and more Aqua Net hairspray than a gaggle of drag queens on a Gay Pride parade float.
This picture is a brilliant example of some of the very worst of the 90's, all in one package. Let's check out Kim for a moment. Not only is she sporting a hunter green scrunchie in her hair - the "it" color of 91-95 - she also rocks the green plaid flannel as a "nod to the crispy Seattle weather", (thank you Cher Horowitz!) Throw on some hoop earrings and a bead necklace, and Kim is a veritable fashion plate of the early 90's. So while Kim rocks the oversized Washington grunge, I head South just a bit with my Chronic influenced choice of head gear, and matching oversized hunter green hoodie. Foshizzle' (wait...I think I'm getting my decades confused)
Ugh, while Kim stubbornly refuses to age, this picture from 1996 is a prime example of a "I used to be ugly" moment. Satin was clearly a big influence in the 90's, but I took it one fatal step further with a head-to-toe baby pink fashion disaster. Who were my friends and how did they let me walk out of the house like this? What promised to be a cute wedding dress - pink satin sheath and matching jacket - ended up looking like a two-sizes-too-big costume reject from the movie Working Girl. If you look close enough, I think I see shoulder pads! The 90's seemed to be all about "covering up", the polar opposite of today's booty shorts and cleavage heavy club scene.
Speaking of club scene, I'd like to make excuses for this sparkly blue shorts ensemble by explaining that it was a 70's costume party, however there is absolutely no viable explanation for that hair! Yup, homegirl is rockin' the ghetto braids. In 1998 (when the baby fat FINALLY wore off) I lost all reasonable sanity and decided that blond highlighted glitter braids were an appropriate day-to-night look for a mother of two. In the same year that Puff Daddy and Mase rapped in shiny silver suits, sequins and shine had come full circle in 90's fashion and exploded all over my hair and clothes. The end of the 90's marked the end of grunge modesty and ushered in a new era of Hit Me Baby One More Time sexuality.
Well, there you have it. The worst of the worst of the 90's. I can only imagine what the next decade will bring us, and how poorly things like diamond grillz, crocs, daisy dukes, Uggs, scarves in the summer, looooooow-rise jeans, pointy pumps, leggings, white capri pants, huge purses, and cork wedges will fare past 2010.
There has been a recent surge in Facebook participation over the last 6 months that has literally turned back the clock to 1992 in my social circle.
I have a theory about the whole Facebook Vs. MySpace war, and it simply comes down to generational computer literacy. Back in 2003 when I first joined MySpace, I only had about 10 to 15 friends that were computer savvy enough to make their own profile and use it for correspondence. The majority of my fellow Gen Xers had yet to make the leap to online social networking, and by the time they did, MySpace had become saturated with technology obsessed teens who had turned MySpace into a wasteland of glitter graphics and virtual hook-ups.
So the generations who graduated during the time of pagers and Boyz 2 Men, found solace in the seemingly more adult friendly Facebook. Not a day passes during the week where I don't receive a friend request from someone I went to high school with, middle school, or even elementary school over 2 decades ago!
Recently, Facebook became the conduit for communication between me and my very first boyfriend ..... Andy D.
1992 - I love that big hair era!
Andy and I started dating my Sophmore year, and I was head over heels in love! Andy was on the football team, drove a classic 74 Mustang, and wooed me with cartoon caricatures featuring the two of us surrounded by hearts and rainbows, (Ugh! The innocence of youth!)
It was about 2 years till our relationship imploded spectacularly, and in classic M.M. fashion I made sure all bridges were burned before moving on to my next dysfunctional liaison (which I eventually - unfortunately - married).
So imagine my surprise when Andy D. found me on Facebook and said he was swinging through San Diego and would love to grab a drink at the ever-so-lovely Beachcomber. It's rare that people are able to reconnect with someone who caused so much grief, but I actually looked forward to seeing him again as a 34 year-old woman with a panache for neutering the weaker sex. Fortunately, not a single repressed feeling of anger reared it's ugly head, and I genuinely enjoyed catching up with my old friend.
