Christmas is coming early to D.C. because, bitches, I am back in town next week. If you don't think that statement was loaded with an offensive level of self-importance and delusion, then you're my next BFF. I need more yes people in my life.
I will once again be in D.C. after my move to NYC. I am going to buck the typical cliche and arrive to Our Nation's Capital entirely devoid of bitterness and jokes about cab drivers. Seriously, I will just be so happy to be in a place where the 4 hours of precious sunshine we're allowed in the winter isn't cockblocked by skyscrapers - wait, I think I my bitterness slip is showing. Any way, I miss D.C. and its peeps, and especially it's large, opossum-sized rats and absence of stank. Praise!
What is bringing me back to Das District? In a word...POON. Yes, folks, that wondrous jolly, slightly sweaty, velour tracksuit wearing elf has decided to bestow you all with the gift of SKETCH COMEDY at another fun and exciting addition of POONANZA. So come on out, see a gaggle of hysterical talented people get together and give it to you live, in real time. With a writers' strike making TV even shittier than ever before, you have every reason to get out there and see this. Support something local and organic - it'll be just like Whole Foods, but without the entitlement and white guilt.
Also, mama is trying to get in town super early to do a set at The Bomb Shelter on Thursday night - this show is always a blast. It should be joyous for all involved! Please come and see me! SPREAD THE WORD! COME FOR THE FREE HUGS, STAY FOR THE LAUGHTER!
POONANZA @ The Warehouse Theater 1017-1021 7th St NW Saturday, December 8th, 10pm - $7 RESERVE TICKETS THROUGH EMAIL: larrypoon1@yahoo.com
THE BOMB SHELTER @ 18th and Red 2436 18th St in Adams Morgan Thursday, December 6th, 9 pm - FREE - $2 Red Hooks, $3 Drafts, $4 Rails
Also, you may not recognize me so I've included a photo of me. New York has made me very chic and fashionable. Don't be intimidated by my haute couture.
Sometimes The Onion nails it so hard. I know this is old news, but I saw it today and my soul was flooded with warmth and mirth. That reminds me, I should really call home. It's been too long since I've heard a few Dr. Phil recaps via phone call.
It is human nature to try to make sense of things after experiencing or witnessing something traumatic. Within every culture and time, the human experience is united in its need to turn the tragic, the unspeakable, into something meaningful. And that, friend, is why this was written.
I've yet to see such a perfect parody of academia. And that's pretty much all I have to say about The Internet Video-Meme That Dare Not Speak Its Name.
Look, since this blog is just really getting started, I want to make some things clear. I enjoy cats to a lesbianic spinster degree. That's just something we need to make clear if we're going to progress further. I could waste a good chunk of your time to telling you what I find so aesthetically pleasing about them and why I think they're one of nature's greatest designs. This was not always so but now I am a changed woman.
This is not to say that I do not love dogs. I'm not going to shy away from controversy around here, so let me be frank: I believe that whole cat/dog thing to be a false dichotomy. I love all things fluffy and cute. Even the ones I eat or pay other people to kill so I can wear them on my feet. Yes, I'm a hypocrite. Deal. As Pac said, "only God can judge me."
If you don't find the following two videos cute or endearing (and, no, you do not have to admit to it to me or anyone else) then you might be a living shell - a mere husk - of a human being. Good luck with that. It might also be time to unfriend me on Myspace and Friendster.
Watch and fall in love with life all over again.
Original footage of cat conversation.
Enhanced, for your amusement with human narration.
No, this is not a photo of a young Emmanuel Lewis-inspired drag king. If you're fond of internet memes you'll know that this is Tay Zonday, internet star of "Chocolate Rain."
Please watch the original if you haven't already. The first time I listened to it I had it in my head for three long days. It's hard to narrow down the appeal of this video to one thing. There are so many layers - the voice, the lyrics, the ceaseless repetition, this MANCHILD'S FACE! I'm working on a Puerto Rican version and it will be called Plantain Rain. Lyrics forthcoming.
Dr. Pepper hopped on the bandwagon and got Tay to do a Chocolate Cherry Rain version for their new drink. I couldn't help but feel awe as large buckets of chocolate goo are poured all over Tay and a model. How exactly does a director make that pitch?
"Look, I have a vision. I'm picturing you, open-mouthed, taken unawares by a huge bucket of brown slop that looks very rich and chocolatey. Then I'm going to run it in slo-mo as it hits your face. You in, cause we'll need to do about ten takes to get the gunk just right."
If you couldn't infer from previous comments, I'm not what you would call a religious person. While raised to believe in the J-man (and I remain a big fan of his purported work) and Catholicism, I have since my late teen years been pretty agnostic. It came on rather suddenly, but it has stuck for the most part. There have been times when I have wondered what to call myself. The word atheist brings up rather gross associations involving strident university students who gather when their Magik and LARP schedules allow to scoff at people and their religions. I'm not really interested in that.
My interest in talking about my own views only comes up when someone else's views try to dictate my actions. Then I get strident.
In a country where 92% of the population believes in God, and atheists are ranked as the least trustworthy citizens in the land, it would be nice and inspiring to see more people make their lack of faith public. It is tiresome to have to explain to someone how you can actually have morality without religion. That is sadly a brand new concept to a lot of people.
So, with all this said, I present to you a very good piece of reading by Sam Harris. It is food for thought...a large Christy waifer for the non-believing brain. I've extracted some of my favorite excerpts for your reading pleasure!
I never thought of myself as an atheist before ....I think that “atheist” is a term that we do not need, in the same way that we don’t need a word for someone who rejects astrology. We simply do not call people “non-astrologers.” All we need are words like “reason” and “evidence” and “common sense” and “bullshit” to put astrologers in their place...
We are faced with the monumental task of persuading a myth-infatuated world that love and curiosity are sufficient, and that we need not console or frighten ourselves or our children with Iron Age fairy tales. I don’t think there is a more important intellectual struggle to win...
