Mom: I read somewhere that several millenia ago, the Druids came to the Americas and taught the indigenous people about the earth. And that's why you have all these early civilizations that have similar beliefs about reverence for Mother Earth and whatnot.
GPG: What the hell?
Dad: Yeah, and the Egyptians were aliens. That's how they retained their power.
GPG: And enchanted the Romans?
(I'm not the only one annoyed with the world these days. Avatar's got herself some irritation at Overworked & Underf*cked. Note, though that particular post is pretty PG-rated, the rest of the content is NSFW. Be warned.)
I'm much less cranky than I was this morning. Instead of going on a San Matias-flavored bender, I opted to play online poker for the first time ever. I doubled my money but then remembered it was a fake $2300. So here you go:
Dear Toilet Paper Ad Execs:
We get it! Marketing toilet paper requires walking that fine line between crude bathroom humor and prissy references to body parts only diaper commercials are allowed to show. But why for the love of god are we forced to endure the obvious allusion to that famous retort about bears in the woods? You're not clever. The cartoons are creepy. Anthropomorphizing bears only leads to this stupidity. Bring back the 80s commercials of kids stuffing their pants full of Charmin so when they fell on their asses it didn't hurt. That was cute. And completely inoffensive.
And don't even get me started on those weirdo winged handymen pretending to oui-oui in those Angel Soft commercials. Ick.
***
Dear "Beauty" Product Companies:
"Limited edition" products are absolutely senseless. Like these deodorants you're trying to promote as a celebration of the 50-year fight against smelly armpits. They're only available until the end of October, so why bother? Though this is not unusual. Because you beauty companies are notorious for putting out products that we fall in love with and then suddenly yank off shelves, never to be found again. And then we women drive ourselves crazier than shit house rats trying to find an exact match in some other product line. But we never do. That perfect shade of red lipstick that Clinique put out in the mid-90s? Gone forever. Because you are cruel, heartless, faceless corporations more concerned with your bottom line than making us look pretty!
Lets just hope Revlon grows some brains and decides to buck the trend by keeping it's "Raisin" ColorStay lipcolor around till I die. Because an unhappy GPG is not a customer with which you'll want to deal.
***
Dear Phone Company Nitwits:
Simply put, this overlay bullshit sucks. I wanted to order a pizza the other day, from a place a mere 2 miles, in the same area code. But because of your ridiculous new dialing procedure requiring me to dial my own fucking area code for this simple transaction, it took 3 tries before I got it right. Why is it I have to dial a 1 from the landline, but not my cellphone?
Remember when the operator actually admonished you for adding the extra digits when dialing within the same area code? Those days are long gone, my friends. Because there are too many fuckers in the 310, clogging up the streets and our phone lines.
You're just a bunch of morons. The 909/951 split illustrates that quite nicely.
***
Dear iTunes,
Why you have suddenly decided that I cannot legally download music is beyond me. Didn't you get the memo? PCs and Macs are playing nice now, so you can quit crashing everytime I try to access the Music Store. I still have $23 in free downloads, which you're holding ransom by refusing my connection.
Better yet, why doesn't Apple make the Music Store a stand-alone portal, so I don't have to dick around with you? Probably the same reason it packages that weird little doo-dad with its iPods without any explanation. Because you're a bunch of elitist geeks who couldn't get laid in college, so you had to resort to frustrating the rest of us in the here and now. Yes, blue balls suck. But don't take your revenge out on me.
Pansy assholes.
Accomplishments this morning, thus far:
- using Angel reruns to get finally get to sleep at 2 am
- allowing the sun to win and wake me up at 7:30 am
- answering the phone at 8 am sounding fully awake, despite the fact that I wasn't
- ruining my breakfast
- being rejected by a company I interviewed with three times last week
All in that order and before 10 am.
I'm tired, cranky, and not in the mood to undertake the cleaning project required by having visitors this weekend. I'm not feeling social.
But at least the History Channel is airing a documentary on Alexander the Great, who I dreamt was my running buddy the other night. We were jogging along the Silk Road and the arrogant bastard was quizzing me on his conquests.
My Greek manservant will be less cocky, but no less commanding.
Dear John Letters up later if I don't find some happy.
There are only 7 weeks left until Race Day. And I think I may have finally gotten over the hurty-hump.
There have been many, many hurdles. Like the weirdo leg pain that's been a constant burden since mid-June, making it difficult to drive, walk, and even sleep. I went through 2 different pairs of shoes to try to correct the problem, invested in custom orthotics, saw countless medical professionals to determine the right course of recovery, and gave my body over to a sadist of a massage therapist who beat the shit out of me on Tuesday.