2008 - 16 years and 60 pounds later.
It was then that I realized how truly far I have come from the short little freckled girl with crooked teeth who could never get a date. I'm not that little girl anymore, so why do I need all these Facebook friends of whom don't really know me at all? There are definitely the few of who I was pleasantly surprised to reconnect with, but in general, my friend count on Facebook is far less important than my integrity.
If we lost touch, there's probably a reason for it.
With a little over 24 hours to go, I'm practically chomping at the bit for the 2-hour Lost premiere this Wednesday night. To be sure I don't suffer from Quantum of Solace syndrome - where if you don't catch up on the previous installment before the new one you'll spend half the movie saying "What the f**k is going on?" - I've been wasting my workday over at ABC.com reviewing past episodes and highlights.
Like last year's popular Lost March Madness bracket, where the affable Desmond came out on top, ABC has launched a similar bracket - the Lost Showdown - allowing viewers to pick their favorite scenes from all 4 seasons.
Unfortunately, they've picked a hell of a lot of crap.
Most of the match-ups read as a "which one sucked the least" comparison. I mean......come on.... the lame-a** hatch opening where nothing was revealed vs. dumb Walt being abducted?
"Ooooooh, a light!" Roll credits.
If it wasn't for a super-hunk Sawyer flinging himself unselfishly from a helicopter, I wouldn't have had the strength to finish this stupid bracket. And of course vapid and annoying Kate ruins the whole scene with her presence.
Check it out if your nostalgic for some Lost "sorta best of" moments.
Yesterday, I excitedly teared open a delivery from moveon.org and squealed with glee when I saw my Obama inauguration shirt had finally arrived, (truth be told I had completely forgotten I ordered it, all the way back in November. Moveon.org needs to get a move on their shipping!)
Not even taking the time to wash it, I debated throwing it on and heading out to run some errands, but then I remembered the ill fated Kerry incident of 2004. Way back in 2004 when people still believed that the WMDs actually existed, I dared to wear a John Kerry shirt smack dab in the middle in Conservative country, ie: East County. I still clearly recall walking up the stairs of my son's elementary school, receiving disapproving looks from the wall moms (those who wore jean jackets with jeans, and didn't work for a living) before being confronted face-to-face by the school principle. Feeling about 10 years-old, the principle stared me up and down slowly, focusing briefly on my shirt, then slyly smiled and said "Let's hope the best man wins. I'd hate to see another 9/11. These kids are just so precious to me".
My own memory of first grade immediately came flooding back as I recalled a mock vote between Carter and Reagan that left me and Michael Fletcher (I still remember his name!) as the only two Carter hold-outs. My teacher was so maniacal that she made the students sit on each side of the classroom according to who they were voting for. Poor Michael and I sat lonely, in an empty sea of desks. I still have minor post-traumatic stress from this event. The time an older kid tried to put his hand up my skirt inside the Chuck-E-Cheese air jumpy was less traumatizing than being made to sit lonely in the "Carter Corner."
So after being on the left all my life, imagine my surprise yesterday when I tooled around Fletcher Hills (the epitome of white middle-upper class conservative suburbia) in my Obama shirt and nearly everywhere I went, people were giving me a thumbs up or high five. No disapproving looks, no finger wagging, and not once did a mother pull her child away from me as I stood in line, (hey, it's happened before!)
With such good feedback, I'm thisclose to wearing my "Jesus, please save me from your followers" T-shirt with Jesus tending a flock of George Bush-headed sheep. Unfortunately, I think that would go over just as well as my Dr. Dre The Chronic hat did at Disneyland.
The days of gauging your friendship value by extravagant Christmas presents or numerous Evites are over. In a brilliant marketing campaign, Burger King has introduced the Whopper Sacrifice Facebook application that allows you earn a free burger by ditching 10 of your Facebook "friends". Now you will know exactly how valuable you are to the friend that dumps you for a two-dollar-preservative-laced-flame-broiled hamburger.