So, let me make my somewhat seditious proposal explicit: We should not call ourselves “atheists.” We should not call ourselves “secularists.” We should not call ourselves “humanists,” or “secular humanists,” or “naturalists,” or “skeptics,” or “anti-theists,” or “rationalists,” or “freethinkers,” or “brights.” We should not call ourselves anything. We should go under the radar—for the rest of our lives. And while there, we should be decent, responsible people who destroy bad ideas wherever we find them.
Now, it just so happens that religion has more than its fair share of bad ideas. And it remains the only system of thought, where the process of maintaining bad ideas in perpetual immunity from criticism is considered a sacred act. This is the act of faith. And I remain convinced that religious faith is one of the most perverse misuses of intelligence we have ever devised. So we will, inevitably, continue to criticize religious thinking. But we should not define ourselves and name ourselves in opposition to such thinking.
What stood out to me about Harris' speech is not only how he acknowledges the human need for something larger, something most people call spirituality, but he tackles a very large misconception that non-believers exist to spoil everyone's good time.
My concern is that atheism can easily become the position of not being interested in certain possibilities in principle. I don’t know if our universe is, as JBS Haldane said, “not only stranger than we suppose, but stranger than we can suppose.” But I am sure that it is stranger than we, as “atheists,” tend to represent while advocating atheism. As “atheists” we give others, and even ourselves, the sense that we are well on our way toward purging the universe of mystery. As advocates of reason, we know that mystery is going to be with us for a very long time. Indeed, there are good reasons to believe that mystery is ineradicable from our circumstance, because however much we know, it seems like there will always be brute facts that we cannot account for but which we must rely upon to explain everything else. This may be a problem for epistemology but it is not a problem for human life and for human solidarity. It does not rob our lives of meaning. And it is not a barrier to human happiness.
I may be in a huge minority in this country but I can't help but be really sold by the majority of what Harris is presenting here.
Sorry this entry wasn't so much fun. Hopefully I'll be able to work something completely inane next time.
Wikipedia is apparently a tool of the science-loving, Godless liberal, so conservatives came up with their own resource, Conservapedia. I support this. When I was at school in Ohio, I would be subjected to conservative hijackings in my anthropology classes. We'd just be trying to learn about a prognathic jaw when some coot would take over our learning time to convince us all the world was only 6,000 years old and we should all be afraid of the Great Juju in the Sky. Self-segregation of these jackholes is welcome with Creed-hating arms wide-opened.
One thing I have to hand to the Conservatives is their childlike wonder and awe regarding homosexual sex. Check out their stats page.
Now, whether this is the work of liberal pranksters or not, I would like to thank whoever came up with "gay bowel syndrome."
They say there aren't any good men out there these days, but I think we can all agree that a brief perusal of Craigslist will prove otherwise. The single girl's cup runneth over in this ad.
I am a lvl 8 warrior seeking my adventuring companion for game play and fornication. I partake in only adventure/fantasy role play, no creepy goth stuff, it’s too weird. Only sanctioned spells allowed, costume dress optional but preferred. I have the body of a wandering Norwegian brawler and short brown hair. Please be quite buxom and imaginative for play and enjoy fantasy role play aesthetics. Please send pics, leves, preferred adventure type and spell list. We could go get dinner (under $20), and watch a movie. Also I’m allergic to cats.
I like how discerning this man feels he can be. It warms the heart.
I don’t get to watch TV much. This is not out of any objection to the medium. TV is my beloved, I just don’t have a DVR and don’t get enough home time to enjoy it. When I do, I generally multi-task and praise Jah (if you know what I mean) while watching Gossip Girl. The end result is usually me, giggling hysterically, and yelling at the screen, “I’M…CHUCK…BASS” whilst making rapey motions.
Well, I didn’t praise Jah last night, and if you can believe it, that was a poor decision. Instead, I watched March of the Penguins and suffered through yet another Morgan Freeman as God/Narrator moment. When I first watched it, alone, in the movie theater, I did some crying. I attributed it not only to fuzzy, cute animal death, but also to the fact that I was at a movie theater, alone. I find that very depressing.
Two weeks ago a homeless man on the Upper West Side looked at me and yelled “SIMBA!” I took his coronation as a sign that I could handle a little Lion King “Cycle of Life” reality. This was mistaken.
I was about three tiny baby penguin deaths in when I said to Sam, “I think I’ve had enough defenseless baby animal death for one night” and shuffled off to the bedroom to read a book of short stories.
In some sort of unholy union formed by Lorrie Moore (author of short story book) and Morgan Freeman, the first story I read was an entire tale about a woman coping with the loss of her 10 year-old cat, Bert. I read it, slightly panicked, and kept giving my own cat, Boo, tender sideways glances. Had I not been left so raw by the penguin genocide earlier, I doubt this would have resulted in tears. But it did.
I hold Morgan Freeman personally responsible. We all know from his last dozen movies that he is God. We have seen him do crazy things to further a plot line. But this dude could not spare one minute of time to save what are probably the cutest, most vulnerable newborn animals ever to exist? It’s not like they have anything good to look forward to when they’re done being all fuzzy and adorable. Morgan Freeman, you are a stingy, stingy God, and I don’t care for you one bit.
Keep turning a blind eye to dead baby penguins while you make magic happen for white dudes!
I hope he’s satisfied now that he has the fluff and frozen blood of baby penguins all over his hands. I don’t want anything more to do with you, Morgan Freeman, and your Clockmaker God-Laissez Faire bullshit.
It’s at this point that I realize – perhaps, self, you need something more potent than Prozac. Perhaps this is not normal behavior. Blaming an elderly black actor on the natural cycle of life in Antarctica is somehow misguided.
That was all a big precursor to lead into why I started investigating light therapy devices used to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder. The end result was many lulz.
You would think, by the very Sky Mall-ian nature of the photography, that light therapy was quackery at best. I believe there are genuine studies done proving the efficacy of it, but you wouldn't get that sense looking at the visuals.
I like this one. It contains multitudes.
In it you can see how light therapy can heal the world! From back aches, to blotchy skin, to face-gripping sadness - this photon ray of light can fix anything! It gives one hope.
And before I get to the wacky gizmos, I just wanted to let you know that this guy's balls are totally not bummed out any more now that they got light therapy.