Finally, someone suggested wrapping my leg while running. Two months of trying to figure this out and then the simplest of remedies becomes my life-saver. I ran 4 miles on Friday night, and then went out drinking. I woke up with a headache the next morning, but none of the leg hell I was expecting. I almost thought I'd had a transplant.
Today I did 9 miles--slowly--and all wrapped up like a mummy. Then hit a bottle of Cytomax like it was tequila-flavored Gatorade.
And I feel fucking fantastic. It's been a very, very, VERY long time since I was able to say that sans the assistance of something alcoholic. Now I'm thinking I'll actually be able to handle my event like a pro.
I just have to raise another $1,000. But that's a worry for another day. Today I get to enjoy my small triumph over the aches and pains.
It's also my favorite whisky-lovin' blogger's 35th birthday. Go on over and wish our Jack a good one. He deserves it.
Here's a combination I do not recommend:
1 adorable Foreigner
3 glasses of Pinot Grigio
1 plate of Bó Saté (it's Vietnamese food)
1 very long and enjoyable conversation consisting of 10 years worth of catching up
Mixed vigorously with:
1 Starbucks green tea latte
1 bitch session with Hollywood about the possibility of moving to Pasadena
1 short ride home accompanied by The Killers cd
Chased with:
60 minutes of email catch-up
a sprinkle of blog reading
10 minutes of fantasizing about the aforementioned Foreigner, interrupted by the dreaded prospect of moving inland
Will give you a bad headache. I'm queasy.
Donate to the anti-sickness cause here. Or the terrorists will win.
Check out this story about the 29-year-old virgin. She needs a man. Desperately. I have some male readers, some of whom are actually quite attractive and engaging. Maybe one of you will be the lucky cherry poppin' daddy.
Sorry, that was gross. But if blondes are your thing, go throw your hat (and cock) in the ring.
I can't imagine what 29 years without sex is like. I don't recommend any of you doing it either. In fact, lets all celebrate our non-celibacy by having as much sex as is humanly possible today. Maybe the wonderful folks over at Pererro can name this International Makin' Hot Whoopee Day or something.
Back to my personal needs and desires for a better world: thanks to everyone who donated yesterday. I'm up another $200! Which means I'm almost halfway to minimum and more than a third of the way to goal.
But there's still a ways to go. Every little bit counts. I mean it. Even $10.
Donate here.
I'm cranky. Usually, you'd get a slew of Dear John Letters (and they're coming!), but after today's leg therapy torture (like I told Jack, think bikini wax + root canal - novacaine + angry donkey kicking you in the ass and you have an idea...I should just cut my fucking leg off), I'm too worn out.
Instead, lets opt for increasing our good karma.
Our own lovely Dr. Danger (aka Sandra of Over Here) is up for the prestigious Young Blogger of the Year Award, given out by the equally esteemed Ill Man. You can push her to the top of the pile by voting often in the poll. She's nice. Therefore, she should win.
Yay!
Then be a dear and go help me out with my fundraising here. I only have $1250 to go before hitting the minimum. Every teensy bit counts. And you'll even get to see a picture of me. Isn't that cool?
Go be cool.
Peace, love, and rock n' roll.
The reunion was fucking awesome. And now, for the first time in a bazillion years, I am hungover.
But the party was worth it. Moments after walking in the door, someone across the room started screaming my name. And in a scene that would repeat itself hundreds of times throughout the night, I screamed hello back, then wondered who the hell it was.
It was dark. We were outside. With mood lighting. And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. $8 for a mixed drink. Served in a beer stein-sized cup. I had three Maker's Mark with diet cokes. Which, given the serving, means I had 18.
There was booby-grabbing, kissy facing, catching up with people I wouldn't have recognized if not for our handy name tags, and did I mention alcohol? Holy shit, my head hurts.
It was interesting to see who was married (usually with kids) and who was still single. Luckily, the cute guys were still mostly single. Like the Fireman, who walked in proclaiming he was on the hunt for pussy. Klassy (and explains his single status). He came with the Lawyer. Who, after all these years, is still very sweet and adorable and hopefully in town long enough to have dinner.
I recognized the Foreigner immediately, despite not even having thought about the man in 10 years. We weren't really friends back then. But he's even more swoon-inducing now than he was all those years ago. I love a man with scruff and an accent. They make for hot model-whores.
Of course I had to deal with questions about what I'm doing these days. Which I answered graciously:
"Oh, I lost my job last month so I'm living on welfare." (I like being uncomfortably ironic. Remember, the last time these people saw me, I was on my way to UPenn. I've fallen a long way down. Hee.)
[Cue them wincing and/or cringing]. "Oh man, that sucks."