I apologize in advance if you get the ax, but when weighing my options....meat always wins.
I love my job, I really do. It's taken me a few years to be able to say these words, but I've finally come to a point where I enjoy the people I work with, the pay doesn't suck, and I am genuinely appreciative of the creativity and art of comic books. Ok, graphic novels. I don't read those flimsy monthly superhero joints, but I'm sure they're good too.
This is why I've become a bit of a champion for the reputation of Comic-Con in the "real world", ie: nearly everywhere I go. I'm talking about the people who stare at me with blank expressions when I explain to them I work at a comic book convention. If it's not crickets in the room chirping, then it's usually a polite smile and head nod as they slowly, nonchalantly, back away from me like they just stumbled on a crack deal in a back alley.
Anyhow, it really chaps my hide (what is up with that saying?) when people assume to know what Comic-Con is all about and relegate it to a geek gathering of the socially inept and un-bang-able. Just the other day, Yahoo was headlining an article titled "The Top 10 Online Dating Mistakes". Intrigued (and pathetic) I clicked on the story to check out exactly how many of these non-negotiables I had committed over the years, and was stumped a bit by number eight.
"8. Don't give away too much information upfront. There will be time to have deep discussions, but now is not the moment to admit you dress up in costume and attend Comic-Con every year."
What the f**k? Not only did we get hit with a random diss, we also got called out by NAME as opposed to the more subtle "comic book convention". Was "Ren Fair" not an acceptable option? How about E3? You can't tell me that the die hard video gamers who attend that formerly glossy event are any less odoriferous than your average Comic-Con nerd?
Meet Valerie. She is a real, live, comic book reading Wonder Woman. She actually works for Comic-Con as an event photographer.
I'm tired of Comic-Con getting a bum rap, and can't stand that it's become the social equivalent of Crocs. So for 2009 I will continue to sing it's praises and update this blog with more nerd friendly content. I'll also take submissions for "Hot Comic Book Reader of the Month", and will reward them with random comic book themed swag.
I figure I'll have enough nominees to last me through..........uh.............um...............March?
Holy Hot Nerd Alert! Olivia Munn (above) hosts G4's "Attack of the Show" and is a self-proclaimed comic book addict.
I lost my street cred sometime around 1999, and beside an occasional T.I. ditty (So live your life! Ay, ay, ay, ay) or a Kanye West joint, rap and hip-hop has become a bit of a mystery to me. I'm not on the cutting edge by any means.
Enter Asher Roth.
Although certain that I had seen this kid bagging my groceries last week, the 23 year-old is actually the newest white rap phenom. Less Wu Tang Clan and more Beastie Boys, his tracks like I Love College(complete with the chant: keg stand! keg stand! keg stand! and a heavily borrowed Weezer sample) and Roth Boys exhibit upbeat tempos whose lyrics get about as dirty as a Michael Scott "that's what she said" joke. Asher Roth is all about red plastic cups and pop culture references. It's a bit like if Stewie from Family Guy decided to pursue a rap career. On Cannon he spits "You know the world's gone mad when blacks wear plaid, and Mariah has married Nick Cannon." Later he rhymes "fanny" with "Dakota Fanning", then proclaims a love for eating salmon and the lyrical prowess of Saved By the Bell's Zac Morris.
Seriously.
It's rare that I ever get to say this regarding the hip-hop genre, but I think this kid is gonna blow up. You heard it here first!
While I've been chewing everyone's ear off about Big Love lately, another tiny little HBO series was quietly slipping under the radar.
I caught a few episodes of Flight of the Conchords last year, then accidentally forgot about it. After being reminded by high school BFF April at the Bloc Party concert, I queued up season one to start from the beginning and subsequently chastised myself for not doing so earlier. In a nutshell, FOTC is everything that SNL's Andy Samberg not-so-subtly swipes in his music video shorts. "Iran So Far Away" is a near copy of FOTC's stylized parody "Inner City Pressure" and "Jizz in My Pants" is an R rated version of FOTC's "She's So Hot, Boom!" I guess imitation truly is the sincerest form of flattery.