Maybe I'm alone on this one, but does anyone get a sinister feeling looking at this?
I feel like she's just trying to go about her morning, eat her breakfast, and tell her mom "no, I'm not going to get cancer if I don't have a kid before 30" when this War of the Worlds SAD lamp jumps on her table and just lords over her.
Not shocked just yet? What about this?
It's light therapy designed by Jordy Laforge! Jordy has departed from his usual gold spray-painted banana clip and gone with something even less streamlined.
Love you, Jordy! Smooches!
To those who still aren't not getting laid enough, even after last week's nasal irrigation lesson, I give you, SAD visors. Oh, they're sad alright!
Now if only someone would Photoshop one of these women with a neti pot in her nose and a stream of water coming out the other end. Then I might be complete.
Dudes, I think my soul is German. Apparently these are two words used in the German language.
Backpfeifengesicht (Germany): A face that’s just begging for somebody to put their fist in it.
Kummerspeck (Germany): "Grief bacon" - the weight that you gain by overeating when you’re worried about something.
This is beyond brilliant. It makes me rethink being Puerto Rican entirely. How many times to I walk down the street in a single day and see a backpfeifengesicht just bobbing up and down, BEGGING ME to give it a strong, sharp throat punch? I'd give it an average of 5.
My kummerspeck is where my tears are kept. Looks like they'll need quite the refill after last night's March of the Penguins-induced crying jag.
As a total aside, has anything good every come of folk dancing? Seriously, look at that picture. Look at their own disappointment in themselves as they act out this abortion. They can feel their life force slipping away.
As a comedian and mental health industry consumer, I regularly face intense highs and lows. Mostly lows. But I have a little trick that has been expediting the healing process. I have a motivational coach that exists only in my brain. He is modeled after Djimon Hounsou's character, Juba, from Gladiator. And, yes, I do love that movie. And, yes, I have seen it half a dozen times. And, yes, I will see it again. There is some sort of manskirt-shaped hole in my heart that it fills. Go ahead, judge me.
So, I was in the office getting down about life when I started to slip into the netherworld of sadness and failure that is Juba's domain in my mind. Juba only has two volumes: a thunderous, righteous bellow or a meaningful, tender whisper. He was just in the middle of forcing me back into reality with a hushed: "I will see you again... but not yet. Not yet!" when I was snapped back into reality by the ringing of the phone.
It was the first time in my life I was tempted to believe in the hot, steaming turd Oprah calls "The Secret." I think I have been putting out minor celebrity vibrations and the universe had finally responded to my needs. See how easy it is? If only Israelis and Palestinians would put out vibrations and get on the right frequency, they might be able to get their shit together.
Reader, I digress.
Rutger Hauer, you are one of my favorite references. You didn't know this when we spoke. But my heart, how it fluttered - leapt, even - in my chest when I heard you so confidently respond to my workplace greeting with "Hello, this is Rutger Hauer." It was so natural, Rutger. As if every ringing phone should be answered such a way. I salute your boldness in assuming I'd even know who you are. But you are the man, so it's a valid assumption.
Oh, Rutger, how we chuckled over your technical problems that prevented you from emailing. How we reveled in the modern day conundrum of keeping in touch! And when you asked me if I could text you a co-worker's email address, a single tear drove down the highway of my cheek.
Do you know, Rutger, how hard it was for me to not let you know how much I have admired your ice cold steeliness since that first day our eyes locked while you were in Blade Runner? DO YOU KNOW?! I was only six, but I knew from your perfect Aryan stare that you meant business. You are my go-to guy whenever I need a suitably obscure android reference.
If only I had the bravery to ask you to say that line to me over the phone, "I want more life, fucker."
I would have said, even more tenderly than Juba, "I know, Rutger, we all do."
Comics are weird. I enjoy being a comic but I also recognize that on the whole, we are a jacked up species. I present to you exhibit a, in which a comic-friend of mine emails me the following:
Subject: hi
i'm thinking about doing a joke on the saudi woman who got gang-raped for being in a car with a non-related male, and then got sentenced to 90 lashings for putting herself in that situation. then when she appealed, they decided to bump it up to 200 lashings, because she was shedding a negative light on saudi culture by bringing attention to the case to the media.
i think it may be tough to make it funny. thoughts?
also how have you been?
I think there are people with certifiable cases of autism or even aspergers who might have handled this stab at social interaction more deftly.
It's easy to lose faith in humanity if you have to use public transportation. When you see a very large, muscular teenager shouting "shut the fuck up you retarded ass n*****, I don't care 'bout Korea" to a crumpled old veteran who objected to having his bag stepped on, you kind of start hating human beings.
Maybe if I saw people give up seats for pregnant women or old people more often, I wouldn't let the dark side overtake me so easily. But for now, I'll just have to seek out stories and keep my eyes peeled for acts of kindness to keep me from committing assault and throat punching someone.
So reading this story about a five year-old boy dressed as Spiderman saving a baby from a house fire completely rocked my world in a very Amelie-esque way.
A Manhattan personal assistant has told investigators that she fatally bludgeoned her boss, the well-connected real estate agent Linda Stein, in the woman’s opulent Fifth Avenue apartment because Ms. Stein swore at her, waved a stick at her and blew marijuana smoke into her face, the police said today.
I have to say, having been an assistant to many an asshole, I can empathize with the desire to beat the living hell out of your employer/tormentor. But, then another part of me is thinking, "your boss blew some herb your way?! I should be so lucky!"
Ultimately, if what Natavia Lowery says is true, and she was struck by Ms. Stein "six or seven times on Oct. 30 with a four-pound exercise stick" then I think my own personal jury will no longer be out on this one.
Someone should tell Ms. Lowery to make sure she isn't cracking a damn smile in public again until her trial is over, though.
More proofthat Jon Stewart just may be Christ incarnate.
Stewart Will Keep Striking 'Daily' Writers Afloat
If the writers strike fails, it won't be on account of Jon Stewart.
In a show of solidarity with his fellow scribes, the Daily Show host has told his writing staff that he will cover all their salaries for the next two weeks, according to a well-placed source. He has also vowed to do the same for writers on The Colbert Report. A Comedy Central spokesman referred my inquiry about this to Stewart's personal publicist, who has yet to respond.