"Not really. I got a severance. And I'm a freelance photographer."
"Oh okay. What do you shoot?"
"Bands."
"Dude, that's totally fucking cool."
Yup. I am.
(Amazingly, one of these conversations did lead to someone telling me about an event planning gig open at their company. I'll send her my résumé tomorrow!)
The night ended with many exchanges of phone numbers, myspace addresses, and promises to hook up soon. Ooh, the Foreigner just emailed me!
Looks like we're doing dinner this week. Oh yeah.
Now, I think I need saltines...
Mr. Exile tagged me, since my reunion is this Saturday. So here you go:
How many schools did you go to?
2 elementary (one Catholic)
1 middle school
1 high school
3 colleges
Teacher's nightmare or teacher's pet?
Total pet. They all loved me. Because I'm cute (and pretty fucking smart).
Did you have a label in school? (nerd, jock, etc)
"That girl"? Who knows? I guess I find out on Saturday.
What's the biggest rule you broke in school?
Forging notes from mom junior year so I could leave campus for lunch with seniors.
Were you in any clubs or organizations?
JHS: President of Kiwanas Builder's Club
HS: Swim team, photo club (duh), 12th grade rep for the CA Scholarship Federation
(I was so fucking cool)
Did you have any nicknames in school?
Raul (courtesy of the Princess & Co.)
Three subjects you enjoyed?
1. Sex
2. French
3. AP Calculus
Three teachers who inspired you?
Grogan - 9th grade English
Tindell - 11th grade Pre-Calc
Harris - 12th grade Calc (the coolest guy on the planet)
Would you go back and do it over?
It was a hell of a lot of fun. But I'm glad it's over. There is very little I'd do differently. Except defy my parents and go to Lollapalooza that year they wouldn't let me (1994, they were so overprotective!).
Any major fashion faux paus? Bonus for pics!!
Yeah, but everyone was wearing their skinny jeans rolled up with 2 different pairs of colored socks in the 80s.
Now I tag the Princess and C-dub, both of whom need to blog more often!!
Interventions are never easy, regardless of what they're for: alcohol, drugs, or an obsession with mullets/Nickelback/garden gnomes. They're frustrating, painful, and no one really wants to be there but it's the "right thing to do." So here's a quickie guide on how to stage one:
1. Don't pretend you're not there to kick emotional ass. Luring the offending party in under false pretenses is only going to make them angrier than necessary. Because lets face it, they're going to be pretty fucking pissed at you anyway. Why make it worse? You can, however, ply them with alcohol. Especially if the person in question is an alcoholic.
2. Get restraints (not like the kind Jack & Exile want to put on my bed). You'll need this to tie the subject down so they don't run away. It will also make it easier to TASER (tm) them into submission. Electrified cattle prods are also useful, if you can't find a TASER (tm). You don't want the person getting loose and possibly killing you so they can sell your kidneys on the black market for quick money to further feed their addiction. That's a "bad thing" and contrary to your "mission."
3. Use "feeling" statements to avoid further antagonizing the subject. Saying "we feel you're an asshole" as opposed to simply calling the person an asshole is a much gentler approach to the truth. In the end, they will appreciate your tact.
4. Don't pull any punches. The person needs to know the full extent of how dangerous they have become to themselves and others. Keep in mind that addicts are completely indifferent to the disasters they create. They don't care, so someone has to. Make them feel the pain they have caused. Liberal use of the cattle prod is not discouraged.
5. Don't quit until you have driven your point deep into the person's cranium. This could conceivably take a lifetime because some people are not ready to change, and you can't really force them to. Unless you are willing to keep them restrained and periodically electrocuted.
Interventions are no laughing matter. Do not undertake unless you are serious about the work involved. Because Nickelback seriously needs to go away.
I just sat down to pay bills and noticed some rather interesting activity in my bank account.
I present to you a snippet of my recent spending habits:
08/02/2006 - JOXER DALYS CULVER CITY - $23.50
08/06/2006 - JAX BAR & GRILL GLENDALE - $29.44
08/07/2006 - RED CAR BREWERY RESTAU TORRANCE - $27.00
08/08/2006 - THE IRISH TIMES LOS ANGELES - $16.00
08/08/2006 - BOARDWALK II LOS ANGELES - $10.50
08/09/2006 - WINE AND LIQUOR DEPOT VAN NUYS - $42.16
08/10/2006 - BRENNAN'S PUB MARINA DEL REY - $12.25
This doesn't even take into account the drinks I paid cash for. Or were bought for me. And I was just telling a friend that he had the wrong impression of me being a drunk.
Guess I lied.
But technically I was scouting shooting locations. So techincally they're all business expenses!
"Monster Dad"
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