Bret (my uber-hot facial haired future husband) and Jemaine are New Zealand exports trying to kick start their band's career in America. Hilarity ensues.
Anyhow, FOTC is probably not for everyone because it takes it's cues from awkward comedies like The Office and Extras, but unlike the latter, it is so universally amusing and the characters are so charming that even my kids who usually stare blankly during The Office were rolling on the floor with laughter during "Robots - Humans Are Dead". My first true guttural laugh of 2009 occurred during Bret's binary code solo "0001010101000100110101010010001001110100".
I was thisclose to cancelling my HBO subscription due to impending credit card doom, until I found out that season two will begin January 18th, giving me a mere 9 days to finish out season one. A weekly reminder of what good comedy should be (listen up My Name Is Earl?) is worth the added expense. I can see this quickly phasing out the less-than-stellar Entourage on my DVR list.
Anyone who does not find the below video pee-your-pants funny probably likes to rent UFC matches, has a gun rack on their truck, and doesn't know who Eddie Izzard is.
Much to my chagrin, there is a dive bar directly across the street from my office, only about 100 yards away. A couple years ago I developed a bad billiards habit and spent many a lunch break shooting pool in it's dark and dingy recesses. My addiction became evident when I began to know the names of the haggard regulars and the bartender would deliver my Kettle One and Tonic before I even ordered it (GREAT at happy hour, not so great at lunch when I would pretend to sip it as not to offend). The place was a total cesspool, with a stale beer and piss smell that reminded me of the ZBT frat house in 1993. The carpets looked like they once housed a homeless shelter of hobos with incontinence issues. But the drinks were stiff and cheap, pool was a 25 cents, and like I said...it is just a short drunk walk away.
Classic Pete's Poor lighting, and vinyl furniture. I truly believe the place was kept so dark as to keep the patrons from actually SEEING what was on the carpet.
NYE2006 at Pete's Place. Note the classy decorations. And no, it was NOT a costume party.
Say "Hi" to Mark Howard. This Pete's regular was my pool mentor for an entire summer, probably because he only frequented the bar from 11 am to 4pm, when all the REAL alcoholics do!
Fast forward two years, Pete's Place has now undergone a major renovation that has left it looking a bit like "Gaslamp East" without the hoochified women spilling midori sours on their snatch-length skirts. The stained carpets are gone, the smell has dispersed, and the ladies room stalls actually have doors now!
The new and improved bar lacks the duct tape/pleather construction of the original.
Pete's kept the historical brick building in tact, and imported some vintage recycled timber. Classy touch for a place that used to consider "vintage" to be a 1984 Golden Tee machine
The new pool tables are great, though not yet balanced. I've been assured that Mark will be balancing them soon. Yes, despite it's glossy make-over, La Mesa regulars can still be seen sitting at their new spots (new old spots?) at the bar ordering $2.00 wells from bartender Sheila. I made a quick stop by on New Year's Eve, and while the place was packed with EC twenty-somethings, Pete's still maintains it's Charcoal House aka The Wrinkle Room-style vibe with patrons in their twenties to eighties. Overall, not a bad place to grab a drink with friends. watch the game, or even attempt to bring a date for after dinner drinks. Of course, she'd have to be cool like me to get that its unique EC vibe is more Livewire than Norma Jeans.
While their new motto is "A Downtown Feel, With Local Prices", the toothless regulars are still welcome at Pete's.
North Park has been a pleasant surprise as of late. The Mission did not disappoint on a weekday breakfast (avoid this place, and the long lines, like a plague on weekends) and Ranchos Mexican Resturant has finally provided me a guilt-free way to give in to my nearly constant cravings for things that make my thighs fat. Rancho's is mostly organic and provides a plethora of vegan/vegetarian entrees that don't make you feel like you should be wearing hemp sandals and a Grateful Dead t-shirt to eat there.