Stewart's intention, says the source, is to ensure his writers will face no financial hardship should the strike, which kicked off at 3 a.m. local time, conclude within that timeframe.
Reader, yes, just the one of you that reads this. Since I have come to New York City, I have encountered some of the world's most ignorant fools that ever did exist. This is a city of great highs and lows, and intelligence is no exception. So allow me to share with you, on a semi-regular basis, the pearls of wisdom that ooze from the teaming, festering hordes of humanity I encounter. Sure, you could go to a site where it is done regularly and better, but why?
Large, male, young adult of indeterminate ethnicity: "You know that feeling you get in yo head when you have a headache."
Small, young, female companion of indeterminate ethnicity: "Yeah."
Large, male, young adult of indeterminate ethnicity: "That's what I got, but in my leg."
Small, young, female companion of indeterminate ethnicity: "You mean pain?"
Large, male, young adult of indeterminate ethnicity: "Damn, man, whatever..."
Y'all, this is hardly something to blog about, but that won't stop me. Something is seriously wrong with my right nostril. It feels like I'm about to sneeze always. As in, that tingly horrible feeling that is only made good by the relief of a sneeze, never leaves, and is never fulfilled. That is making me seriously consider taking things up a notch. I've been squirting some saline up my nose, but I think I have to take it to DefCon5 and get myself a neti pot for serious nasal irrigation.
Fine, right? Natural, you hippies might even say. Tell me, does anything look natural about this?
I think Neti Potting is the segway riding of personal hygiene. There is just no way to do it while maintaining any level of dignity or fuckability.
That hasn't stopped this guy from trying.
I love this man. He is the Colin Farell of nasal irrigation. All grease and yearning and hepititis c.
I give this girl points for creating a distraction with the cleavage. As that dude in Jurassic Park said, "clever girl."
Katherine Hepburn in her hey day, reclining after just telling the world, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I give you the impression that I gave a shit?"
According to The Guardian, Katherine Hepburn was every bit the strident pain-in-the-ass she played on film. After being pulled over by a cop for speeding in Oklahoma, Hepburn called him a "moron" and "handsome... in a dull sort of way." She then told him she had better things to do then deal with a speeding ticket for the next week, and swore she would slash the tires of any car she saw in Connecticut with Oklahoma plates as a form of karmic retribution.
I want you to play this video with the audio on. I want you to fully experience it before reading any further.
That was basically what I assumed every incarnation of Cirque de Soleil would be like, only with Chinese opera house survivors,general clowning, and spandexed units sprinkled in. And you know what? I wish that's what I ended up seeing on Wednesday night.
Instead, I saw some kids' show with huge dog puppets and French Canadians phoning it in. Wintuk, Cirque de Soleil's winter show, centered around some annoying kid who looked like this.
That was their first mistake. He whined the whole two hours about wanting to see snow. This was apparently the crux of the narrative since the little brat kept braying "I WANNA SEE IT SNOW" every fifteen minutes. It has become my new catch phrase for when I want to be completely unlovable and push others away. Feel free to steal it. I'd like to see it make a 360.
So, this kid starts off in some sort of urban scenes where a bunch of white kids with dreads and lots of colorful layers do all sorts of EXTREME sports and generally do the Dew. I kid you not when I tell you there was an EXTREME JUMP ROPE ROUTINE.
After the kid sleeps in the park overnight unmolested, he bitches to the lamp posts (they're urban ents, complete with eyelashes) that, you guessed it, he wants to see it snow. Naturally, huge dog puppets emerge and after he dicks around with them, a very large black woman wearing a cloak of spoons emerges from under a bridge. Apparently, large, homeless black women have nothing more to do than assist white kids and their whims, because she happens to be his magical ticket to seeing snow. Turns out she's not just a homeless woman, but a shaman, an ethereal go-between to another world. Another world where it snows.
Reader, I do not lie when I tell you this large, black homeless woman wearing a coat of spoons literally rides a garbage can-sled to cart this brat to the magical land of Wintuk.
Why all the fuss? Why not just give the kid a bus ticket to the magical land of Buffalo? Well, does Buffalo have incredibly limber Eastern Europeans with mad rhythmic gymnastics skills? 'Nuff said.
I have to give it to Wintuk. It is amusing to be in the middle of what you think is a children's show only to have a series of limber, lithe Slavic beauties gyrating in spandex and spreading their legs out as far as possible.
One of the performers did a whole routine where she was this toy/half-dead-fuckdoll being flung around the stage in various positions by two other men. Which leads me to this question - how does one figure out that they are good at playing an inanimate object?
You know what? I'm upset that I've dedicated this much time to the topic. Just don't say you haven't been warned.
Christmas is coming early to D.C. because, bitches, I am back in town next week. If you don't think that statement was loaded with an offensive level of self-importance and delusion, then you're my next BFF. I need more yes people in my life.
I will once again be in D.C. after my move to NYC. I am going to buck the typical cliche and arrive to Our Nation's Capital entirely devoid of bitterness and jokes about cab drivers. Seriously, I will just be so happy to be in a place where the 4 hours of precious sunshine we're allowed in the winter isn't cockblocked by skyscrapers - wait, I think I my bitterness slip is showing. Any way, I miss D.C. and its peeps, and especially it's large, opossum-sized rats and absence of stank. Praise!
What is bringing me back to Das District? In a word...POON. Yes, folks, that wondrous jolly, slightly sweaty, velour tracksuit wearing elf has decided to bestow you all with the gift of SKETCH COMEDY at another fun and exciting addition of POONANZA. So come on out, see a gaggle of hysterical talented people get together and give it to you live, in real time. With a writers' strike making TV even shittier than ever before, you have every reason to get out there and see this. Support something local and organic - it'll be just like Whole Foods, but without the entitlement and white guilt.
Also, mama is trying to get in town super early to do a set at The Bomb Shelter on Thursday night - this show is always a blast. It should be joyous for all involved! Please come and see me! SPREAD THE WORD! COME FOR THE FREE HUGS, STAY FOR THE LAUGHTER!
POONANZA @ The Warehouse Theater 1017-1021 7th St NW Saturday, December 8th, 10pm - $7 RESERVE TICKETS THROUGH EMAIL: larrypoon1@yahoo.com
THE BOMB SHELTER @ 18th and Red 2436 18th St in Adams Morgan Thursday, December 6th, 9 pm - FREE - $2 Red Hooks, $3 Drafts, $4 Rails
Also, you may not recognize me so I've included a photo of me. New York has made me very chic and fashionable. Don't be intimidated by my haute couture.
Sometimes The Onion nails it so hard. I know this is old news, but I saw it today and my soul was flooded with warmth and mirth. That reminds me, I should really call home. It's been too long since I've heard a few Dr. Phil recaps via phone call.
"In true modern form - the work tends to raise more questions than it answers"
It is human nature to try to make sense of things after experiencing or witnessing something traumatic. Within every culture and time, the human experience is united in its need to turn the tragic, the unspeakable, into something meaningful. And that, friend, is why this was written.
I've yet to see such a perfect parody of academia. And that's pretty much all I have to say about The Internet Video-Meme That Dare Not Speak Its Name.
Look, since this blog is just really getting started, I want to make some things clear. I enjoy cats to a lesbianic spinster degree. That's just something we need to make clear if we're going to progress further. I could waste a good chunk of your time to telling you what I find so aesthetically pleasing about them and why I think they're one of nature's greatest designs. This was not always so but now I am a changed woman.
This is not to say that I do not love dogs. I'm not going to shy away from controversy around here, so let me be frank: I believe that whole cat/dog thing to be a false dichotomy. I love all things fluffy and cute. Even the ones I eat or pay other people to kill so I can wear them on my feet. Yes, I'm a hypocrite. Deal. As Pac said, "only God can judge me."
If you don't find the following two videos cute or endearing (and, no, you do not have to admit to it to me or anyone else) then you might be a living shell - a mere husk - of a human being. Good luck with that. It might also be time to unfriend me on Myspace and Friendster.
Watch and fall in love with life all over again.
Original footage of cat conversation.
Enhanced, for your amusement with human narration.
No, this is not a photo of a young Emmanuel Lewis-inspired drag king. If you're fond of internet memes you'll know that this is Tay Zonday, internet star of "Chocolate Rain."
Please watch the original if you haven't already. The first time I listened to it I had it in my head for three long days. It's hard to narrow down the appeal of this video to one thing. There are so many layers - the voice, the lyrics, the ceaseless repetition, this MANCHILD'S FACE! I'm working on a Puerto Rican version and it will be called Plantain Rain. Lyrics forthcoming.
Dr. Pepper hopped on the bandwagon and got Tay to do a Chocolate Cherry Rain version for their new drink. I couldn't help but feel awe as large buckets of chocolate goo are poured all over Tay and a model. How exactly does a director make that pitch?
"Look, I have a vision. I'm picturing you, open-mouthed, taken unawares by a huge bucket of brown slop that looks very rich and chocolatey. Then I'm going to run it in slo-mo as it hits your face. You in, cause we'll need to do about ten takes to get the gunk just right."
If you couldn't infer from previous comments, I'm not what you would call a religious person. While raised to believe in the J-man (and I remain a big fan of his purported work) and Catholicism, I have since my late teen years been pretty agnostic. It came on rather suddenly, but it has stuck for the most part. There have been times when I have wondered what to call myself. The word atheist brings up rather gross associations involving strident university students who gather when their Magik and LARP schedules allow to scoff at people and their religions. I'm not really interested in that.
My interest in talking about my own views only comes up when someone else's views try to dictate my actions. Then I get strident.
In a country where 92% of the population believes in God, and atheists are ranked as the least trustworthy citizens in the land, it would be nice and inspiring to see more people make their lack of faith public. It is tiresome to have to explain to someone how you can actually have morality without religion. That is sadly a brand new concept to a lot of people.
So, with all this said, I present to you a very good piece of reading by Sam Harris. It is food for thought...a large Christy waifer for the non-believing brain. I've extracted some of my favorite excerpts for your reading pleasure!
I never thought of myself as an atheist before ....I think that “atheist” is a term that we do not need, in the same way that we don’t need a word for someone who rejects astrology. We simply do not call people “non-astrologers.” All we need are words like “reason” and “evidence” and “common sense” and “bullshit” to put astrologers in their place...
We are faced with the monumental task of persuading a myth-infatuated world that love and curiosity are sufficient, and that we need not console or frighten ourselves or our children with Iron Age fairy tales. I don’t think there is a more important intellectual struggle to win...
So, let me make my somewhat seditious proposal explicit: We should not call ourselves “atheists.” We should not call ourselves “secularists.” We should not call ourselves “humanists,” or “secular humanists,” or “naturalists,” or “skeptics,” or “anti-theists,” or “rationalists,” or “freethinkers,” or “brights.” We should not call ourselves anything. We should go under the radar—for the rest of our lives. And while there, we should be decent, responsible people who destroy bad ideas wherever we find them.
Now, it just so happens that religion has more than its fair share of bad ideas. And it remains the only system of thought, where the process of maintaining bad ideas in perpetual immunity from criticism is considered a sacred act. This is the act of faith. And I remain convinced that religious faith is one of the most perverse misuses of intelligence we have ever devised. So we will, inevitably, continue to criticize religious thinking. But we should not define ourselves and name ourselves in opposition to such thinking.
What stood out to me about Harris' speech is not only how he acknowledges the human need for something larger, something most people call spirituality, but he tackles a very large misconception that non-believers exist to spoil everyone's good time.
My concern is that atheism can easily become the position of not being interested in certain possibilities in principle. I don’t know if our universe is, as JBS Haldane said, “not only stranger than we suppose, but stranger than we can suppose.” But I am sure that it is stranger than we, as “atheists,” tend to represent while advocating atheism. As “atheists” we give others, and even ourselves, the sense that we are well on our way toward purging the universe of mystery. As advocates of reason, we know that mystery is going to be with us for a very long time. Indeed, there are good reasons to believe that mystery is ineradicable from our circumstance, because however much we know, it seems like there will always be brute facts that we cannot account for but which we must rely upon to explain everything else. This may be a problem for epistemology but it is not a problem for human life and for human solidarity. It does not rob our lives of meaning. And it is not a barrier to human happiness.