But the North Park stand-out has been Hawthorne's Restaurant & Lounge on University. During our welcomingly mellow New Year's Eve dinner there, all the diners raved about the perfectly dressed salad, succulent seasoned steak, and creamy creme brulee. The food was so delish that even stick-thin Tuyen enjoyed a bite of the sugar and carb heavy dessert. At $30 for the NYE special, there is no better value in town.
Much like transient Thanksgiving, NYE was nothing more than the vagrant leftovers who didn't want to break the bank downtown, didn't have anyone special to spend the holiday with, or had boyfriends/girlfriends working on the holiday but would indulge their beloved ones in some sort of kinky sex fetish when they returned home. Of course, I fell into category 2, and am working my way towards category 3!
Fast forward one week, a second visit to Hawthorne's showed off it's mixology skills, with creative cocktails that didn't leave me vexing the bartender for being stingy with the vodka. However, at $11 a pop, drink wisely.
My second visit wasn't quite as budget conscious (my total bill was $65), but they are constantly running monthly specials where you can get a dinner for two at $60, including a bottle of wine!! Check the reader or online for coupons, and take someone special there this weekend!
Oddly, neither condom quality assurance nor vibrator test subject made the list.
A recent study by Jobcast.com has announced the best and worse occupations "according to five criteria inherent to every job: environment, income, employment outlook, physical demands and stress. "
While Database Manager/Talent Relations/Blogger didn't make the list, I was surprised at some of the professions that broke the top 20.
The Best 1. Mathematician 2. Actuary 3. Statistician 4. Biologist 5. Software Engineer 6. Computer Systems Analyst 7. Historian 8. Sociologist 9. Industrial Designer 10. Accountant 11. Economist 12. Philosopher 13. Physicist 14. Parole Officer 15. Meteorologist 16. Medical Laboratory Technician 17. Paralegal Assistant 18. Computer Programmer 19. Motion Picture Editor 20. Astronomer
Clearly, a stationary office job seems to have it's benefits (other than adult onset obesity), but how do you explain stand-out #14? Parole officer? I'm not sure what is so stress-free about an occupation where you have to worry if your client is going to shank you every time you pay them a visit.
On the flip side....
The Worst 200. Lumberjack 199. Dairy Farmer 198. Taxi Driver 197. Seaman 196. EMT 195. Roofer 194. Garbage Collector 193. Welder 192. Roustabout 191. Ironworker 190. Construction Worker 189. Mail Carrier 188. Sheet Metal Worker 187. Auto Mechanic 186. Butcher 185. Nuclear Decontamination Tech 184. Nurse (LN) 183. Painter 182. Child Care Worker 181. Firefighter
The fact that child care worker and nurse made the same list as garbage collectors and nuclear contamination techs, confirms my assertion that cleaning up after other people's s**t is not a pleasure, no matter how noble the cause.
And what the f**k is a roustabout? Are they related to a rabblerouser? Did they all come out of the same WC Fields misadventure?
Anyhow, check the list and ask for a raise if necessary.
I love geeks. Especially geeks with good hygiene, facial hair, and ironic pop culture T-shirts. Knowing this, you'd think by now I would have watched CBS's ode to geekdom Big Bang Theory but it had somehow slipped under the radar, quite possibly being due to it's 8:00 pm air time (anything before 9:00 pm is heinously unwatchable. I believe there is a direct relationship between early airtime and crap TV).
After seeing this clip posted on Facebook, I've instantly updated my DVR to record BBT, and I'm hoping to get a weekly geek fix, without having to visit my local Comics-N-Stuff.
I'm back. It's true. I had debated s**tcanning this whole dumb blog, but I figured it's a nice escape every now and then, and where else can you find such a wonderful combination of neurosis, spite, and glitter?
I've decided to box up 2008, tape it shut, and send it packing so I will not be catching up on all my holiday escapades, but instead looking forward to a successful 2009 starting with....