I may be in a huge minority in this country but I can't help but be really sold by the majority of what Harris is presenting here.
Sorry this entry wasn't so much fun. Hopefully I'll be able to work something completely inane next time.
Wikipedia is apparently a tool of the science-loving, Godless liberal, so conservatives came up with their own resource, Conservapedia. I support this. When I was at school in Ohio, I would be subjected to conservative hijackings in my anthropology classes. We'd just be trying to learn about a prognathic jaw when some coot would take over our learning time to convince us all the world was only 6,000 years old and we should all be afraid of the Great Juju in the Sky. Self-segregation of these jackholes is welcome with Creed-hating arms wide-opened.
One thing I have to hand to the Conservatives is their childlike wonder and awe regarding homosexual sex. Check out their stats page.
Now, whether this is the work of liberal pranksters or not, I would like to thank whoever came up with "gay bowel syndrome."
They say there aren't any good men out there these days, but I think we can all agree that a brief perusal of Craigslist will prove otherwise. The single girl's cup runneth over in this ad.
I am a lvl 8 warrior seeking my adventuring companion for game play and fornication. I partake in only adventure/fantasy role play, no creepy goth stuff, it’s too weird. Only sanctioned spells allowed, costume dress optional but preferred. I have the body of a wandering Norwegian brawler and short brown hair. Please be quite buxom and imaginative for play and enjoy fantasy role play aesthetics. Please send pics, leves, preferred adventure type and spell list. We could go get dinner (under $20), and watch a movie. Also I’m allergic to cats.
I like how discerning this man feels he can be. It warms the heart.
I don’t get to watch TV much. This is not out of any objection to the medium. TV is my beloved, I just don’t have a DVR and don’t get enough home time to enjoy it. When I do, I generally multi-task and praise Jah (if you know what I mean) while watching Gossip Girl. The end result is usually me, giggling hysterically, and yelling at the screen, “I’M…CHUCK…BASS” whilst making rapey motions.
Well, I didn’t praise Jah last night, and if you can believe it, that was a poor decision. Instead, I watched March of the Penguins and suffered through yet another Morgan Freeman as God/Narrator moment. When I first watched it, alone, in the movie theater, I did some crying. I attributed it not only to fuzzy, cute animal death, but also to the fact that I was at a movie theater, alone. I find that very depressing.
Two weeks ago a homeless man on the Upper West Side looked at me and yelled “SIMBA!” I took his coronation as a sign that I could handle a little Lion King “Cycle of Life” reality. This was mistaken.
I was about three tiny baby penguin deaths in when I said to Sam, “I think I’ve had enough defenseless baby animal death for one night” and shuffled off to the bedroom to read a book of short stories.
In some sort of unholy union formed by Lorrie Moore (author of short story book) and Morgan Freeman, the first story I read was an entire tale about a woman coping with the loss of her 10 year-old cat, Bert. I read it, slightly panicked, and kept giving my own cat, Boo, tender sideways glances. Had I not been left so raw by the penguin genocide earlier, I doubt this would have resulted in tears. But it did.
I hold Morgan Freeman personally responsible. We all know from his last dozen movies that he is God. We have seen him do crazy things to further a plot line. But this dude could not spare one minute of time to save what are probably the cutest, most vulnerable newborn animals ever to exist? It’s not like they have anything good to look forward to when they’re done being all fuzzy and adorable. Morgan Freeman, you are a stingy, stingy God, and I don’t care for you one bit.
Keep turning a blind eye to dead baby penguins while you make magic happen for white dudes!
I hope he’s satisfied now that he has the fluff and frozen blood of baby penguins all over his hands. I don’t want anything more to do with you, Morgan Freeman, and your Clockmaker God-Laissez Faire bullshit.
It’s at this point that I realize – perhaps, self, you need something more potent than Prozac. Perhaps this is not normal behavior. Blaming an elderly black actor on the natural cycle of life in Antarctica is somehow misguided.
That was all a big precursor to lead into why I started investigating light therapy devices used to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder. The end result was many lulz.
You would think, by the very Sky Mall-ian nature of the photography, that light therapy was quackery at best. I believe there are genuine studies done proving the efficacy of it, but you wouldn't get that sense looking at the visuals.
I like this one. It contains multitudes.
In it you can see how light therapy can heal the world! From back aches, to blotchy skin, to face-gripping sadness - this photon ray of light can fix anything! It gives one hope.
And before I get to the wacky gizmos, I just wanted to let you know that this guy's balls are totally not bummed out any more now that they got light therapy.
Maybe I'm alone on this one, but does anyone get a sinister feeling looking at this?
I feel like she's just trying to go about her morning, eat her breakfast, and tell her mom "no, I'm not going to get cancer if I don't have a kid before 30" when this War of the Worlds SAD lamp jumps on her table and just lords over her.
Not shocked just yet? What about this?
It's light therapy designed by Jordy Laforge! Jordy has departed from his usual gold spray-painted banana clip and gone with something even less streamlined.
Love you, Jordy! Smooches!
To those who still aren't not getting laid enough, even after last week's nasal irrigation lesson, I give you, SAD visors. Oh, they're sad alright!
Now if only someone would Photoshop one of these women with a neti pot in her nose and a stream of water coming out the other end. Then I might be complete.
Dudes, I think my soul is German. Apparently these are two words used in the German language.
Backpfeifengesicht (Germany): A face that’s just begging for somebody to put their fist in it.
Kummerspeck (Germany): "Grief bacon" - the weight that you gain by overeating when you’re worried about something.
This is beyond brilliant. It makes me rethink being Puerto Rican entirely. How many times to I walk down the street in a single day and see a backpfeifengesicht just bobbing up and down, BEGGING ME to give it a strong, sharp throat punch? I'd give it an average of 5.
My kummerspeck is where my tears are kept. Looks like they'll need quite the refill after last night's March of the Penguins-induced crying jag.
As a total aside, has anything good every come of folk dancing? Seriously, look at that picture. Look at their own disappointment in themselves as they act out this abortion. They can feel their life force slipping away.
As a comedian and mental health industry consumer, I regularly face intense highs and lows. Mostly lows. But I have a little trick that has been expediting the healing process. I have a motivational coach that exists only in my brain. He is modeled after Djimon Hounsou's character, Juba, from Gladiator. And, yes, I do love that movie. And, yes, I have seen it half a dozen times. And, yes, I will see it again. There is some sort of manskirt-shaped hole in my heart that it fills. Go ahead, judge me.
So, I was in the office getting down about life when I started to slip into the netherworld of sadness and failure that is Juba's domain in my mind. Juba only has two volumes: a thunderous, righteous bellow or a meaningful, tender whisper. He was just in the middle of forcing me back into reality with a hushed: "I will see you again... but not yet. Not yet!" when I was snapped back into reality by the ringing of the phone.
It was the first time in my life I was tempted to believe in the hot, steaming turd Oprah calls "The Secret." I think I have been putting out minor celebrity vibrations and the universe had finally responded to my needs. See how easy it is? If only Israelis and Palestinians would put out vibrations and get on the right frequency, they might be able to get their shit together.
Reader, I digress.
Rutger Hauer, you are one of my favorite references. You didn't know this when we spoke. But my heart, how it fluttered - leapt, even - in my chest when I heard you so confidently respond to my workplace greeting with "Hello, this is Rutger Hauer." It was so natural, Rutger. As if every ringing phone should be answered such a way. I salute your boldness in assuming I'd even know who you are. But you are the man, so it's a valid assumption.
Oh, Rutger, how we chuckled over your technical problems that prevented you from emailing. How we reveled in the modern day conundrum of keeping in touch! And when you asked me if I could text you a co-worker's email address, a single tear drove down the highway of my cheek.
Do you know, Rutger, how hard it was for me to not let you know how much I have admired your ice cold steeliness since that first day our eyes locked while you were in Blade Runner? DO YOU KNOW?! I was only six, but I knew from your perfect Aryan stare that you meant business. You are my go-to guy whenever I need a suitably obscure android reference.
If only I had the bravery to ask you to say that line to me over the phone, "I want more life, fucker."
I would have said, even more tenderly than Juba, "I know, Rutger, we all do."
Rutger Hauer rules. Never saw him in NY, but I saw Willem Dafoe all the freaking time, especially around St. Marks. Are they both of Dutch ancestry? Weird.
I still think Rutger Hauer in the 1970s was one of the sexiest creatures who ever walked the Earth. He's really 60-something, I think, but I prefer to think of him when he was the very model of Aryan physical perfection. Rutger, you'll always be my Soldaat van Oranje. And thanks for not being a dickhead on the phone, too.
Comics are weird. I enjoy being a comic but I also recognize that on the whole, we are a jacked up species. I present to you exhibit a, in which a comic-friend of mine emails me the following:
Subject: hi
i'm thinking about doing a joke on the saudi woman who got gang-raped for being in a car with a non-related male, and then got sentenced to 90 lashings for putting herself in that situation. then when she appealed, they decided to bump it up to 200 lashings, because she was shedding a negative light on saudi culture by bringing attention to the case to the media.
i think it may be tough to make it funny. thoughts?
also how have you been?
I think there are people with certifiable cases of autism or even aspergers who might have handled this stab at social interaction more deftly.
"How far that little candle throws its beams; So shines a good deed in a naughty world."
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
It's easy to lose faith in humanity if you have to use public transportation. When you see a very large, muscular teenager shouting "shut the fuck up you retarded ass n*****, I don't care 'bout Korea" to a crumpled old veteran who objected to having his bag stepped on, you kind of start hating human beings.
Maybe if I saw people give up seats for pregnant women or old people more often, I wouldn't let the dark side overtake me so easily. But for now, I'll just have to seek out stories and keep my eyes peeled for acts of kindness to keep me from committing assault and throat punching someone.
So reading this story about a five year-old boy dressed as Spiderman saving a baby from a house fire completely rocked my world in a very Amelie-esque way.
A Manhattan personal assistant has told investigators that she fatally bludgeoned her boss, the well-connected real estate agent Linda Stein, in the woman’s opulent Fifth Avenue apartment because Ms. Stein swore at her, waved a stick at her and blew marijuana smoke into her face, the police said today.
I have to say, having been an assistant to many an asshole, I can empathize with the desire to beat the living hell out of your employer/tormentor. But, then another part of me is thinking, "your boss blew some herb your way?! I should be so lucky!"
Ultimately, if what Natavia Lowery says is true, and she was struck by Ms. Stein "six or seven times on Oct. 30 with a four-pound exercise stick" then I think my own personal jury will no longer be out on this one.
Someone should tell Ms. Lowery to make sure she isn't cracking a damn smile in public again until her trial is over, though.
More proofthat Jon Stewart just may be Christ incarnate.
Stewart Will Keep Striking 'Daily' Writers Afloat
If the writers strike fails, it won't be on account of Jon Stewart.
In a show of solidarity with his fellow scribes, the Daily Show host has told his writing staff that he will cover all their salaries for the next two weeks, according to a well-placed source. He has also vowed to do the same for writers on The Colbert Report. A Comedy Central spokesman referred my inquiry about this to Stewart's personal publicist, who has yet to respond.
Stewart's intention, says the source, is to ensure his writers will face no financial hardship should the strike, which kicked off at 3 a.m. local time, conclude within that timeframe.
Reader, yes, just the one of you that reads this. Since I have come to New York City, I have encountered some of the world's most ignorant fools that ever did exist. This is a city of great highs and lows, and intelligence is no exception. So allow me to share with you, on a semi-regular basis, the pearls of wisdom that ooze from the teaming, festering hordes of humanity I encounter. Sure, you could go to a site where it is done regularly and better, but why?