DETOX
Yup, I'm detoxing the ole' temple. After a heavy partying holiday season, my body feels a bit like a Las Vegas pimp with a coke habit. I just feel dirty. I think my toxicity level hit it's limits sometime between 2:00 am shots of Jagermeister, and a cheeseburger, large fries, two tacos super combo from Jack in the Box. For 2009, the only preservatives I want in my body should be correcting the wrinkles between my brows.
So this past Sunday I cut out all caffeine, alcohol, and am taking the 7-day Rapid Cleanse by Renew Life. I'm also eating all organic, freshly pressed juices, and no red meat.
So how do I feel?
Like s**t.
Seriously, I feel like I have a 24 hour hangover. Headaches, sweats, nausea, fatigue, crabbiness. You would swear that I am a junkie coming off a heroin addiction. I've only got 4 more days of this crap, and I've already cut out the fiber flush part of the cleanse.
Don't ask why. Use your imagination.
FINANCES
Opening my WaMu credit card statement this week sent me into a mini cardiac arrest...sometime between November and January my already lofty APR of 18.9% shot up to 31.9% What the f**k? I could get a loan cheaper from the bookie across the street at Pete's Place. A quick call to customer service revealed that I had been "sent" a letter of the impending rate increase sometime back in August and I had 60 days to opt-out and close my account. Noting that August was the start of cheer and the end of Comic-Con, I'm lucky if I even remembered to pick up my kids from school, let alone open some stupid letter from my credit card company that sends me enough junk mail each week to fulfill a Philatelic fetish.
So long story short, I told them to shove their stupid card up their a**, close all my accounts, and in a fit of fury did this:
I cut up all my credit cards. All of them! It's my plan to get my finances in line for 2009, so forgive me if I am a boring, old, stingy party pooper for the rest of the year.
PROCRASTINATION
Well, I can't completely take credit for this one. Nothing else in the world will give you a reality check like walking into your office after a three week break and finding this on your desk:
Obviously the powers that be were sending me a polite message, which I will now interpret as....
Wanting nothing more than to throw on my bikini and spend the rest of the afternoon drinking and lounging - the two things I do best - I reminded myself that I had come to the middle of nowhere for a reason, and that was to catch one of my all time favorites The Cure on Sunday and check out the plethora of ingenues that were inching their way up my radar since the announced line-up. In particular, mash-up DJs N.A.S.A (who I swooned over here) and Austin boy band Ghostland Observatory, described as a mixture of early-Prince, and Daft Punk with just a dash of the Spice Girls. 
With a little over 24 hours to go, I'm practically chomping at the bit for the 2-hour Lost premiere this Wednesday night. To be sure I don't suffer from Quantum of Solace syndrome - where if you don't catch up on the previous installment before the new one you'll spend half the movie saying "What the f**k is going on?" - I've been wasting my workday over at ABC.com reviewing past episodes and highlights.
I lost my street cred sometime around 1999, and beside an occasional T.I. ditty (So live your life! Ay, ay, ay, ay) or a Kanye West joint, rap and hip-hop has become a bit of a mystery to me. I'm not on the cutting edge by any means.
Classic Pete's Poor lighting, and vinyl furniture. I truly believe the place was kept so dark as to keep the patrons from actually SEEING what was on the carpet.
NYE 2006 at Pete's Place. Note the classy decorations. And no, it was NOT a costume party.
The new and improved bar lacks the duct tape/pleather construction of the original.
Pete's kept the historical brick building in tact, and imported some vintage recycled timber. Classy touch for a place that used to consider "vintage" to be a 1984 Golden Tee machine
Much like transient Thanksgiving, NYE was nothing more than the vagrant leftovers who didn't want to break the bank downtown, didn't have anyone special to spend the holiday with, or had boyfriends/girlfriends working on the holiday but would indulge their beloved ones in some sort of kinky sex fetish when they returned home. Of course, I fell into category 2, and am working my way towards category 3!