Large, male, young adult of indeterminate ethnicity: "You know that feeling you get in yo head when you have a headache."
Small, young, female companion of indeterminate ethnicity: "Yeah."
Large, male, young adult of indeterminate ethnicity: "That's what I got, but in my leg."
Small, young, female companion of indeterminate ethnicity: "You mean pain?"
Large, male, young adult of indeterminate ethnicity: "Damn, man, whatever..."
I heard some incredible words of wisdom today. A group of people in their mid-twenties were talking about God knows what, and someone mentioned getting lost while driving, and with a great degree of enthusiasm and ordinance another guy jumped in and said, "You know, the best way to learn your way is to get lost." Well, no, dipshit, actually it's not. Perhaps a MAP would help you learn the lay of the land a little better than just being airlifted blindly into the middle of a fucking city (or, God forbid, a rural span) and figuring it out for hours. This is why hikers use compasses, you dumbfuck.
I seem to hear under-the-radar racist shit here a lot, which I love so much. Like when white people make racially qualifying statements about degrees of racial-ness. "You know Jose at church? The Mexican one? No, not one of those Mexicans. He works hard." I also hear all Asians simply being referred to as Chinese. "I just love that little Chinese guy on 'Heroes.'" His character's name is Nakamura - he's fucking Japanese!
Y'all, this is hardly something to blog about, but that won't stop me. Something is seriously wrong with my right nostril. It feels like I'm about to sneeze always. As in, that tingly horrible feeling that is only made good by the relief of a sneeze, never leaves, and is never fulfilled. That is making me seriously consider taking things up a notch. I've been squirting some saline up my nose, but I think I have to take it to DefCon5 and get myself a neti pot for serious nasal irrigation.
Fine, right? Natural, you hippies might even say. Tell me, does anything look natural about this?
I think Neti Potting is the segway riding of personal hygiene. There is just no way to do it while maintaining any level of dignity or fuckability.
That hasn't stopped this guy from trying.
I love this man. He is the Colin Farell of nasal irrigation. All grease and yearning and hepititis c.
I give this girl points for creating a distraction with the cleavage. As that dude in Jurassic Park said, "clever girl."
Katherine Hepburn in her hey day, reclining after just telling the world, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I give you the impression that I gave a shit?"
According to The Guardian, Katherine Hepburn was every bit the strident pain-in-the-ass she played on film. After being pulled over by a cop for speeding in Oklahoma, Hepburn called him a "moron" and "handsome... in a dull sort of way." She then told him she had better things to do then deal with a speeding ticket for the next week, and swore she would slash the tires of any car she saw in Connecticut with Oklahoma plates as a form of karmic retribution.
I want you to play this video with the audio on. I want you to fully experience it before reading any further.
That was basically what I assumed every incarnation of Cirque de Soleil would be like, only with Chinese opera house survivors,general clowning, and spandexed units sprinkled in. And you know what? I wish that's what I ended up seeing on Wednesday night.
Instead, I saw some kids' show with huge dog puppets and French Canadians phoning it in. Wintuk, Cirque de Soleil's winter show, centered around some annoying kid who looked like this.
That was their first mistake. He whined the whole two hours about wanting to see snow. This was apparently the crux of the narrative since the little brat kept braying "I WANNA SEE IT SNOW" every fifteen minutes. It has become my new catch phrase for when I want to be completely unlovable and push others away. Feel free to steal it. I'd like to see it make a 360.
So, this kid starts off in some sort of urban scenes where a bunch of white kids with dreads and lots of colorful layers do all sorts of EXTREME sports and generally do the Dew. I kid you not when I tell you there was an EXTREME JUMP ROPE ROUTINE.
After the kid sleeps in the park overnight unmolested, he bitches to the lamp posts (they're urban ents, complete with eyelashes) that, you guessed it, he wants to see it snow. Naturally, huge dog puppets emerge and after he dicks around with them, a very large black woman wearing a cloak of spoons emerges from under a bridge. Apparently, large, homeless black women have nothing more to do than assist white kids and their whims, because she happens to be his magical ticket to seeing snow. Turns out she's not just a homeless woman, but a shaman, an ethereal go-between to another world. Another world where it snows.
Reader, I do not lie when I tell you this large, black homeless woman wearing a coat of spoons literally rides a garbage can-sled to cart this brat to the magical land of Wintuk.
Why all the fuss? Why not just give the kid a bus ticket to the magical land of Buffalo? Well, does Buffalo have incredibly limber Eastern Europeans with mad rhythmic gymnastics skills? 'Nuff said.
I have to give it to Wintuk. It is amusing to be in the middle of what you think is a children's show only to have a series of limber, lithe Slavic beauties gyrating in spandex and spreading their legs out as far as possible.
One of the performers did a whole routine where she was this toy/half-dead-fuckdoll being flung around the stage in various positions by two other men. Which leads me to this question - how does one figure out that they are good at playing an inanimate object?
You know what? I'm upset that I've dedicated this much time to the topic. Just don't say you haven't been warned.
My friend Amy is a theatre critic in L.A., which means I got dragged to some absolutely horrendous abortions of "media" and "theatre" and "transgression" (et al). One of the worst "plays" was a one-woman show by a woman who kept hamming up the fact that she had reached her 30th birthday and was sort of bummed about it, which was terribly sad because she looked like she was in her late 30's, and had tried to cram herself in to a hip jeans-and-tight-t-shirt outfit. About twenty minutes in to this "play," she goes to see Billy Elliot alone on he birthday, and proceeds to enact the entire fucking movie with a bad accent and dance moves and...my dear God. It took her at least 20 minutues to animatedly act out Bily Elliot. She clearly had absolutely nothing to say, her youth had completely slipped away, her acting career never came to fruition, and she had now become one of a million once sort-of pretty out-of-towners who didn't become successful, didn't marry success, and is now drowning in a sea of local theatre, grabbing and gasping for any attention they can get, even if that means they sink $1,000 in to sets and playbills and act out Billy fucking Elliot.
Of course, every theatre audience has one or two shut-ins who think this sort of expulsive, spastic behavior is hilarious and cannot contain themselves during the show. Holy fuck.
